Sir Walter Scott - "Waverley, Volume II"

Saint Augustine - "The Confessions of Saint Augustine"

Maturin Murray - "The Sea Witch"

E. M. Forster - "Where Angels Fear to Tread"

The White Company

A >> Arthur Conan Doyle >> The White Company




There were folk, too, to be met upon the road--beggars and
couriers, chapmen and tinkers--cheery fellows for the most part,
with a rough jest and homely greeting for each other and for
Alleyne. Near Shotwood he came upon five seamen, on their way
from Poole to Southampton--rude red-faced men, who shouted at him
in a jargon which he could scarce understand, and held out to him
a great pot from which they had been drinking--nor would they let
him pass until he had dipped pannikin in and taken a mouthful,
which set him coughing and choking, with the tears running down
his cheeks. Further on he met a sturdy black-bearded man,
mounted on a brown horse, with a rosary in his right hand and a
long two-handed sword jangling against his stirrup-iron. By his
black robe and the eight-pointed cross upon his sleeve, Alleyne
recognized him as one of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of
Jerusalem, whose presbytery was at Baddesley. He held up two
fingers as he passed, with a "_Benedic, fili mi!_" whereat
Alleyne doffed hat and bent knee, looking with much reverence at
one who had devoted his life to the overthrow of the infidel.
Poor simple lad! he had not learned yet that what men are and
what men profess to be are very wide asunder, and that the
Knights of St. John, having come into large part of the riches of
the ill-fated Templars, were very much too comfortable to think
of exchanging their palace for a tent, or the cellars of England
for the thirsty deserts of Syria. Yet ignorance may be more
precious than wisdom, for Alleyne as he walked on braced himself
to a higher life by the thought of this other's sacrifice, and
strengthened himself by his example which he could scarce have
done had he known that the Hospitaller's mind ran more upon
malmsey than on Mamelukes, and on venison rather than victories.

As he pressed on the plain turned to woods once more in the
region of Wilverley Walk, and a cloud swept up from the south
with the sun shining through the chinks of it. A few great drops
came pattering loudly down, and then in a moment the steady swish
of a brisk shower, with the dripping and dropping of the leaves.
Alleyne, glancing round for shelter, saw a thick and lofty
holly-bush, so hollowed out beneath that no house could have been
drier. Under this canopy of green two men were already squatted,
who waved their hands to Alleyne that he should join them. As he
approached he saw that they had five dried herrings laid out in
front of them, with a great hunch of wheaten bread and a leathern
flask full of milk, but instead of setting to at their food they
appeared to have forgot all about it, and were disputing together
with flushed faces and angry gestures. It was easy to see by
their dress and manner that they were two of those wandering
students who formed about this time so enormous a multitude in
every country in Europe. The one was long and thin, with
melancholy features, while the other was fat and sleek, with a
loud voice and the air of a man who is not to be gainsaid.

"Come hither, good youth," he cried, "come hither! _Vultus
ingenui puer_. Heed not the face of my good coz here. _Foenum
habet in cornu_, as Dan Horace has it; but I warrant him harmless
for all that."

"Stint your bull's bellowing!" exclaimed the other. "If it come
to Horace, I have a line in my mind: _Loquaces si sapiat_---- How
doth it run? The English o't being that a man of sense should
ever avoid a great talker. That being so, if all were men of
sense then thou wouldst be a lonesome man, coz."

"Alas! Dicon, I fear that your logic is as bad as your
philosophy or your divinity--and God wot it would be hard to say
a worse word than that for it. For, hark ye: granting, _propter
argumentum_, that I am a talker, then the true reasoning runs that
since all men of sense should avoid me, and thou hast not avoided
me, but art at the present moment eating herrings with me under a
holly-bush, ergo you are no man of sense, which is exactly what I
have been dinning into your long ears ever since I first clapped
eyes on your sunken chops."

