Transcribed from the 1899 Charles Scribner's Sons edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org





THE BLACK ARROW--A TALE OF THE TWO ROSES


Critic on the Hearth:


No one but myself knows what I have suffered, nor what my books have
gained, by your unsleeping watchfulness and admirable pertinacity.  And
now here is a volume that goes into the world and lacks your
_imprimatur_: a strange thing in our joint lives; and the reason of it
stranger still! I have watched with interest, with pain, and at length
with amusement, your unavailing attempts to peruse _The Black Arrow_; and
I think I should lack humour indeed, if I let the occasion slip and did
not place your name in the fly-leaf of the only book of mine that you
have never read--and never will read.

That others may display more constancy is still my hope.  The tale was
written years ago for a particular audience and (I may say) in rivalry
with a particular author; I think I should do well to name him, Mr.
Alfred R. Phillips.  It was not without its reward at the time.  I could
not, indeed, displace Mr. Phillips from his well-won priority; but in the
eyes of readers who thought less than nothing of _Treasure Island_, _The
Black Arrow_ was supposed to mark a clear advance.  Those who read
volumes and those who read story papers belong to different worlds.  The
verdict on _Treasure Island_ was reversed in the other court; I wonder,
will it be the same with its successor?

                                                                _R. L. S._

SARANAC LAKE, April 8, 1888.




PROLOGUE--JOHN AMEND-ALL


On a certain afternoon, in the late springtime, the bell upon Tunstall
Moat House was heard ringing at an unaccustomed hour.  Far and near, in
the forest and in the fields along the river, people began to desert
their labours and hurry towards the sound; and in Tunstall hamlet a group
of poor country-folk stood wondering at the summons.

Tunstall hamlet at that period, in the reign of old King Henry VI., wore
much the same appearance as it wears to-day.  A score or so of houses,
heavily framed with oak, stood scattered in a long green valley ascending
from the river.  At the foot, the road crossed a bridge, and mounting on
the other side, disappeared into the fringes of the forest on its way to
the Moat House, and further forth to Holywood Abbey.  Half-way up the
village, the church stood among yews.  On every side the slopes were
crowned and the view bounded by the green elms and greening oak-trees of
the forest.

Hard by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon a knoll, and here the
group had collected--half a dozen women and one tall fellow in a russet
smock--discussing what the bell betided.  An express had gone through the
hamlet half an hour before, and drunk a pot of ale in the saddle, not
daring to dismount for the hurry of his errand; but he had been ignorant
himself of what was forward, and only bore sealed letters from Sir Daniel
Brackley to Sir Oliver Oates, the parson, who kept the Moat House in the
master's absence.

But now there was the noise of a horse; and soon, out of the edge of the
wood and over the echoing bridge, there rode up young Master Richard
Shelton, Sir Daniel's ward.  He, at the least, would know, and they
hailed him and begged him to explain.  He drew bridle willingly enough--a
young fellow not yet eighteen, sun-browned and grey-eyed, in a jacket of
deer's leather, with a black velvet collar, a green hood upon his head,
and a steel cross-bow at his back.  The express, it appeared, had brought
great news.  A battle was impending.  Sir Daniel had sent for every man
that could draw a bow or carry a bill to go post-haste to Kettley, under
pain of his severe displeasure; but for whom they were to fight, or of
where the battle was expected, Dick knew nothing.  Sir Oliver would come
shortly himself, and Bennet Hatch was arming at that moment, for he it
was who should lead the party.

"It is the ruin of this kind land," a woman said.  "If the barons live at
war, ploughfolk must eat roots."

"Nay," said Dick, "every man that follows shall have sixpence a day, and
archers twelve."

"If they live," returned the woman, "that may very well be; but how if
they die, my master?"

"They cannot better die than for their natural lord," said Dick.

"No natural lord of mine," said the man in the smock.  "I followed the
Walsinghams; so we all did down Brierly way, till two years ago, come
Candlemas.  And now I must side with Brackley!  It was the law that did
it; call ye that natural?  But now, what with Sir Daniel and what with
Sir Oliver--that knows more of law than honesty--I have no natural lord
but poor King Harry the Sixt, God bless him!--the poor innocent that
cannot tell his right hand from his left."

"Ye speak with an ill tongue, friend," answered Dick, "to miscall your
good master and my lord the king in the same libel.  But King
Harry--praised be the saints!--has come again into his right mind, and
will have all things peaceably ordained.  And as for Sir Daniel, y' are
very brave behind his back.  But I will be no tale-bearer; and let that
suffice."

"I say no harm of you, Master Richard," returned the peasant.  "Y' are a
lad; but when ye come to a man's inches, ye will find ye have an empty
pocket.  I say no more: the saints help Sir Daniel's neighbours, and the
Blessed Maid protect his wards!"

"Clipsby," said Richard, "you speak what I cannot hear with honour.  Sir
Daniel is my good master, and my guardian."

"Come, now, will ye read me a riddle?" returned Clipsby.  "On whose side
is Sir Daniel?"

"I know not," said Dick, colouring a little; for his guardian had changed
sides continually in the troubles of that period, and every change had
brought him some increase of fortune.

"Ay," returned Clipsby, "you, nor no man.  For, indeed, he is one that
goes to bed Lancaster and gets up York."

Just then the bridge rang under horse-shoe iron, and the party turned and
saw Bennet Hatch come galloping--a brown-faced, grizzled fellow, heavy of
hand and grim of mien, armed with sword and spear, a steel salet on his
head, a leather jack upon his body.  He was a great man in these parts;
Sir Daniel's right hand in peace and war, and at that time, by his
master's interest, bailiff of the hundred.

"Clipsby," he shouted, "off to the Moat House, and send all other
laggards the same gate.  Bowyer will give you jack and salet.  We must
ride before curfew.  Look to it: he that is last at the lych-gate Sir
Daniel shall reward.  Look to it right well!  I know you for a man of
naught.  Nance," he added, to one of the women, "is old Appleyard up
town?"

