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[Illustration:

  "HE DEALT A CRASHING BLOW AT THE RECREANT KNIGHT."

  _Frontispiece._
]




                           UNDER KING HENRY'S
                                BANNERS

                    A STORY OF THE DAYS OF AGINCOURT


                                   By
                           PERCY F. WESTERMAN

                               Author of
                   "The Winning of the Golden Spurs,"
                                  etc.

                  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN CAMPBELL


                                 LONDON
                           THE PILGRIM PRESS
                        16, PILGRIM STREET, E.C.




                    _Fair stood the wind for France
                    When we our sails advance,
                    Nor now to prove our chance
                      Longer will tarry;
                    But putting to the main
                    At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
                    With all his martial train,
                      Landed King Harry._

                    _And taking many a fort
                    Furnish'd in warlike sort
                    March'd towards Agincourt
                      In happy hour;
                    Skirmishing day by day
                    With those that stop'd his way,
                    Where the French Gen'ral lay
                      With all his power._

                  *       *       *       *       *

                      _Upon Saint Crispin's day
                      Fought was this noble fray,
                      Which fame did not delay
                        To England to carry;
                      O when shall Englishmen
                      With such acts fill a pen,
                      Or England breed again
                        Such a King Harry?_

                                            MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631.)




                                CONTENTS


    CHAP.                                                      PAGE

    I        HOW NEWS CAME TO WARBLINGTON CASTLE                  1

    II       THE RETURN OF THE "GRÂCE À DIEU"                    12

    III      HOW A FRIAR AND A LOLLARD MET ON THE HIGHWAY        20

    IV       HOW GEOFFREY LYSLE CROSSED THE CHANNEL              30

    V        HOW THE MERCHANTS TRIED CONCLUSIONS WITH LA
             BARRE                                               41

    VI       THE AFFRAY BY THE RIVER                             51

    VII      HOW GEOFFREY CAME TO TAILLEMARTEL                   61

    VIII     OF THE AMBUSH LAID BY THE MEN OF TAILLEMARTEL       71

    IX       CONCERNING GEOFFREY'S DESPERATE RESOLVE             85

    X        THE EVE OF ST. SILVESTER                            91

    XI       HOW SIR OLIVER GAINED HIS FREEDOM                  101

    XII      IN WHICH GEOFFREY IS LAID BY THE HEELS             106

    XIII     THE POSTERN FACED WITH POINTS OF STEEL             116

    XIV      HOW ARNOLD GRIPWELL WAS FREED FROM HIS BONDS       130

    XV       HOW THE THREE COMRADES SEIZED THE FISHING
             BOAT                                               143

    XVI      THE WRECK OF "L'ETOILE"                            153

    XVII     OF THE COMPANY AT THE "SIGN OF THE BUCKLE"         161

    XVIII    SQUIRE GEOFFREY                                    168

    XIX      TREASON                                            176

    XX       THE TRAITORS' DOOM                                 189

    XXI      HOW GEOFFREY FARED AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR        198

    XXII     THE MARCH OF THE FORLORN SEVEN THOUSAND            214

    XXIII    THE EVE OF AGINCOURT                               224

    XXIV     THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT                            240

    XXV      THE MASSACRE                                       254

    XXVI     AT THE CASTLE OF SIR RAOUL D'AULX                  267

    XXVII    THE SIEGE OF ROUEN                                 280

    XXVIII   THE FATE OF MALEVEREUX                             288

    XXIX     THE GOLDEN SPURS                                   303




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


   MACE IN HAND, HE DEALT A CRUSHING BLOW AT THE     _Frontispiece in
   RECREANT KNIGHT                                           Colours_

   IT DID NOT TAKE LONG FOR THE ENGLISHMEN TO
   GRASP THE SITUATION                                             48

   "THROW ME YON ROPE!" HE SHOUTED                                144

   "SIRE, WERE THERE ANY WHO DWELT IN FEAR OF
   THE ISSUE OF THE BATTLE, WOULD THEY SLEEP SO
   QUIETLY?"                                                      224

   WITH SPEAR THRUST AND SWEEP OF AXE THEY FELL
   UPON THE STORMERS                                              288

------------------------------------------------------------------------




[Illustration]




                           UNDER KING HENRY'S
                                BANNERS




                               CHAPTER I

                  HOW NEWS CAME TO WARBLINGTON CASTLE


It was shortly after dawn, on the morning of March 21, 1413, that a
grizzled man-at-arms climbed the spiral staircase in the south-west
angle of the keep of Warblington Castle.