"Tut, tut!" cried the other. "Your tongue goes like the clapper
of a mill-wheel. Sit down here, friend, and partake of this
herring. Understand first, however, that there are certain
conditions attached to it."

"I had hoped," said Alleyne, falling into the humor of the twain,
"that a tranchoir of bread and a draught of milk might be
attached to it."

"Hark to him, hark to him!" cried the little fat man. "It is
even thus, Dicon! Wit, lad, is a catching thing, like the itch
or the sweating sickness. I exude it round me; it is an aura. I
tell you, coz, that no man can come within seventeen feet of me
without catching a spark. Look at your own case. A duller man
never stepped, and yet within the week you have said three things
which might pass, and one thing the day we left Fordingbridge
which I should not have been ashamed of myself."

"Enough, rattle-pate, enough!" said the other. "The milk you
shall have and the bread also, friend, together with the herring,
but you must hold the scales between us."

"If he hold the herring he holds the scales, my sapient brother,"
cried the fat man. "But I pray you, good youth, to tell us
whether you are a learned clerk, and, if so, whether you have
studied at Oxenford or at Paris."

"I have some small stock of learning," Alleyne answered, picking
at his herring, "but I have been at neither of these places. I
was bred amongst the Cistercian monks at Beaulieu Abbey."

"Pooh, pooh!" they cried both together. "What sort of an
upbringing is that?"

"_Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum_," quoth Alleyne.

"Come, brother Stephen, he hath some tincture of letters," said
the melancholy man more hopefully. "He may be the better judge,
since he hath no call to side with either of us. Now, attention,
friend, and let your ears work as well as your nether jaw. _Judex
damnatur_--you know the old saw. Here am I upholding the good
fame of the learned Duns Scotus against the foolish quibblings
and poor silly reasonings of Willie Ockham."

"While I," quoth the other loudly, "do maintain the good sense
and extraordinary wisdom of that most learned William against the
crack-brained fantasies of the muddy Scotchman, who hath hid such
little wit as he has under so vast a pile of words, that it is
like one drop of Gascony in a firkin of ditch-water. Solomon his
wisdom would not suffice to say what the rogue means."

"Certes, Stephen Hapgood, his wisdom doth not suffice," cried the
other. "It is as though a mole cried out against the morning
star, because he could not see it. But our dispute, friend, is
concerning the nature of that subtle essence which we call
thought. For I hold with the learned Scotus that thought is in
very truth a thing, even as vapor or fumes, or many other
substances which our gross bodily eyes are blind to. For, look
you, that which produces a thing must be itself a thing, and if a
man's thought may produce a written book, then must thought
itself be a material thing, even as the book is. Have I
expressed it? Do I make it plain?"

"Whereas I hold," shouted the other, "with my revered preceptor,
_doctor, praeclarus et excellentissimus_, that all things are but
thought; for when thought is gone I prythee where are the things
then? Here are trees about us, and I see them because I think I
see them, but if I have swooned, or sleep, or am in wine, then,
my thought having gone forth from me, lo the trees go forth also.
How now, coz, have I touched thee on the raw?"

Alleyne sat between them munching his bread, while the twain
disputed across his knees, leaning forward with flushed faces and
darting hands, in all the heat of argument. Never had he heard
such jargon of scholastic philosophy, such fine-drawn
distinctions, such cross-fire of major and minor, proposition,
syllogism, attack and refutation. Question clattered upon answer
like a sword on a buckler. The ancients, the fathers of the
Church, the moderns, the Scriptures, the Arabians, were each sent
hurtling against the other, while the rain still dripped and the
dark holly-leaves glistened with the moisture. At last the fat
man seemed to weary of it, for he set to work quietly upon his
meal, while his opponent, as proud as the rooster who is left
unchallenged upon the midden, crowed away in a last long burst of
quotation and deduction. Suddenly, however, his eyes dropped
upon his food, and he gave a howl of dismay.