"I'll warrant you," replied the woman.  "In his field, for sure."

So the group dispersed, and while Clipsby walked leisurely over the
bridge, Bennet and young Shelton rode up the road together, through the
village and past the church.

"Ye will see the old shrew," said Bennet.  "He will waste more time
grumbling and prating of Harry the Fift than would serve a man to shoe a
horse.  And all because he has been to the French wars!"

The house to which they were bound was the last in the village, standing
alone among lilacs; and beyond it, on three sides, there was open meadow
rising towards the borders of the wood.

Hatch dismounted, threw his rein over the fence, and walked down the
field, Dick keeping close at his elbow, to where the old soldier was
digging, knee-deep in his cabbages, and now and again, in a cracked
voice, singing a snatch of song.  He was all dressed in leather, only his
hood and tippet were of black frieze, and tied with scarlet; his face was
like a walnut-shell, both for colour and wrinkles; but his old grey eye
was still clear enough, and his sight unabated.  Perhaps he was deaf;
perhaps he thought it unworthy of an old archer of Agincourt to pay any
heed to such disturbances; but neither the surly notes of the alarm bell,
nor the near approach of Bennet and the lad, appeared at all to move him;
and he continued obstinately digging, and piped up, very thin and shaky:

    "Now, dear lady, if thy will be,
    I pray you that you will rue on me."

"Nick Appleyard," said Hatch, "Sir Oliver commends him to you, and bids
that ye shall come within this hour to the Moat House, there to take
command."

The old fellow looked up.

"Save you, my masters!" he said, grinning.  "And where goeth Master
Hatch?"

"Master Hatch is off to Kettley, with every man that we can horse,"
returned Bennet.  "There is a fight toward, it seems, and my lord stays a
reinforcement."

"Ay, verily," returned Appleyard.  "And what will ye leave me to garrison
withal?"

"I leave you six good men, and Sir Oliver to boot," answered Hatch.

"It'll not hold the place," said Appleyard; "the number sufficeth not.
It would take two score to make it good."

"Why, it's for that we came to you, old shrew!" replied the other.  "Who
else is there but you that could do aught in such a house with such a
garrison?"

"Ay! when the pinch comes, ye remember the old shoe," returned Nick.
"There is not a man of you can back a horse or hold a bill; and as for
archery--St. Michael! if old Harry the Fift were back again, he would
stand and let ye shoot at him for a farthen a shoot!"

"Nay, Nick, there's some can draw a good bow yet," said Bennet.

"Draw a good bow!" cried Appleyard.  "Yes!  But who'll shoot me a good
shoot?  It's there the eye comes in, and the head between your shoulders.
Now, what might you call a long shoot, Bennet Hatch?"

"Well," said Bennet, looking about him, "it would be a long shoot from
here into the forest."

"Ay, it would be a longish shoot," said the old fellow, turning to look
over his shoulder; and then he put up his hand over his eyes, and stood
staring.

"Why, what are you looking at?" asked Bennet, with a chuckle.  "Do, you
see Harry the Fift?"

The veteran continued looking up the hill in silence.  The sun shone
broadly over the shelving meadows; a few white sheep wandered browsing;
all was still but the distant jangle of the bell.

"What is it, Appleyard?" asked Dick.

"Why, the birds," said Appleyard.

And, sure enough, over the top of the forest, where it ran down in a
tongue among the meadows, and ended in a pair of goodly green elms, about
a bowshot from the field where they were standing, a flight of birds was
skimming to and fro, in evident disorder.

"What of the birds?" said Bennet.

"Ay!" returned Appleyard, "y' are a wise man to go to war, Master Bennet.
Birds are a good sentry; in forest places they be the first line of
battle.  Look you, now, if we lay here in camp, there might be archers
skulking down to get the wind of us; and here would you be, none the
wiser!"

"Why, old shrew," said Hatch, "there be no men nearer us than Sir
Daniel's, at Kettley; y' are as safe as in London Tower; and ye raise
scares upon a man for a few chaffinches and sparrows!"

"Hear him!" grinned Appleyard.  "How many a rogue would give his two crop
ears to have a shoot at either of us?  Saint Michael, man! they hate us
like two polecats!"

"Well, sooth it is, they hate Sir Daniel," answered Hatch, a little
sobered.

"Ay, they hate Sir Daniel, and they hate every man that serves with him,"
said Appleyard; "and in the first order of hating, they hate Bennet Hatch
and old Nicholas the bowman.  See ye here: if there was a stout fellow
yonder in the wood-edge, and you and I stood fair for him--as, by Saint
George, we stand!--which, think ye, would he choose?"

"You, for a good wager," answered Hatch.

"My surcoat to a leather belt, it would be you!" cried the old archer.
"Ye burned Grimstone, Bennet--they'll ne'er forgive you that, my master.
And as for me, I'll soon be in a good place, God grant, and out of
bow-shoot--ay, and cannon-shoot--of all their malices.  I am an old man,
and draw fast to homeward, where the bed is ready.  But for you, Bennet,
y' are to remain behind here at your own peril, and if ye come to my
years unhanged, the old true-blue English spirit will be dead."

"Y' are the shrewishest old dolt in Tunstall Forest," returned Hatch,
visibly ruffled by these threats.  "Get ye to your arms before Sir Oliver
come, and leave prating for one good while.  An ye had talked so much
with Harry the Fift, his ears would ha' been richer than his pocket."

An arrow sang in the air, like a huge hornet; it struck old Appleyard
between the shoulder-blades, and pierced him clean through, and he fell
forward on his face among the cabbages.  Hatch, with a broken cry, leapt
into the air; then, stooping double, he ran for the cover of the house.
And in the meanwhile Dick Shelton had dropped behind a lilac, and had his
crossbow bent and shouldered, covering the point of the forest.