He was dressed in a leathern suit, much soiled and frayed by the
frequent wearing of armour, while on his head was a close-fitting cap,
quilted and padded to ease the weight of a steel headpiece. He was
unarmed, save for a long knife that was counterbalanced by a horn slung
from a shoulder-strap of undressed hide.

Under his left arm he bore a flag, its folds gathered closely to his
side, as if he feared to injure the cherished fabric by contact with the
rough stone walls of the staircase; for the flag he had charge of was
the banner of the renowned knight, Sir Oliver Lysle, of the Castle of
Warblington, in the county of Southampton, and of the Château of
Taillemartel, in the Duchy of Normandy.

At the one hundred and eleventh step the man-at-arms paused, and,
raising his arm, thrust with all his might against an oaken trap-door,
sheeted on the outside with lead. With a dull thud the door was flung
backwards, and the old soldier gained the summit of the turret, which
stood ten feet above the rest of the battlemented keep.

Sheltering from the strong north-westerly breeze that whistled over the
machicolated battlements, the man-at-arms gazed steadily—not in a
landward direction, where an almost uninterrupted view extends as far as
the rolling South Downs, neither to the east, where the tall,
needle-like shaft of Chichester Cathedral spire was gradually rearing
itself heavenwards, nor to the west, where the sea and land blended in
the dreary mud banks of Langstone Harbour—but southwards, where,
partially hidden in wreaths of fleecy vapour, the almost landlocked
waters of Chichester Harbour met the open expanse of the English
Channel.

The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs caused the watcher to turn
his attention to the newcomer.

"Good morning, fair sir," he exclaimed, as a lad of about fourteen years
of age climbed actively through the trap-door.

"And to thee, Arnold Gripwell. But how goes it? Dost see aught of the
ship?"

"Nay, Master Geoffrey; this wind, which is most unseasonable for the
time o' year, hath stirred up much mist, so that the sea cannot be
clearly discerned."

"'Tis passing strange. Sir Oliver, my father, hath sent word that, God
willing, he would cross the seas from Harfleur on the eve of the Feast
of St. Perpetua. Already fourteen days are spent, and yet he cometh
not."

"The reason is not far to seek," replied Gripwell, pointing towards the
distant Portsdown Hills. "So long as this wind holdeth the ship is bound
to tarry."

"But how long, think you, will it blow thus? Thou art a man skilled in
such matters."

"Nay, I cannot forecast, fair sir. For now, when the husbandman looketh
for the east wind to break the ground, this most unwholesome air doth
hold. Mark my words, Master Geoffrey, when it turneth we shall have
another winter. But the sun is rising. I must display my lord's banner."

So saying, he bent the flag to the halyards, and soon the emblem of the
Lysles was fluttering bravely in the breeze—azure, a turbot argent,
surmounted by an estoile of the last—in other words, a silver turbot,
with a silver star above, both on a field of blue.

Geoffrey knew well the meaning of this device. The first denoted that
the Lord of Warblington was one of the coastwise guardians of the
Channel; the star was in recognition of a former Lysle's service under
Edward I, on the occasion of a desperate night attack upon the Scots.

Always ready on the first summons, the Lysles placed duty to their king
as the highest of their earthly devoirs, and it was their proud boast
that no important expedition had crossed the Channel without the head of
the Manor of Warblington in its ranks.