"You double thief!" he cried, "you have eaten my herrings, and I
without bite or sup since morning."

"That," quoth the other complacently, "was my final argument, my
crowning effort, or _peroratio_, as the orators have it. For, coz,
since all thoughts are things, you have but to think a pair of
herrings, and then conjure up a pottle of milk wherewith to wash
them down."

"A brave piece of reasoning," cried the other, "and I know of but
one reply to it." On which, leaning forward, he caught his
comrade a rousing smack across his rosy cheek. "Nay, take it not
amiss," he said, "since all things are but thoughts, then that
also is but a thought and may be disregarded."

This last argument, however, by no means commended itself to the
pupil of Ockham, who plucked a great stick from the ground and
signified his dissent by smiting the realist over the pate with
it. By good fortune, the wood was so light and rotten that it
went to a thousand splinters, but Alleyne thought it best to
leave the twain to settle the matter at their leisure, the more
so as the sun was shining brightly once more. Looking back down
the pool-strewn road, he saw the two excited philosophers waving
their hands and shouting at each other, but their babble soon
became a mere drone in the distance, and a turn in the road hid
them from his sight.

And now after passing Holmesley Walk and the Wooton Heath, the
forest began to shred out into scattered belts of trees, with
gleam of corn-field and stretch of pasture-land between. Here
and there by the wayside stood little knots of wattle-and-daub
huts with shock-haired laborers lounging by the doors and
red-cheeked children sprawling in the roadway. Back among the
groves he could see the high gable ends and thatched roofs of the
franklins' houses, on whose fields these men found employment, or
more often a thick dark column of smoke marked their position and
hinted at the coarse plenty within. By these signs Alleyne knew
that he was on the very fringe of the forest, and therefore no
great way from Christchurch. The sun was lying low in the west
and shooting its level rays across the long sweep of rich green
country, glinting on the white-fleeced sheep and throwing long
shadows from the red kine who waded knee-deep in the juicy
clover. Right glad was the traveller to see the high tower of
Christchurch Priory gleaming in the mellow evening light, and
gladder still when, on rounding a corner, he came upon his
comrades of the morning seated astraddle upon a fallen tree.
They had a flat space before them, on which they alternately
threw little square pieces of bone, and were so intent upon
their occupation that they never raised eye as he approached
them. He observed with astonishment, as he drew near, that the
archer's bow was on John's back, the archer's sword by John's
side, and the steel cap laid upon the tree-trunk between them.

"Mort de ma vie!" Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice.
"Never had I such cursed luck. A murrain on the bones! I have
not thrown a good main since I left Navarre. A one and a three!
En avant, camarade!"

"Four and three," cried Hordle John, counting on his great
fingers, "that makes seven. Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now
have at thee for thy jerkin!"

"Mon Dieu!" he growled, "I am like to reach Christchurch in my
shirt." Then suddenly glancing up, "Hola, by the splendor of
heaven, here is our cher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones!
this is a rare sight to mine eyes." He sprang up and threw his
arms round Alleyne's neck, while John, no less pleased, but more
backward and Saxon in his habits, stood grinning and bobbing by
the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck wrong side
foremost upon his tangle of red hair.

"Hast come to stop?" cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over
in his delight. "Shall not get away from us again!"

"I wish no better," said he, with a pringling in the eyes at this
hearty greeting.

"Well said, lad!" cried big John. "We three shall to the wars
together, and the devil may fly away with the Abbot of Beaulieu!
But your feet and hosen are all besmudged. Hast been in the
water, or I am the more mistaken."

"I have in good sooth," Alleyne answered, and then as they
journeyed on their way he told them the many things that had
befallen him, his meeting with the villein, his sight of the
king, his coming upon his brother, with all the tale of the black
welcome and of the fair damsel. They strode on either side, each
with an ear slanting towards him, but ere he had come to the end
of his story the bowman had spun round upon his heel, and was
hastening back the way they had come, breathing loudly through
his nose.