Not a leaf stirred.  The sheep were patiently browsing; the birds had
settled.  But there lay the old man, with a cloth-yard arrow standing in
his back; and there were Hatch holding to the gable, and Dick crouching
and ready behind the lilac bush.

"D'ye see aught?" cried Hatch.

"Not a twig stirs," said Dick.

"I think shame to leave him lying," said Bennet, coming forward once more
with hesitating steps and a very pale countenance.  "Keep a good eye on
the wood, Master Shelton--keep a clear eye on the wood.  The saints
assoil us! here was a good shoot!"

Bennet raised the old archer on his knee.  He was not yet dead; his face
worked, and his eyes shut and opened like machinery, and he had a most
horrible, ugly look of one in pain.

"Can ye hear, old Nick?" asked Hatch.  "Have ye a last wish before ye
wend, old brother?"

"Pluck out the shaft, and let me pass, a' Mary's name!" gasped Appleyard.
"I be done with Old England.  Pluck it out!"

"Master Dick," said Bennet, "come hither, and pull me a good pull upon
the arrow.  He would fain pass, the poor sinner."

Dick laid down his cross-bow, and pulling hard upon the arrow, drew it
forth.  A gush of blood followed; the old archer scrambled half upon his
feet, called once upon the name of God, and then fell dead.  Hatch, upon
his knees among the cabbages, prayed fervently for the welfare of the
passing spirit.  But even as he prayed, it was plain that his mind was
still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon the corner of the wood from
which the shot had come.  When he had done, he got to his feet again,
drew off one of his mailed gauntlets, and wiped his pale face, which was
all wet with terror.

"Ay," he said, "it'll be my turn next."

"Who hath done this, Bennet?" Richard asked, still holding the arrow in
his hand.

"Nay, the saints know," said Hatch.  "Here are a good two score Christian
souls that we have hunted out of house and holding, he and I.  He has
paid his shot, poor shrew, nor will it be long, mayhap, ere I pay mine.
Sir Daniel driveth over-hard."

"This is a strange shaft," said the lad, looking at the arrow in his
hand.

"Ay, by my faith!" cried Bennet.  "Black, and black-feathered.  Here is
an ill-favoured shaft, by my sooth! for black, they say, bodes burial.
And here be words written.  Wipe the blood away.  What read ye?"

"'_Appulyaird fro Jon Amend-All_,'" read Shelton.  "What should this
betoken?"

"Nay, I like it not," returned the retainer, shaking his head.  "John
Amend-All!  Here is a rogue's name for those that be up in the world!
But why stand we here to make a mark?  Take him by the knees, good Master
Shelton, while I lift him by the shoulders, and let us lay him in his
house.  This will be a rare shog to poor Sir Oliver; he will turn paper
colour; he will pray like a windmill."

They took up the old archer, and carried him between them into his house,
where he had dwelt alone.  And there they laid him on the floor, out of
regard for the mattress, and sought, as best they might, to straighten
and compose his limbs.

Appleyard's house was clean and bare.  There was a bed, with a blue
cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint-stools, a hinged table
in the chimney corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier's armoury
of bows and defensive armour.  Hatch began to look about him curiously.

"Nick had money," he said.  "He may have had three score pounds put by.
I would I could light upon't!  When ye lose an old friend, Master
Richard, the best consolation is to heir him.  See, now, this chest.  I
would go a mighty wager there is a bushel of gold therein.  He had a
strong hand to get, and a hard hand to keep withal, had Appleyard the
archer.  Now may God rest his spirit!  Near eighty year he was afoot and
about, and ever getting; but now he's on the broad of his back, poor
shrew, and no more lacketh; and if his chattels came to a good friend, he
would be merrier, methinks, in heaven."

"Come, Hatch," said Dick, "respect his stone-blind eyes.  Would ye rob
the man before his body?  Nay, he would walk!"

Hatch made several signs of the cross; but by this time his natural
complexion had returned, and he was not easily to be dashed from any
purpose.  It would have gone hard with the chest had not the gate
sounded, and presently after the door of the house opened and admitted a
tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyed man of near fifty, in a surplice and
black robe.

"Appleyard"--the newcomer was saying, as he entered; but he stopped dead.
"Ave Maria!" he cried.  "Saints be our shield!  What cheer is this?"

"Cold cheer with Appleyard, sir parson," answered Hatch, with perfect
cheerfulness.  "Shot at his own door, and alighteth even now at purgatory
gates.  Ay! there, if tales be true, he shall lack neither coal nor
candle."

Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it, sick
and white.

"This is a judgment!  O, a great stroke!" he sobbed, and rattled off a
leash of prayers.

Hatch meanwhile reverently doffed his salet and knelt down.

"Ay, Bennet," said the priest, somewhat recovering, "and what may this
be?  What enemy hath done this?"

"Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow.  See, it is written upon with words,"
said Dick.

"Nay," cried the priest, "this is a foul hearing!  John Amend-All!  A
right Lollardy word.  And black of hue, as for an omen!  Sirs, this knave
arrow likes me not.  But it importeth rather to take counsel.  Who should
this be?  Bethink you, Bennet.  Of so many black ill-willers, which
should he be that doth so hardily outface us?  Simnel?  I do much
question it.  The Walsinghams?  Nay, they are not yet so broken; they
still think to have the law over us, when times change.  There was Simon
Malmesbury, too.  How think ye, Bennet?"

"What think ye, sir," returned Hatch, "of Ellis Duckworth?"

