the king and his attendants had shaken off the crowd who had followed them from guildford along the pilgrims' way and now, the mounted archers having beaten off the more persistent of the spectators, they rode at their ease in a long, straggling, glittering train over the dark undulating plain of heather.
in the van was the king himself, for his hawks were with him and he had some hope of sport. edward at that time was a well-grown, vigorous man in the very prime of his years, a keen sportsman, an ardent gallant and a chivalrous soldier. he was a scholar too, speaking latin, french, german, spanish, and even a little english.
so much had long been patent to the world, but only of recent years had he shown other and more formidable characteristics: a restless ambition which coveted his neighbor's throne, and a wise foresight in matters of commerce, which engaged him now in transplanting flemish weavers and sowing the seeds of what for many years was the staple trade of england. each of these varied qualities might have been read upon his face. the brow, shaded by a crimson cap of maintenance, was broad and lofty. the large brown eyes were ardent and bold. his chin was clean-shaven, and the close-cropped dark mustache did not conceal the strong mouth, firm, proud and kindly, but capable of setting tight in merciless ferocity. his complexion was tanned to copper by a life spent in field sports or in war, and he rode his magnificent black horse carelessly and easily, as one who has grown up in the saddle. his own color was black also, for his active; sinewy figure was set off by close-fitting velvet of that hue, broken only by a belt of gold, and by a golden border of open pods of the broom-plant.
with his high and noble bearing, his simple yet rich attire and his splendid mount, he looked every inch a king.
the picture of gallant man on gallant horse was completed by the noble falcon of the isles which fluttered along some twelve feet above his head, “waiting on,” as it was termed, for any quarry which might arise. the second bird of the cast was borne upon the gauntleted wrist of raoul the chief falconer in the rear.
at the right side of the monarch and a little behind him rode a youth some twenty years of age, tall, slim and dark, with noble aquiline features and keen penetrating eyes which sparkled with vivacity and affection as he answered the remarks of the king. he was clad in deep crimson diapered with gold, and the trappings of his white palfrey were of a magnificence which proclaimed the rank of its rider. on his face, still free from mustache or beard, there sat a certain gravity and majesty of expression which showed that young as he was great affairs had been in his keeping and that his thoughts and interests were those of the statesman and the warrior. that great day when, little more than a school-boy, he had led the van of the victorious army which had crushed the power of france and crecy, had left this stamp upon his features; but stern as they were they had not assumed that tinge of fierceness which in after years was to make “the black prince” a name of terror on the marches of france. not yet had the first shadow of fell disease come to poison his nature ere it struck at his life, as he rode that spring day, light and debonair, upon the heath of crooksbury.
on the left of the king, and so near to him that great intimacy was implied, rode a man about his own age, with the broad face, the projecting jaw and the flattish nose which are often the outward indications of a pugnacious nature.
his complexion was crimson, his large blue eyes somewhat prominent, and his whole appearance full-blooded and choleric. he was short, but massively built, and evidently possessed of immense strength. his voice, however, when he spoke was gentle and lisping, while his manner was quiet and courteous. unlike the king or the prince, he was clad in light armor and carried a sword by his side and a mace at his saddle-bow, for he was acting as captain of the king's guard, and a dozen other knights in steel followed in the escort. no hardier soldier could edward have at his side, if, as was always possible in those lawless times, sudden danger was to threaten, for this was the famous knight of hainault, now naturalized as an englishman, sir walter manny, who bore as high a reputation for chivalrous valor and for gallant temerity as chandos himself.
behind the knights, who were forbidden to scatter and must always follow the king's person, there was a body of twenty or thirty hobblers or mounted bowmen, together with several squires, unarmed themselves but leading spare horses upon which the heavier part of their knights' equipment was carried. a straggling tail of falconers, harbingers, varlets, body-servants and huntsmen holding hounds in leash completed the long and many-colored train which rose and dipped on the low undulations of the moor.
many weighty things were on the mind of edward the king. there was truce for the moment with france, but it was a truce broken by many small deeds of arms, raids, surprises and ambushes upon either side, and it was certain that it would soon dissolve again into open war. money must be raised, and it was no light matter to raise it, now that the commons had once already voted the tenth lamb and the tenth sheaf. besides, the black death had ruined the country, the arable land was all turned to pasture, the laborer, laughing at statutes, would not work under fourpence a day, and all society was chaos. in addition, the scotch were growling over the border, there was the perennial trouble in half-conquered ireland, and his allies abroad in flanders and in brabant were clamoring for the arrears of their subsidies.
all this was enough to make even a victorious monarch full of care; but now edward had thrown it all to the winds and was as light-hearted as a boy upon a holiday. no thought had he for the dunning of florentine bankers or the vexatious conditions of those busybodies at westminster. he was out with his hawks, and his thoughts and his talk should be of nothing else. the varlets beat the heather and bushes as they passed, and whooped loudly as the birds flew out.