"What then?" asked Alleyne, trotting after him and gripping at
his jerkin.

"I am back for Minstead, lad."

"And why, in the name of sense?"

"To thrust a handful of steel into the Socman. What! hale a
demoiselle against her will, and then loose dogs at his own
brother! Let me go!"

"Nenny, nenny!" cried Alleyne, laughing. "There was no scath
done. Come back, friend"--and so, by mingled pushing and
entreaties, they got his head round for Christchurch once more.
Yet he walked with his chin upon his shoulder, until, catching
sight of a maiden by a wayside well, the smiles came back to his
face and peace to his heart.

"But you," said Alleyne, "there have been changes with you also.
Why should not the workman carry his tools? Where are bow and
sword and cap--and why so warlike, John?"

"It is a game which friend Aylward hath been a-teaching of me."

"And I found him an over-apt pupil," grumbled the bowman. "He
hath stripped me as though I had fallen into the hands of the
tardvenus. But, by my hilt! you must render them back to me,
camarade, lest you bring discredit upon my mission, and I will
pay you for them at armorers' prices."

"Take them back, man, and never heed the pay," said John. "I did
but wish to learn the feel of them, since I am like to have such
trinkets hung to my own girdle for some years to come."

"Ma foi, he was born for a free companion!" cried Aylward, "He hath
the very trick of speech and turn of thought. I take them back
then, and indeed it gives me unease not to feel my yew-stave
tapping against my leg bone. But see, mes garcons, on this side
of the church rises the square and darkling tower of Earl
Salisbury's castle, and even from here I seem to see on yonder
banner the red roebuck of the Montacutes."

"Red upon white," said Alleyne, shading his eyes; "but whether
roebuck or no is more than I could vouch. How black is the great
tower, and how bright the gleam of arms upon the wall! See below
the flag, how it twinkles like a star!"

"Aye, it is the steel head-piece of the watchman," remarked the
archer. "But we must on, if we are to be there before the
drawbridge rises at the vespers bugle; for it is likely that sir
Nigel, being so renowned a soldier, may keep hard discipline
within the walls, and let no man enter after sundown." So
saying, he quickened his pace, and the three comrades were soon
close to the straggling and broad-spread town which centered
round the noble church and the frowning castle.

It chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having
supped before sunset, as was his custom, and having himself
seen that Pommers and Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the
thirteen hacks, the five jennets, my lady's three palfreys, and
the great dapple-gray roussin, had all their needs supplied, had
taken his dogs for an evening breather. Sixty or seventy of
them, large and small, smooth and shaggy--deer-hound, boar-hound,
blood-hound, wolf-hound, mastiff, alaun, talbot, lurcher,
terrier, spaniel--snapping, yelling and whining, with score of
lolling tongues and waving tails, came surging down the narrow
lane which leads from the Twynham kennels to the bank of Avon.
Two russet-clad varlets, with loud halloo and cracking whips,
walked thigh-deep amid the swarm, guiding, controlling, and
urging. Behind came Sir Nigel himself, with Lady Loring upon his
arm, the pair walking slowly and sedately, as befitted both their
age and their condition, while they watched with a smile in their
eyes the scrambling crowd in front of them. They paused,
however, at the bridge, and, leaning their elbows upon the
stonework, they stood looking down at their own faces in the
glassy stream, and at the swift flash of speckled trout against
the tawny gravel.