"Nay, Bennet, never.  Nay, not he," said the priest.  "There cometh never
any rising, Bennet, from below--so all judicious chroniclers concord in
their opinion; but rebellion travelleth ever downward from above; and
when Dick, Tom, and Harry take them to their bills, look ever narrowly to
see what lord is profited thereby.  Now, Sir Daniel, having once more
joined him to the Queen's party, is in ill odour with the Yorkist lords.
Thence, Bennet, comes the blow--by what procuring, I yet seek; but
therein lies the nerve of this discomfiture."

"An't please you, Sir Oliver," said Bennet, "the axles are so hot in this
country that I have long been smelling fire.  So did this poor sinner,
Appleyard.  And, by your leave, men's spirits are so foully inclined to
all of us, that it needs neither York nor Lancaster to spur them on.
Hear my plain thoughts: You, that are a clerk, and Sir Daniel, that sails
on any wind, ye have taken many men's goods, and beaten and hanged not a
few.  Y' are called to count for this; in the end, I wot not how, ye have
ever the uppermost at law, and ye think all patched.  But give me leave,
Sir Oliver: the man that ye have dispossessed and beaten is but the
angrier, and some day, when the black devil is by, he will up with his
bow and clout me a yard of arrow through your inwards."

"Nay, Bennet, y' are in the wrong.  Bennet, ye should be glad to be
corrected," said Sir Oliver.  "Y' are a prater, Bennet, a talker, a
babbler; your mouth is wider than your two ears.  Mend it, Bennet, mend
it."

"Nay, I say no more.  Have it as ye list," said the retainer.

The priest now rose from the stool, and from the writing-case that hung
about his neck took forth wax and a taper, and a flint and steel.  With
these he sealed up the chest and the cupboard with Sir Daniel's arms,
Hatch looking on disconsolate; and then the whole party proceeded,
somewhat timorously, to sally from the house and get to horse.

"'Tis time we were on the road, Sir Oliver," said Hatch, as he held the
priest's stirrup while he mounted.

"Ay; but, Bennet, things are changed," returned the parson.  "There is
now no Appleyard--rest his soul!--to keep the garrison.  I shall keep
you, Bennet.  I must have a good man to rest me on in this day of black
arrows.  'The arrow that flieth by day,' saith the evangel; I have no
mind of the context; nay, I am a sluggard priest, I am too deep in men's
affairs.  Well, let us ride forth, Master Hatch.  The jackmen should be
at the church by now."

So they rode forward down the road, with the wind after them, blowing the
tails of the parson's cloak; and behind them, as they went, clouds began
to arise and blot out the sinking sun.  They had passed three of the
scattered houses that make up Tunstall hamlet, when, coming to a turn,
they saw the church before them.  Ten or a dozen houses clustered
immediately round it; but to the back the churchyard was next the
meadows.  At the lych-gate, near a score of men were gathered, some in
the saddle, some standing by their horses' heads.  They were variously
armed and mounted; some with spears, some with bills, some with bows, and
some bestriding plough-horses, still splashed with the mire of the
furrow; for these were the very dregs of the country, and all the better
men and the fair equipments were already with Sir Daniel in the field.

"We have not done amiss, praised be the cross of Holywood!  Sir Daniel
will be right well content," observed the priest, inwardly numbering the
troop.

"Who goes?  Stand! if ye be true!" shouted Bennet.  A man was seen
slipping through the churchyard among the yews; and at the sound of this
summons he discarded all concealment, and fairly took to his heels for
the forest.  The men at the gate, who had been hitherto unaware of the
stranger's presence, woke and scattered.  Those who had dismounted began
scrambling into the saddle; the rest rode in pursuit; but they had to
make the circuit of the consecrated ground, and it was plain their quarry
would escape them.  Hatch, roaring an oath, put his horse at the hedge,
to head him off; but the beast refused, and sent his rider sprawling in
the dust.  And though he was up again in a moment, and had caught the
bridle, the time had gone by, and the fugitive had gained too great a
lead for any hope of capture.

The wisest of all had been Dick Shelton.  Instead of starting in a vain
pursuit, he had whipped his crossbow from his back, bent it, and set a
quarrel to the string; and now, when the others had desisted, he turned
to Bennet and asked if he should shoot.

"Shoot! shoot!" cried the priest, with sanguinary violence.

"Cover him, Master Dick," said Bennet.  "Bring me him down like a ripe
apple."

The fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety; but this last part
of the meadow ran very steeply uphill; and the man ran slower in
proportion.  What with the greyness of the falling night, and the uneven
movements of the runner, it was no easy aim; and as Dick levelled his
bow, he felt a kind of pity, and a half desire that he might miss.  The
quarrel sped.

The man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from Hatch and the
pursuers.  But they were counting their corn before the harvest.  The man
fell lightly; he was lightly afoot again, turned and waved his cap in a
bravado, and was out of sight next moment in the margin of the wood.

"And the plague go with him!" cried Bennet.  "He has thieves' heels; he
can run, by St Banbury!  But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has
stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge him less!"

"Nay, but what made he by the church?" asked Sir Oliver.  "I am shrewdly
afeared there has been mischief here.  Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down
from your horse, and search thoroughly among the yews."

Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned carrying a paper.

"This writing was pinned to the church door," he said, handing it to the
parson.  "I found naught else, sir parson."

"Now, by the power of Mother Church," cried Sir Oliver, "but this runs
hard on sacrilege!  For the king's good pleasure, or the lord of the
manor--well!  But that every run-the-hedge in a green jerkin should
fasten papers to the chancel door--nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard;
and men have burned for matters of less weight.  But what have we here?
The light falls apace.  Good Master Richard, y' have young eyes.  Read
me, I pray, this libel."

Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand and read it aloud.  It contained
some lines of very rugged doggerel, hardly even rhyming, written in a
gross character, and most uncouthly spelt.  With the spelling somewhat
bettered, this is how they ran:

    "I had four blak arrows under my belt,
    Four for the greefs that I have felt,
    Four for the nomber of ill menne
    That have opressid me now and then.