Like many an English knight of that period, Sir Oliver Lysle had
interests in France. Through his mother he inherited the seigneurie of
Taillemartel in Normandy.

France was in a deplorable condition. The country was torn by a fierce
strife betwixt the Orleanists—or Armagnacs, as they were oft-times
termed—and the Burgundians. Every baron and knight did as he might,
trade was paralyzed, the poor were oppressed, and from Picardy to
Provence, and from Brittany to Dauphiné, chaos prevailed.

In his own interest Sir Oliver had frequently to cross to France, for
his turbulent neighbours, coveting the fair fields surrounding the
feudal castle of Taillemartel, did not hesitate to encroach upon his
lands. Thus, much to the English knight's regret, he found himself
embroiled in the affairs of a foreign country.

"There is a boat coming up the rithe," exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing to a
small, indistinct object slowly moving against the strong tide that
ebbed through the many channels by which Chichester Harbour is
intersected.

"Methinks thou'rt right," replied the man-at-arms, shading his eyes with
his hand, for the sun had broken through the mist and its rays were
dazzling on the water. "Yea, 'tis a craft of sorts. Would my sight were
as good as in the time of the affray of Otterburn."

"'Tis but a fisherman," replied the lad, after some minutes had elapsed.
"Yet he roweth as if he bore tidings."

"Ay; I wot when first I saw him that 'twas not thy father's cog,"
replied Gripwell, unwilling to admit the inferiority of his sense of
vision, although he had recently confessed it. "But, certes, he is not
one of the men of Warblington, and since he cometh herewards methinks
his errand is no idle one," he added.

"Then let us hasten to the wharf and learn his tidings," said Geoffrey,
as he turned towards the stairway.

With the rising of the sun the portcullis had been drawn up and the
drawbridge lowered. So, passing the vigilant sentinel who kept watch and
ward at the gate of the outer bailey, the lad and his companion made
their way across the mead, past the church that, by a strange
strategical blunder, stood betwixt the castle and the sea, and at length
reached the little stone quay which, at all but the lowest tides,
permitted the approach of the largest vessels of that period.

"'Tis Wat, of Sinah," exclaimed Geoffrey, as the rower turned his head
to make sure of his sinuous course 'twixt the mud banks that were
already showing above the ebbing waters.

"How now, Wat?" quoth the man-at-arms, as the boat rubbed sides with the
landing-place, and the fisherman, well-nigh breathless with his
exertions, tossed his oars into the little craft and scrambled up a
rough wooden ladder.

"Sir Oliver!" he gasped.

"And what of him? Stand not babbling like a child. Out with it, gossip."

"The _Grâce à Dieu_ lies off the Poles yonder," continued Wat, pointing
towards the invisible sandbanks that encumbered the mouth of the
harbour. "She hath come in betimes this morning, and even now is
anchored beyond the bar."

Geoffrey gave a cry of delight at the glad news; but Gripwell was far
from satisfied.

"And why has not the cog stood in? And how goeth it with Sir Oliver?"

"The ebb maketh strongly," replied the fisherman. "'Twas only with much
ado that I gained the harbour, my craft being but light. As thou
knowest, gossip, there be none to touch her, not even at Bosham or
Emsworth. And then concerning Sir Oliver. I saw him not, neither was I
able to draw nigh to the _Grâce_. It served my purpose but to come
hither and claim the guerdon that my lady hath promised to him who
brought the news of Sir Oliver's return."

"Then get thee to the castle, Wat. As for thy craft, it must needs take
ground, since the rithe dries within an hour. But that will pass, I'll
warrant, for thy welcome will not be a hasty one."

Already Geoffrey had sped to bear the news to his mother, the Lady
Bertha, while the fisherman and the man-at-arms followed, Wat inwardly
chafing at the measured stride of the old warrior.

Sir Oliver's wife was a tall, dignified matron of forty years; stern,
almost masculine in manner, yet devoted to her husband and son. During
Sir Oliver's frequent absences the care and maintenance of the castle
were entirely in her hands, and, from the merest detail concerning the
domestic ordering of the numerous household to the weighty questions
appertaining to its defence, the Lady Bertha ruled with firmness and
discretion.