“a magpie! a magpie!” cried the falconer.
“nay, nay, it is not worthy of your talons, my brown-eyed queen,” said the king, looking up at the great bird which flapped from side to side above his head, waiting for the whistle which should give her the signal. “the tercels, falconer—a cast of tercels! quick, man, quick! ha! the rascal makes for wood! he puts in! well flown, brave peregrine! he makes his point. drive him out to thy comrade. serve him, varlets! beat the bushes! he breaks! he breaks! nay, come away then! you will see master magpie no more.”
the bird had indeed, with the cunning of its race, flapped its way through brushwood and bushes to the thicker woods beyond, so that neither the hawk amid the cover nor its partner above nor the clamorous beaters could harm it. the king laughed at the mischance and rode on. continually birds of various sorts were flushed, and each was pursued by the appropriate hawk, the snipe by the tercel, the partridge by the goshawk, even the lark by the little merlin. but the king soon tired of this petty sport and went slowly on his way, still with the magnificent silent attendant flapping above his head.
“is she not a noble bird, fair son?” he asked, glancing up as her shadow fell upon him.
“she is indeed, sire. surely no finer ever came from the isles of the north.”
“perhaps not, and yet i have had a hawk from barbary as good a footer and a swifter flyer. an eastern bird in yarak has no peer.”
“i had one once from the holy land,” said de manny. “it was fierce and keen and swift as the saracens themselves. they say of old saladin that in his day his breed of birds, of hounds and of horses had no equal on earth.”
“i trust, dear father, that the day may come when we shall lay our hands on all three,” said the prince, looking with shining eyes upon the king. “is the holy land to lie forever in the grasp of these unbelieving savages, or the holy temple to be defiled by their foul presence? ah! my dear and most sweet lord, give to me a thousand lances with ten thousand bowmen like those i led at crecy, and i swear to you by god's soul that within a year i will have done homage to you for the kingdom of jerusalem!”
the king laughed as he turned to walter manny. “boys will still be boys,” said he.
“the french do not count me such!” cried the young prince, flushing with anger.
“nay, fair son, there is no one sets you at a higher rate than your father. but you have the nimble mind and quick fancy of youth, turning over from the thing that is half done to a further task beyond. how would we fare in brittany and normandy while my young paladin with his lances and his bowmen was besieging ascalon or battering at jerusalem?”
“heaven would help in heaven's work.”
“from what i have heard of the past,” said the king dryly, “i cannot see that heaven has counted for much as an ally in these wars of the east. i speak with reverence, and yet it is but sooth to say that richard of the lion heart or louis of france might have found the smallest earthly principality of greater service to him than all the celestial hosts. how say you to that, my lord bishop?”
a stout churchman who had ridden behind the king on a solid bay cob, well-suited to his weight and dignity, jogged up to the monarch's elbow. “how say you, sire? i was watching the goshawk on the partridge and heard you not.”
“had i said that i would add two manors to the see of chichester, i warrant that you would have heard me, my lord bishop.”
“nay, fair lord, test the matter by saying so,” cried the jovial bishop.
the king laughed aloud. “a fair counter, your reverence. by the rood! you broke your lance that passage. but the question i debated was this: how is it that since the crusades have manifestly been fought in god's quarrel, we christians have had so little comfort or support in fighting them. after all our efforts and the loss of more men than could be counted, we are at last driven from the country, and even the military orders which were formed only for that one purpose can scarce hold a footing in the islands of the greek sea. there is not one seaport nor one fortress in palestine over which the flag of the cross still waves. where then was our ally?”
“nay, sire, you open a great debate which extends far beyond this question of the holy land, though that may indeed be chosen as a fair example. it is the question of all sin, of all suffering, of all injustice—why it should pass without the rain of fire and the lightnings of sinai. the wisdom of god is beyond our understanding.”
the king shrugged his shoulders. “this is an easy answer, my lord bishop. you are a prince of the church. it would fare ill with an earthly prince who could give no better answer to the affairs which concerned his realm.”