    One is gone; one is wele sped;
    Old Apulyaird is ded.

    One is for Maister Bennet Hatch,
    That burned Grimstone, walls and thatch.

    One for Sir Oliver Oates,
    That cut Sir Harry Shelton's throat.

    Sir Daniel, ye shull have the fourt;
    We shall think it fair sport.

    Ye shull each have your own part,
    A blak arrow in each blak heart.
    Get ye to your knees for to pray:
    Ye are ded theeves, by yea and nay!

                                                            "JON AMEND-ALL
                                                        of the Green Wood,
                                                And his jolly fellaweship.

    "Item, we have mo arrowes and goode hempen cord for otheres of your
    following."

"Now, well-a-day for charity and the Christian graces!" cried Sir Oliver,
lamentably.  "Sirs, this is an ill world, and groweth daily worse.  I
will swear upon the cross of Holywood I am as innocent of that good
knight's hurt, whether in act or purpose, as the babe unchristened.
Neither was his throat cut; for therein they are again in error, as there
still live credible witnesses to show."

"It boots not, sir parson," said Bennet.  "Here is unseasonable talk."

"Nay, Master Bennet, not so.  Keep ye in your due place, good Bennet,"
answered the priest.  "I shall make mine innocence appear.  I will, upon
no consideration, lose my poor life in error.  I take all men to witness
that I am clear of this matter.  I was not even in the Moat House.  I was
sent of an errand before nine upon the clock"--

"Sir Oliver," said Hatch, interrupting, "since it please you not to stop
this sermon, I will take other means.  Goffe, sound to horse."

And while the tucket was sounding, Bennet moved close to the bewildered
parson, and whispered violently in his ear.

Dick Shelton saw the priest's eye turned upon him for an instant in a
startled glance.  He had some cause for thought; for this Sir Harry
Shelton was his own natural father.  But he said never a word, and kept
his countenance unmoved.

Hatch and Sir Oliver discussed together for a while their altered
situation; ten men, it was decided between them, should be reserved, not
only to garrison the Moat House, but to escort the priest across the
wood.  In the meantime, as Bennet was to remain behind, the command of
the reinforcement was given to Master Shelton.  Indeed, there was no
choice; the men were loutish fellows, dull and unskilled in war, while
Dick was not only popular, but resolute and grave beyond his age.
Although his youth had been spent in these rough, country places, the lad
had been well taught in letters by Sir Oliver, and Hatch himself had
shown him the management of arms and the first principles of command.
Bennet had always been kind and helpful; he was one of those who are
cruel as the grave to those they call their enemies, but ruggedly
faithful and well willing to their friends; and now, while Sir Oliver
entered the next house to write, in his swift, exquisite penmanship, a
memorandum of the last occurrences to his master, Sir Daniel Brackley,
Bennet came up to his pupil to wish him God-speed upon his enterprise.

"Ye must go the long way about, Master Shelton," he said; "round by the
bridge, for your life!  Keep a sure man fifty paces afore you, to draw
shots; and go softly till y' are past the wood.  If the rogues fall upon
you, ride for 't; ye will do naught by standing.  And keep ever forward,
Master Shelton; turn me not back again, an ye love your life; there is no
help in Tunstall, mind ye that.  And now, since ye go to the great wars
about the king, and I continue to dwell here in extreme jeopardy of my
life, and the saints alone can certify if we shall meet again below, I
give you my last counsels now at your riding.  Keep an eye on Sir Daniel;
he is unsure.  Put not your trust in the jack-priest; he intendeth not
amiss, but doth the will of others; it is a hand-gun for Sir Daniel!  Get
your good lordship where ye go; make you strong friends; look to it.  And
think ever a pater-noster-while on Bennet Hatch.  There are worse rogues
afoot than Bennet.  So, God-speed!"

"And Heaven be with you, Bennet!" returned Dick.  "Ye were a good friend
to me-ward, and so I shall say ever."

"And, look ye, master," added Hatch, with a certain embarrassment, "if
this Amend-All should get a shaft into me, ye might, mayhap, lay out a
gold mark or mayhap a pound for my poor soul; for it is like to go stiff
with me in purgatory."

"Ye shall have your will of it, Bennet," answered Dick.  "But, what
cheer, man! we shall meet again, where ye shall have more need of ale
than masses."

"The saints so grant it, Master Dick!" returned the other.  "But here
comes Sir Oliver.  An he were as quick with the long-bow as with the pen,
he would be a brave man-at-arms."

Sir Oliver gave Dick a sealed packet, with this superscription: "To my
ryght worchypful master, Sir Daniel Brackley, knyght, be thys delyvered
in haste."

And Dick, putting it in the bosom of his jacket, gave the word and set
forth westward up the village.




BOOK I--THE TWO LADS


CHAPTER I--AT THE SIGN OF THE SUN IN KETTLEY


Sir Daniel and his men lay in and about Kettley that night, warmly
quartered and well patrolled.  But the Knight of Tunstall was one who
never rested from money-getting; and even now, when he was on the brink
of an adventure which should make or mar him, he was up an hour after
midnight to squeeze poor neighbours.  He was one who trafficked greatly
in disputed inheritances; it was his way to buy out the most unlikely
claimant, and then, by the favour he curried with great lords about the
king, procure unjust decisions in his favour; or, if that was too
roundabout, to seize the disputed manor by force of arms, and rely on his
influence and Sir Oliver's cunning in the law to hold what he had
snatched.  Kettley was one such place; it had come very lately into his
clutches; he still met with opposition from the tenants; and it was to
overawe discontent that he had led his troops that way.