Nor was she backward in maintaining her authority. Once, and once only,
did the youthful Geoffrey take upon himself to give certain orders to
the warriors of the outer bailey.

"Geoffrey, my son," quoth his mother, "when thou dost attain the age of
sixteen it is thy father's purpose to entrust thee with the care of this
castle during his sojournings overseas. When that time cometh I shall
willingly give place to thee in the matter, but so long as my lord
thinketh fit to make me châtelaine of Warblington I, and I only, must
have the ordering o' it."

The Lady Bertha was not slow to act on hearing the good tidings that
were now brought to her. In a few minutes the castle was in a state of
bustle. The nineteen men-at-arms donned their plates and headpieces, and
stood to their arms, ready to prove to the Lord of Warblington that they
kept good watch and ward; the two score archers, putting on their
quilted coats and iron caps, in addition to their everyday dress, rushed
hither and thither, gathering evergreens, heaping piles of <DW19>s in
the centre of the courtyard, and bedecking the gateway with the arms and
pennons of bygone days. Old Giles, the cellarer, hied him to his
subterranean retreat, there to broach casks of the best vintages that
Gascony and Burgundy could produce, while the kitchen staff were busy
with two whole oxen.

Then from the adjacent church tower the bells rang out a merry peal.
Almost at the first note the toilers in the fields dropped their hoes
and unyoked the horses from the ploughs. They knew the meaning of the
peal; to them it meant, as it did on each and every occasion that Sir
Oliver returned in safety from the troublous Duchy of Normandy, that the
day was to be given up to feasting and merrymaking.

In the thatch-roofed houses of the little hamlet housewives left their
hearths, tarrying only to thrust a bough from their upper windows as a
sign of welcome, and trooped towards the castle to share with their
husbands the joys of their feudal lord's homecoming.

And now from the summit of the keep a keen-eyed sentinel espied the
bluff, black bows of the _Grâce à Dieu_, as, labouring slowly under
oars, she crept up the tedious Emsworth channel with the young
flood-tide.

The gunners, with port fires lighted and linstocks ready to hand, were
clustering round their cumbersome, iron-hooped bombards, gazing the
while towards the steadily-approaching vessel. The minstrels, with harp,
pipe, and lute, foregathered on the green within the outer bailey, while
the Lady Bertha—who, in order to show that she held the castle,
refrained from leaving the shelter of the battlements—awaited her
husband at the barbican.

Everything was ready for Sir Oliver Lysle's welcome home.

So intent upon the approach of the expected vessel were the crowds that
thronged the castle that none perceived a horseman riding from the
direction of the city of Chichester. In hot haste, he spared not spur,
and, scorning to keep to the road that led from the highway to the
castle, he urged his steed across the newly-ploughed fields, while a
bowshot in the rear a group of mounted men-at-arms followed at a more
leisurely pace.

Skirting the moat, he gained the barbican, then, drawing in his horse,
he looked, with an expression of mingled anger and surprise, upon the
preparations of welcome.

The newcomer was attired in a blue doublet, amber cloak with fur
trimmings, slashed trunks, and long pointed buskins of undressed
leather, while from elbow to wrist his arms were swathed in black cloth.
That he had ridden far and fast was evident by the exhausted state of
his steed and the numerous splashes of mud and chalk that clung
tenaciously to man and beast. By his left side he wore a long, straight
sword, with a plain cross-hilt and a black leather scabbard, while from
the right side of his belt hung a short dagger and a large leather
wallet.

Geoffrey recognized the newcomer as the seneschal of the Castle of
Arundel. Nor was he long in ignorance of the rider's errand, for, in a
loud voice, the officer exclaimed—

"To the Châtelaine of Warblington greeting; but methinks 'tis neither
time nor place for expressions of gladness."