“there are other considerations which might be urged, most gracious sire. it is true that the crusades were a holy enterprise which might well expect the immediate blessing of god; but the crusaders—is it certain that they deserved such a blessing? have i not heard that their camp was the most dissolute ever seen?”
“camps are camps all the world over, and you cannot in a moment change a bowman into a saint. but the holy louis was a crusader after your own heart. yet his men perished at mansurah and he himself at tunis.”
“bethink you also that this world is but the antechamber of the next,” said the prelate. “by suffering and tribulation the soul is cleansed, and the true victor may be he who by the patient endurance of misfortune merits the happiness to come.”
“if that be the true meaning of the church's blessing, then i hope that it will be long before it rests upon our banners in france,” said the king. “but methinks that when one is out with a brave horse and a good hawk one might find some other subject than theology. back to the birds, bishop, or raoul the falconer will come to interrupt thee in thy cathedral.”
straightway the conversation came back to the mystery of the woods and the mystery of the rivers, to the dark-eyed hawks and the yellow-eyed, to hawks of the lure and hawks of the fist. the bishop was as steeped in the lore of falconry as the king, and the others smiled as the two wrangled hard over disputed and technical questions: if an eyas trained in the mews can ever emulate the passage hawk taken wild, or how long the young hawks should be placed at hack, and how long weathered before they are fully reclaimed.
monarch and prelate were still deep in this learned discussion, the bishop speaking with a freedom and assurance which he would never have dared to use in affairs of church and state, for in all ages there is no such leveler as sport. suddenly, however, the prince, whose keen eyes had swept from time to time over the great blue heaven, uttered a peculiar call and reined up his palfrey, pointing at the same time into the air.
“a heron!” he cried. “a heron on passage!”
to gain the full sport of hawking a heron must not be put up from its feeding-ground, where it is heavy with its meal, and has no time to get its pace on before it is pounced upon by the more active hawk, but it must be aloft, traveling from point to point, probably from the fish-stream to the heronry. thus to catch the bird on passage was the prelude of all good sport. the object to which the prince had pointed was but a black dot in the southern sky, but his strained eyes had not deceived him, and both bishop and king agreed that it was indeed a heron, which grew larger every instant as it flew in their direction.
“whistle him off, sire! whistle off the gerfalcon!” cried the bishop.
“nay, nay, he is overfar. she would fly at check.”
“now, sire, now!” cried the prince, as the great bird with the breeze behind him came sweeping down the sky.
the king gave the shrill whistle, and the well-trained hawk raked out to the right and to the left to make sure which quarry she was to follow. then, spying the heron, she shot up in a swift ascending curve to meet him.
“well flown, margot! good bird!” cried the king, clapping his hands to encourage the hawk, while the falconers broke into the shrill whoop peculiar to the sport.
going on her curve, the hawk would soon have crossed the path of the heron; but the latter, seeing the danger in his front and confident in his own great strength of wing and lightness of body, proceeded to mount higher in the air, flying in such small rings that to the spectators it almost seemed as if the bird was going perpendicularly upward.
“he takes the air!” cried the king. “but strong as he flies, he cannot out fly margot. bishop, i lay you ten gold pieces to one that the heron is mine.”
“i cover your wager, sire,” said the bishop. “i may not take gold so won, and yet i warrant that there is an altar-cloth somewhere in need of repairs.”
“you have good store of altar-cloths, bishop, if all the gold i have seen you win at tables goes to the mending of them,” said the king. “ah! by the rood, rascal, rascal! see how she flies at check!”
the quick eyes of the bishop had perceived a drift of rooks when on their evening flight to the rookery were passing along the very line which divided the hawk from the heron. a rook is a hard temptation for a hawk to resist. in an instant the inconstant bird had forgotten all about the great heron above her and was circling over the rooks, flying westward with them as she singled out the plumpest for her stoop.
“there is yet time, sire! shall i cast off her mate?” cried the falconer.
“or shall i show you, sire, how a peregrine may win where a gerfalcon fails?” said the bishop. “ten golden pieces to one upon my bird.”