By two in the morning, Sir Daniel sat in the inn room, close by the
fireside, for it was cold at that hour among the fens of Kettley.  By his
elbow stood a pottle of spiced ale.  He had taken off his visored
headpiece, and sat with his bald head and thin, dark visage resting on
one hand, wrapped warmly in a sanguine-coloured cloak.  At the lower end
of the room about a dozen of his men stood sentry over the door or lay
asleep on benches; and somewhat nearer hand, a young lad, apparently of
twelve or thirteen, was stretched in a mantle on the floor.  The host of
the Sun stood before the great man.

"Now, mark me, mine host," Sir Daniel said, "follow but mine orders, and
I shall be your good lord ever.  I must have good men for head boroughs,
and I will have Adam-a-More high constable; see to it narrowly.  If other
men be chosen, it shall avail you nothing; rather it shall be found to
your sore cost.  For those that have paid rent to Walsingham I shall take
good measure--you among the rest, mine host."

"Good knight," said the host, "I will swear upon the cross of Holywood I
did but pay to Walsingham upon compulsion.  Nay, bully knight, I love not
the rogue Walsinghams; they were as poor as thieves, bully knight.  Give
me a great lord like you.  Nay; ask me among the neighbours, I am stout
for Brackley."

"It may be," said Sir Daniel, dryly.  "Ye shall then pay twice."

The innkeeper made a horrid grimace; but this was a piece of bad luck
that might readily befall a tenant in these unruly times, and he was
perhaps glad to make his peace so easily.

"Bring up yon fellow, Selden!" cried the knight.

And one of his retainers led up a poor, cringing old man, as pale as a
candle, and all shaking with the fen fever.

"Sirrah," said Sir Daniel, "your name?"

"An't please your worship," replied the man, "my name is Condall--Condall
of Shoreby, at your good worship's pleasure."

"I have heard you ill reported on," returned the knight.  "Ye deal in
treason, rogue; ye trudge the country leasing; y' are heavily suspicioned
of the death of severals.  How, fellow, are ye so bold?  But I will bring
you down."

"Right honourable and my reverend lord," the man cried, "here is some
hodge-podge, saving your good presence.  I am but a poor private man, and
have hurt none."

"The under-sheriff did report of you most vilely," said the knight.
"'Seize me,' saith he, 'that Tyndal of Shoreby.'"

"Condall, my good lord; Condall is my poor name," said the unfortunate.

"Condall or Tyndal, it is all one," replied Sir Daniel, coolly.  "For, by
my sooth, y' are here and I do mightily suspect your honesty.  If ye
would save your neck, write me swiftly an obligation for twenty pound."

"For twenty pound, my good lord!" cried Condall.  "Here is midsummer
madness!  My whole estate amounteth not to seventy shillings."

"Condall or Tyndal," returned Sir Daniel, grinning, "I will run my peril
of that loss.  Write me down twenty, and when I have recovered all I may,
I will be good lord to you, and pardon you the rest."

"Alas! my good lord, it may not be; I have no skill to write," said
Condall.

"Well-a-day!" returned the knight.  "Here, then, is no remedy.  Yet I
would fain have spared you, Tyndal, had my conscience suffered.  Selden,
take me this old shrew softly to the nearest elm, and hang me him
tenderly by the neck, where I may see him at my riding.  Fare ye well,
good Master Condall, dear Master Tyndal; y' are post-haste for Paradise;
fare ye then well!"

"Nay, my right pleasant lord," replied Condall, forcing an obsequious
smile, "an ye be so masterful, as doth right well become you, I will
even, with all my poor skill, do your good bidding."

"Friend," quoth Sir Daniel, "ye will now write two score.  Go to! y' are
too cunning for a livelihood of seventy shillings.  Selden, see him write
me this in good form, and have it duly witnessed."

And Sir Daniel, who was a very merry knight, none merrier in England,
took a drink of his mulled ale, and lay back, smiling.

Meanwhile, the boy upon the floor began to stir, and presently sat up and
looked about him with a scare.

"Hither," said Sir Daniel; and as the other rose at his command and came
slowly towards him, he leaned back and laughed outright.  "By the rood!"
he cried, "a sturdy boy!"

The lad flushed crimson with anger, and darted a look of hate out of his
dark eyes.  Now that he was on his legs, it was more difficult to make
certain of his age.  His face looked somewhat older in expression, but it
was as smooth as a young child's; and in bone and body he was unusually
slender, and somewhat awkward of gait.

"Ye have called me, Sir Daniel," he said.  "Was it to laugh at my poor
plight?"

"Nay, now, let laugh," said the knight.  "Good shrew, let laugh, I pray
you.  An ye could see yourself, I warrant ye would laugh the first."

"Well," cried the lad, flushing, "ye shall answer this when ye answer for
the other.  Laugh while yet ye may!"

"Nay, now, good cousin," replied Sir Daniel, with some earnestness,
"think not that I mock at you, except in mirth, as between kinsfolk and
singular friends.  I will make you a marriage of a thousand pounds, go
to! and cherish you exceedingly.  I took you, indeed, roughly, as the
time demanded; but from henceforth I shall ungrudgingly maintain and
cheerfully serve you.  Ye shall be Mrs. Shelton--Lady Shelton, by my
troth! for the lad promiseth bravely.  Tut! ye will not shy for honest
laughter; it purgeth melancholy.  They are no rogues who laugh, good
cousin.  Good mine host, lay me a meal now for my cousin, Master John.
Sit ye down, sweetheart, and eat."

"Nay," said Master John, "I will break no bread.  Since ye force me to
this sin, I will fast for my soul's interest.  But, good mine host, I
pray you of courtesy give me a cup of fair water; I shall be much
beholden to your courtesy indeed."

"Ye shall have a dispensation, go to!" cried the knight.  "Shalt be well
shriven, by my faith!  Content you, then, and eat."

But the lad was obstinate, drank a cup of water, and, once more wrapping
himself closely in his mantle, sat in a far corner, brooding.