"How so, Sir Scudamour?" asked the Lady Bertha haughtily, for she took
the seneschal's mien with disfavour.

"By this, fair dame," and, pointing to one of the men-at-arms who had
meanwhile arrived at the barbican, he called attention to a shield-like
object the soldier was bearing. It was a hatchment, or escutcheon of a
deceased noble, and the arms were those of King Henry IV—three lions
passant quartered with fleurs-de-lys.

Drawing a soiled parchment from his pouch the seneschal presented it to
the Lady Bertha with a courteous bow, then, giving a meaning look of
displeasure at the preparations for Sir Oliver's return, he wheeled his
horse and galloped away.

Slowly the châtelaine broke the seals and drew out the missive. Silence
had fallen upon the crowd. Instinctively soldier and peasant knew that
King Henry was no more.

The men-at-arms and archers doffed their steel caps, the peasants,
bareheaded and with mouths agape, crowded silently around the stately
figure of the Lady Bertha, as in a loud voice she began to read the
momentous news—

"To all to whom these present letters shall come: Whereas God hath been
pleased to call unto Himself the soul of Henry, King of England,
France——"

"An empty title," muttered a voice. Geoffrey turned; it was Gripwell who
had uttered these words. Fortunately for him the châtelaine heard him
not, and went on reading.

"——Lord of Ireland, and Suzerain of the Kingdom of Scotland, it is
hereby ordained that on the day following his most lamented decease his
worthy son, Henry, Prince of Wales, Earl of Cornwall and Carnarvon, and
Governor of Calais, be proclaimed King of England, France, Lord of
Ireland, and Suzerain of Scotland. Oyez, oyez, oyez. God save King Henry
the Fifth!"




                               CHAPTER II

                    THE RETURN OF THE _GRÂCE À DIEU_


For the nonce all thoughts of the expected arrival of Sir Oliver Lysle
were forgotten, save by the Lady Bertha and her son.

The pennons and garlands were already being removed, the minstrels
trooped silently back to the great hall, and the banner of the Lysles
was lowered to half-mast.

Yet, although all outward signs of merrymaking had disappeared, the
feast provided for the tenantry was to be partaken of on the arrival of
the _Grâce à Dieu_.

Soldiers and peasants gathered in small knots, eagerly discussing the
events that were likely to ensue consequent upon the late monarch's
decease.

"But Prince Henry was ever a young gallivant," observed Arnold Gripwell.
"I' faith, 'tis no great advancement to have seen the inside of a gaol."

"Have a care, gossip, or thine ears will suffer for it," remonstrated a
bearded master-archer. "Boys will be boys, they say. Perchance our King
has put off all his ill-deeds."

"They do say that he hath made absolute confession," said another. "I
have it on authority of a member of Sir Thomas Erpingham's household
that the Prince hath repaired to the chapel of a recluse, and, laying
bare to him the misdeeds of his whole life, hath put off the mantle of
vice, and hath returned decently adorned with the cloak of virtue."

"So be it," replied Gripwell stoutly. "The late King, though his title
to the throne were but a hollow one, was ever a soldier and a man. Give
me a man whom I can serve and follow to the wars, say I."

"Then perchance thy wish will be gratified, Arnold," remarked Sampson,
the master-bowman. "Prince Henry bore himself like a man at Homildon
fight, as thou knowest. Who knows but that ere long we shall follow him
to France to win back his own?"

"Pray Heaven it be so," returned the master-at-arms heartily. "For my
part, I'd as lief cross the narrow seas as a common soldier. Well I
remember my grandsire's tales of how the manhood of England crossed
thither in the time of the great Edward. Every mean archer, who went as
poor as a church mouse and did not lay his bones on French soil,
returned laden with rich booty. Did not my grandsire purchase the
copyhold of the farm at Nutbourne out of his ransom of a French knight?"

"But what think you, Master Sampson?" asked an archer eagerly. "Dost
think that the new King will make war?"