“done with you, bishop!” cried the king, his brow dark with vexation. “by the rood! if you were as learned in the fathers as you are in hawks you would win to the throne of saint peter! cast off your peregrine and make your boasting good.”
smaller than the royal gerfalcon, the bishop's bird was none the less a swift and beautiful creature. from her perch upon his wrist she had watched with fierce, keen eyes the birds in the heaven, mantling herself from time to time in her eagerness. now when the button was undone and the leash uncast the peregrine dashed off with a whir of her sharp-pointed wings, whizzing round in a great ascending circle which mounted swiftly upward, growing ever smaller as she approached that lofty point where, a mere speck in the sky, the heron sought escape from its enemies. still higher and higher the two birds mounted, while the horsemen, their faces upturned, strained their eyes in their efforts to follow them.
“she rings! she still rings!” cried the bishop. “she is above him! she has gained her pitch.”
“nay, nay, she is far below,” said the king.
“by my soul, my lord bishop is right!” cried the prince. “i believe she is above. see! see! she swoops!”
“she binds! she binds!” cried a dozen voices as the two dots blended suddenly into one.
there could be no doubt that they were falling rapidly. already they grew larger to the eye. presently the heron disengaged himself and flapped heavily away, the worse for that deadly embrace, while the peregrine, shaking her plumage, ringed once more so as to get high above the quarry and deal it a second and more fatal blow. the bishop smiled, for nothing, as it seemed, could hinder his victory.
“thy gold pieces shall be well spent, sire,” said he. “what is lost to the church is gained by the loser.”
but a most unlooked-for chance deprived the bishop's altar cloth of its costly mending. the king's gerfalcon having struck down a rook, and finding the sport but tame, bethought herself suddenly of that noble heron, which she still perceived fluttering over crooksbury heath. how could she have been so weak as to allow these silly, chattering rooks to entice her away from that lordly bird? even now it was not too late to atone for her mistake. in a great spiral she shot upward until she was over the heron. but what was this? every fiber of her, from her crest to her deck feathers, quivered with jealousy and rage at the sight of this creature, a mere peregrine, who had dared to come between a royal gerfalcon and her quarry. with one sweep of her great wings she shot up until she was above her rival. the next instant—
“they crab! they crab!” cried the king, with a roar of laughter, following them with his eyes as they bustled down through the air. “mend thy own altar-cloths, bishop. not a groat shall you have from me this journey. pull them apart, falconer, lest they do each other an injury. and now, masters, let us on, for the sun sinks toward the west.”
the two hawks, which had come to the ground interlocked with clutching talons and ruffled plumes, were torn apart and brought back bleeding and panting to their perches, while the heron after its perilous adventure flapped its way heavily onward to settle safely in the heronry of waverley. the cortege, who had scattered in the excitement of the chase, came together again, and the journey was once more resumed.
a horseman who had been riding toward them across the moor now quickened his pace and closed swiftly upon them. as he came nearer, the king and the prince cried out joyously and waved their hands in greeting.
“it is good john chandos!!” cried the king. “by the rood, john, i have missed your merry songs this week or more! glad i am to see that you have your citole slung to your back. whence come you then?”
“i come from tilford, sire, in the hope that i should meet your majesty.”
“it was well thought of. come, ride here between the prince and me, and we will believe that we are back in france with our war harness on our backs once more. what is your news, master john?”
chandos' quaint face quivered with suppressed amusement and his one eye twinkled like a star. “have you had sport, my liege?”
“poor sport, john. we flew two hawks on the same heron. they crabbed, and the bird got free. but why do you smile so?”
“because i hope to show you better sport ere you come to tilford.”
“for the hawk? for the hound?”
“a nobler sport than either.”
“is this a riddle, john? what mean you?”
“nay, to tell all would be to spoil all. i say again that there is rare sport betwixt here and tilford, and i beg you, dear lord, to mend your pace that we make the most of the daylight.”
thus adjured, the king set spurs to his horse, and the whole cavalcade cantered over the heath in the direction which chandos showed. presently as they came over a slope they saw beneath them a winding river with an old high-backed bridge across it. on the farther side was a village green with a fringe of cottages and one dark manor house upon the side of the hill.
“this is tilford,” said chandos. “yonder is the house of the lorings.”
the king's expectations had been aroused and his face showed his disappointment.
“is this the sport that you have promised us, sir john? how can you make good your words?”
“i will make them good, my liege.”
“where then is the sport?”
on the high crown of the bridge a rider in armor was seated, lance in hand, upon a great yellow steed. chandos touched the king's arm and pointed. “that is the sport,” said he.