In an hour or two, there rose a stir in the village of sentries
challenging and the clatter of arms and horses; and then a troop drew up
by the inn door, and Richard Shelton, splashed with mud, presented
himself upon the threshold.

"Save you, Sir Daniel," he said.

"How!  Dickie Shelton!" cried the knight; and at the mention of Dick's
name the other lad looked curiously across.  "What maketh Bennet Hatch?"

"Please you, sir knight, to take cognisance of this packet from Sir
Oliver, wherein are all things fully stated," answered Richard,
presenting the priest's letter.  "And please you farther, ye were best
make all speed to Risingham; for on the way hither we encountered one
riding furiously with letters, and by his report, my Lord of Risingham
was sore bested, and lacked exceedingly your presence."

"How say you?  Sore bested?" returned the knight.  "Nay, then, we will
make speed sitting down, good Richard.  As the world goes in this poor
realm of England, he that rides softliest rides surest.  Delay, they say,
begetteth peril; but it is rather this itch of doing that undoes men;
mark it, Dick.  But let me see, first, what cattle ye have brought.
Selden, a link here at the door!"

And Sir Daniel strode forth into the village street, and, by the red glow
of a torch, inspected his new troops.  He was an unpopular neighbour and
an unpopular master; but as a leader in war he was well-beloved by those
who rode behind his pennant.  His dash, his proved courage, his
forethought for the soldiers' comfort, even his rough gibes, were all to
the taste of the bold blades in jack and salet.

"Nay, by the rood!" he cried, "what poor dogs are these?  Here be some as
crooked as a bow, and some as lean as a spear.  Friends, ye shall ride in
the front of the battle; I can spare you, friends.  Mark me this old
villain on the piebald!  A two-year mutton riding on a hog would look
more soldierly!  Ha!  Clipsby, are ye there, old rat?  Y' are a man I
could lose with a good heart; ye shall go in front of all, with a bull's
eye painted on your jack, to be the better butt for archery; sirrah, ye
shall show me the way."

"I will show you any way, Sir Daniel, but the way to change sides,"
returned Clipsby, sturdily.

Sir Daniel laughed a guffaw.

"Why, well said!" he cried.  "Hast a shrewd tongue in thy mouth, go to!
I will forgive you for that merry word.  Selden, see them fed, both man
and brute."

The knight re-entered the inn.

"Now, friend Dick," he said, "fall to.  Here is good ale and bacon.  Eat,
while that I read."

Sir Daniel opened the packet, and as he read his brow darkened.  When he
had done he sat a little, musing.  Then he looked sharply at his ward.

"Dick," said he, "Y' have seen this penny rhyme?"

The lad replied in the affirmative.

"It bears your father's name," continued the knight; "and our poor shrew
of a parson is, by some mad soul, accused of slaying him."

"He did most eagerly deny it," answered Dick.

"He did?" cried the knight, very sharply.  "Heed him not.  He has a loose
tongue; he babbles like a jack-sparrow.  Some day, when I may find the
leisure, Dick, I will myself more fully inform you of these matters.
There was one Duckworth shrewdly blamed for it; but the times were
troubled, and there was no justice to be got."

"It befell at the Moat House?" Dick ventured, with a beating at his
heart.

"It befell between the Moat House and Holywood," replied Sir Daniel,
calmly; but he shot a covert glance, black with suspicion, at Dick's
face.  "And now," added the knight, "speed you with your meal; ye shall
return to Tunstall with a line from me."

Dick's face fell sorely.

"Prithee, Sir Daniel," he cried, "send one of the villains!  I beseech
you let me to the battle.  I can strike a stroke, I promise you."

"I misdoubt it not," replied Sir Daniel, sitting down to write.  "But
here, Dick, is no honour to be won.  I lie in Kettley till I have sure
tidings of the war, and then ride to join me with the conqueror.  Cry not
on cowardice; it is but wisdom, Dick; for this poor realm so tosseth with
rebellion, and the king's name and custody so changeth hands, that no man
may be certain of the morrow.  Toss-pot and Shuttle-wit run in, but my
Lord Good-Counsel sits o' one side, waiting."

With that, Sir Daniel, turning his back to Dick, and quite at the farther
end of the long table, began to write his letter, with his mouth on one
side, for this business of the Black Arrow stuck sorely in his throat.

Meanwhile, young Shelton was going on heartily enough with his breakfast,
when he felt a touch upon his arm, and a very soft voice whispering in
his ear.

"Make not a sign, I do beseech you," said the voice, "but of your charity
tell me the straight way to Holywood.  Beseech you, now, good boy,
comfort a poor soul in peril and extreme distress, and set me so far
forth upon the way to my repose."

"Take the path by the windmill," answered Dick, in the same tone; "it
will bring you to Till Ferry; there inquire again."

And without turning his head, he fell again to eating.  But with the tail
of his eye he caught a glimpse of the young lad called Master John
stealthily creeping from the room.

"Why," thought Dick, "he is a young as I.  'Good boy' doth he call me?
An I had known, I should have seen the varlet hanged ere I had told him.
Well, if he goes through the fen, I may come up with him and pull his
ears."

Half an hour later, Sir Daniel gave Dick the letter, and bade him speed
to the Moat House.  And, again, some half an hour after Dick's departure,
a messenger came, in hot haste, from my Lord of Risingham.

"Sir Daniel," the messenger said, "ye lose great honour, by my sooth!
The fight began again this morning ere the dawn, and we have beaten their
van and scattered their right wing.  Only the main battle standeth fast.
An we had your fresh men, we should tilt you them all into the river.
What, sir knight!  Will ye be the last?  It stands not with your good
credit."

"Nay," cried the knight, "I was but now upon the march.  Selden, sound me
the tucket.  Sir, I am with you on the instant.  It is not two hours
since the more part of my command came in, sir messenger.  What would ye
have?  Spurring is good meat, but yet it killed the charger.  Bustle,
boys!"