"He hath by far a better opportunity than Henry of Lancaster, the saints
rest his soul," replied the bowman. "That base rebel, Glendower, hath
been driven from the Welsh marches, and lies in hiding in the wilds of
that leek-ridden country. The Scots, too, are kept well in hand, so that
peace on the borders is to be depended upon. The King hath but to raise
his hand, and from the length and breadth of the realm the yeomen of
England will flock to his banner."

Sir Oliver's retainers were not far from the mark. Like the household of
many another knight, his men-at-arms and archers were tolerably well
versed in the affairs affecting the kingdom's welfare. To them war was
both a trade and the means of following an honourable profession.

Meanwhile the _Grâce à Dieu_ had gained the mouth of the little rithe
leading up to the quay, and was preparing to anchor.

Again the excitement rose, but in the midst of the hum of suppressed
anticipation an archer called attention to a significant fact: Sir
Oliver's shield was not displayed from the ship's quarter.

"Heaven forfend that he be dead," exclaimed Gripwell. "See, the Lady
Bertha hath noticed the omission."

Unable to conceal her agitation, the châtelaine, quitting the post of
honour, had crossed the drawbridge, and, accompanied by Geoffrey, was
hastening towards the wharf, a crowd of archers and men-at-arms
following at a respectful distance.

Already the small craft that belonged to the manor had put off to the
newly-arrived ship, which, for want of water, could not approach within
a bowshot of the shore.

"Where is thy master, Sir Oliver, Simeon?" asked the Lady Bertha, trying
the while to maintain her composure, as a burly, bow-legged man stepped
out of the boat and scrambled up the steps of the wharf.

Simeon Cross was the master-shipman of the _Grâce à Dieu_. For more than
two-score years had he earned his bread on the waters, being more used
to the heaving planks of a ship than to hard ground.

Awkwardly he shuffled with his feet, scarce daring to raise his eyes to
meet the stern, expectant look of the Châtelaine of Warblington.

"Answer me, rascal. Where is Sir Oliver?"

"Lady, I have ever been unshipshape with my tongue; were I to talk much
my words would trip like a scowed anchor. Ere long black would be white,
and white black, and——"

"Cease thy babbling, Simeon, and answer yea or nay. Is Sir Oliver alive
and well?"

"Lady, yea and nay. Yea, since he is still in the flesh, and nay, by
reason of——"

"The saints be praised!" ejaculated the fair questioner, reassured by
the old seaman's reply. "But stand aside, I pray you, for I perceive
that Oswald Steyning draws near. Tell me, Oswald, how comes it that thou
hast deserted thy master? Is it meet that a squire should return without
his lord?"

"Sweet lady, I had no choice in the matter," replied the squire, a
fair-haired youth of about sixteen years of age. "By the express command
of Sir Oliver and of the Lord of Malevereux I stand here this day. Sir
Oliver is alive and, I wot, in health, but, alas! a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"Ay, fair lady, of the Lord of Malevereux, otherwise known as the Tyrant
of Valadour, who sends this letter by my hand."

Drawing from his pouch a sealed packet, the squire knelt and presented
it to the châtelaine.

"From Yves, Baron of Malevereux, Lord of the High, the Middle, and the
Low, to the Lady Bertha, Châtelaine of the Castle of Warblington,
greeting:—

"Whereas, by the grace of the blessed Saint Hilary, Sir Oliver Lysle,
thy husband, hath fallen into my hands, be it known that this is my will
and pleasure: Him will I have and hold until a ransom of ten thousand
crowns be paid for the release of the said Sir Oliver. It is my request
that this sum be paid on or before the eve of the Feast of the blessed
Saint Silvester, failing which Sir Oliver must suffer death."

Twice the châtelaine read the missive, then, turning to the squire, she
asked—

"Knowest aught of this letter?"

"Nay, fair lady, though I wot 'tis of cold comfort."

"How came Sir Oliver to be taken?"

"By stealth, madame. They of Malevereux seized him as he lay abed in a
hostel on the road 'twixt Rouen and Taillemartel. Me they also took, but
the Tyrant set me free in order that I might bear tidings to
Warblington."

"And did Sir Oliver charge thee by word of mouth?"

"Yea, 'twas thus:—'Present my humblest respects to my dear lady, thy
mistress, and say that not a groat is to be paid as ransom for me.' No
more, no less."

"That I will bear in mind," replied the châtelaine resolutely.
"Meanwhile I must devise some answer to this Tyrant of Malevereux. Hast
promise of safe conduct?"

"The word of the Lord of Malevereux is but a poor bond, sweet lady. Yet,
since I have his promise, I will right willingly take the risk."

"'Tis well. Now to return to the castle. Arnold, see to the ordering of
the men-at-arms, the archers, and the tenants. Let them have their
feast, e'en though it be a sad one. Simeon, see to it that the _Grâce à
Dieu_ is warped up to the quay at high tide, and take steps to set a
goodly store of provisions on board, since to France thou must sail once
more. Now, Oswald, bear me company, for there is much on which I must
question thee."

All this time Geoffrey had been a silent yet eager listener. Already he
had grasped the main points of the situation, and, quick to act, he had
made up his mind that the time had come for the son of Sir Oliver Lysle
to prove himself worthy of the ancient and honourable name.

"Tell me all thou knowest concerning this Tyrant of Malevereux, Oswald,"
began Lady Bertha, as the châtelaine and the two lads gained the
comparative seclusion of the hall.

"He is the most puissant rogue in all Normandy, ay, in the whole of
France," replied the squire. "Though I perceive he has written in a
courteous style, worthy of a knight of Christendom, he is but a base
robber and oppressor of the poor, and a treacherous enemy to all true
gentlemen of coat armour. He hath declared that he fears neither God,
man, nor devil, yet withal he is of a craven disposition, and full of
superstitious fears."

"It is said that on one day of the year he throws open his Castle of
Malevereux to all who would fain partake of his hospitality?"

"That is so, sweet lady. On the Feast of Saint Silvester—in
commemoration of a deliverance from a great peril—the Lord of Malevereux
doth hold a joust to which all men may come, saving that they leave
their arms at the gate. Beyond that 'tis said that no man, other than
the Tyrant's retainers, hath set foot within the castle save as a
captive."

"The Feast of Saint Silvester!" exclaimed the Lady Bertha. "On that day
this base knight would fain receive ransom for Sir Oliver."

"Might I not be permitted to go to France?" asked Geoffrey, speaking for
the first time during the conversation. "I would desire to have some
small chance of advancement 'gainst this villainous baron."

"Thou'rt but a lad, Geoffrey," replied his mother. "I commend thy
courage and determination; they do thee honour, but the task is beyond
thee."

"I am almost of the same age as that most puissant knight, Edward the
Black Prince, when he fought at Crécy, and as old as our new King when
he crossed swords with Lord Percy at Otterburn," asserted Sir Oliver's
son. "Oswald hath followed my father Francewards these two years.
Therefore, saving your presence, I ought to be up and doing."

"'Tis a matter that demands careful consideration, Geoffrey, though I do
perceive that thou art not like a girl that hath to stay at home. Even
as a young hawk hath to leave the nest, a knight's son must, sooner or
later, quit the shelter of his parents' roof. But of that more anon. It
is in my mind that the good knight, Sir Thomas Carberry, who holds the
Castle of Portchester should hear of the mishap that hath befallen my
lord."

"Wouldst that I ride thither?" asked Geoffrey eagerly, for the doughty
knight was ever a favourite of the lad.

"That is my desire, Geoffrey. The day is but young, and thou canst
return ere sundown. Oswald shall bear thee company."




                              CHAPTER III

                  HOW A FRIAR AND A LOLLARD MET ON THE
                                HIGHWAY


In a few moments the lads had donned their cloaks, girded on their
swords—since none of quality ever ventured upon the highway save with a
weapon ready to hand—and given orders