By this time the tucket was sounding cheerily in the morning, and from
all sides Sir Daniel's men poured into the main street and formed before
the inn.  They had slept upon their arms, with chargers saddled, and in
ten minutes five-score men-at-arms and archers, cleanly equipped and
briskly disciplined, stood ranked and ready.  The chief part were in Sir
Daniel's livery, murrey and blue, which gave the greater show to their
array.  The best armed rode first; and away out of sight, at the tail of
the column, came the sorry reinforcement of the night before.  Sir Daniel
looked with pride along the line.

"Here be the lads to serve you in a pinch," he said.

"They are pretty men, indeed," replied the messenger.  "It but augments
my sorrow that ye had not marched the earlier."

"Well," said the knight, "what would ye?  The beginning of a feast and
the end of a fray, sir messenger;" and he mounted into his saddle.  "Why!
how now!" he cried.  "John!  Joanna!  Nay, by the sacred rood! where is
she?  Host, where is that girl?"

"Girl, Sir Daniel?" cried the landlord.  "Nay, sir, I saw no girl."

"Boy, then, dotard!" cried the knight.  "Could ye not see it was a wench?
She in the murrey-coloured mantle--she that broke her fast with water,
rogue--where is she?"

"Nay, the saints bless us!  Master John, ye called him," said the host.
"Well, I thought none evil.  He is gone.  I saw him--her--I saw her in
the stable a good hour agone; 'a was saddling a grey horse."

"Now, by the rood!" cried Sir Daniel, "the wench was worth five hundred
pound to me and more."

"Sir knight," observed the messenger, with bitterness, "while that ye are
here, roaring for five hundred pounds, the realm of England is elsewhere
being lost and won."

"It is well said," replied Sir Daniel.  "Selden, fall me out with six
cross-bowmen; hunt me her down.  I care not what it cost; but, at my
returning, let me find her at the Moat House.  Be it upon your head.  And
now, sir messenger, we march."

And the troop broke into a good trot, and Selden and his six men were
left behind upon the street of Kettley, with the staring villagers.



CHAPTER II--IN THE FEN


It was near six in the May morning when Dick began to ride down into the
fen upon his homeward way.  The sky was all blue; the jolly wind blew
loud and steady; the windmill-sails were spinning; and the willows over
all the fen rippling and whitening like a field of corn.  He had been all
night in the saddle, but his heart was good and his body sound, and he
rode right merrily.

The path went down and down into the marsh, till he lost sight of all the
neighbouring landmarks but Kettley windmill on the knoll behind him, and
the extreme top of Tunstall Forest far before.  On either hand there were
great fields of blowing reeds and willows, pools of water shaking in the
wind, and treacherous bogs, as green as emerald, to tempt and to betray
the traveller.  The path lay almost straight through the morass.  It was
already very ancient; its foundation had been laid by Roman soldiery; in
the lapse of ages much of it had sunk, and every here and there, for a
few hundred yards, it lay submerged below the stagnant waters of the fen.

About a mile from Kettley, Dick came to one such break in the plain line
of causeway, where the reeds and willows grew dispersedly like little
islands and confused the eye.  The gap, besides, was more than usually
long; it was a place where any stranger might come readily to mischief;
and Dick bethought him, with something like a pang, of the lad whom he
had so imperfectly directed.  As for himself, one look backward to where
the windmill sails were turning black against the blue of heaven--one
look forward to the high ground of Tunstall Forest, and he was
sufficiently directed and held straight on, the water washing to his
horse's knees, as safe as on a highway.

Half-way across, and when he had already sighted the path rising high and
dry upon the farther side, he was aware of a great splashing on his
right, and saw a grey horse, sunk to its belly in the mud, and still
spasmodically struggling.  Instantly, as though it had divined the
neighbourhood of help, the poor beast began to neigh most piercingly.  It
rolled, meanwhile, a blood-shot eye, insane with terror; and as it
sprawled wallowing in the quag, clouds of stinging insects rose and
buzzed about it in the air.

"Alack!" thought Dick, "can the poor lad have perished?  There is his
horse, for certain--a brave grey!  Nay, comrade, if thou criest to me so
piteously, I will do all man can to help thee.  Shalt not lie there to
drown by inches!"

And he made ready his crossbow, and put a quarrel through the creature's
head.

Dick rode on after this act of rugged mercy, somewhat sobered in spirit,
and looking closely about him for any sign of his less happy predecessor
in the way.  "I would I had dared to tell him further," he thought; "for
I fear he has miscarried in the slough."

And just as he was so thinking, a voice cried upon his name from the
causeway side, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw the lad's face
peering from a clump of reeds.

"Are ye there?" he said, reining in.  "Ye lay so close among the reeds
that I had passed you by.  I saw your horse bemired, and put him from his
agony; which, by my sooth! an ye had been a more merciful rider, ye had
done yourself.  But come forth out of your hiding.  Here be none to
trouble you."

"Nay, good boy, I have no arms, nor skill to use them if I had," replied
the other, stepping forth upon the pathway.

"Why call me 'boy'?" cried Dick.  "Y' are not, I trow, the elder of us
twain."

"Good Master Shelton," said the other, "prithee forgive me.  I have none
the least intention to offend.  Rather I would in every way beseech your
gentleness and favour, for I am now worse bested than ever, having lost
my way, my cloak, and my poor horse.  To have a riding-rod and spurs, and
never a horse to sit upon!  And before all," he added, looking ruefully
upon his clothes--"before all, to be so sorrily besmirched!"

"Tut!" cried Dick.  "Would ye mind a ducking?  Blood of wound or dust of
travel--that's a man's adornment."

"Nay, then, I like him better plain," observed the lad.  "But, prithee,
how shall I do?  Prithee, good Master Richard, help me with your good
counsel.  If I come not safe to Holywood, I am undone."