Sir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping
voice and gentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no
very tall woman, had the better of him by the breadth of three
fingers. His sight having been injured in his early wars by a
basketful of lime which had been emptied over him when he led the
Earl of Derby's stormers up the breach at Bergerac, he had
contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking, peering
expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant
practice of arms. together with a cleanly life, had preserved
his activity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he
seemed to have the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. His
face, however, was tanned of a dull yellow tint, with a leathery,
poreless look, which spoke of rough outdoor doings, and the
little pointed beard which he wore, in deference to the
prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with gray. His
features were small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut,
curving nose, and eyes which jutted forward from the lids. His
dress was simple and yet spruce. A Flandrish hat of beevor,
bearing in the band the token of Our Lady of Embrun, was drawn
low upon the left side to hide that ear which had been partly
shorn from his head by a Flemish man-at-arms in a camp broil
before Tournay. His cote-hardie, or tunic, and trunk-hosen were
of a purple plum color, with long weepers which hung from either
sleeve to below his knees. His shoes were of red leather,
daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet prolonged to the
extravagant lengths which the succeeding reign was to bring into
fashion. A gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his
loins, with his arms, five roses gules on a field argent,
cunningly worked upon the clasp. So stood Sir Nigel Loring upon
the bridge of Avon, and talked lightly with his lady.

And, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the
stranger been asked which were the more likely to belong to the
bold warrior whose name was loved by the roughest soldiery of
Europe, he had assuredly selected the lady's. Her face was large
and square and red, with fierce, thick brows, and the eyes of one
who was accustomed to rule. Taller and broader than her husband,
her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined tippet, could not
conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her figure. It was
the age of martial women. The deeds of black Agnes of Dunbar, of
Lady Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still fresh
in the public minds. With such examples before them the wives of
the English captains had become as warlike as their mates, and
ordered their castles in their absence with the prudence and
discipline of veteran seneschals. Right easy were the Montacutes
of their Castle of Twynham, and little had they to dread from
roving galley or French squadron, while Lady Mary Loring had the
ordering of it. Yet even in that age it was thought that, though
a lady might have a soldier's heart, it was scarce as well that
she should have a soldier's face. There were men who said that
of all the stern passages and daring deeds by which Sir Nigel
Loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not the least
was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame.

"I tell you, my fair lord," she was saying, "that it is no fit
training for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles
singing a French rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de
Mayence, as I found her yesternight, pretending sleep, the
artful, with the corner of the scroll thrusting forth from under
her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of the priory,
forsooth--that is ever her answer. How shall all this help her
when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all
agape for beef and beer?"

"True, my sweet bird, true," answered the knight, picking a
comfit from his gold drageoir. "The maid is like the young
filly, which kicks heels and plunges for very lust of life. Give
her time, dame, give her time."

"Well, I know that my father would have given me, not time, but a
good hazel-stick across my shoulders. Ma foi! I know not what
the world is coming to, when young maids may flout their elders.
I wonder that you do not correct her, my fair lord."

"Nay, my heart's comfort, I never raised hand to woman yet, and
it would be a passing strange thing if I began on my own flesh
and blood. It was a woman's hand which cast this lime into mine
eyes, and though I saw her stoop, and might well have stopped her
ere she threw, I deemed it unworthy of my knighthood to hinder or
balk one of her sex."

"The hussy!" cried Lady Loring clenching her broad right hand.
"I would I had been at the side of her!"

"And so would I, since you would have been the nearer me my own.
But I doubt not that you are right, and that Maude's wings need
clipping, which I may leave in your hands when I am gone, for, in
sooth, this peaceful life is not for me, and were it not for your
gracious kindness and loving care I could not abide it a week. I
hear that there is talk of warlike muster at Bordeaux once more,
and by St. Paul! it would be a new thing if the lions of England
and the red pile of Chandos were to be seen in the field, and the
roses of Loring were not waving by their side."

"Now woe worth me but I feared it!" cried she, with the color all
struck from her face. "I have noted your absent mind, your
kindling eye, your trying and riveting of old harness. Consider
my sweet lord, that you have already won much honor, that we have
seen but little of each other, that you bear upon your body the
scar of over twenty wounds received in I know not how many bloody
encounters. Have you not done enough for honor and the public
cause?"

"My lady, when our liege lord, the king, at three score years,
and my Lord Chandos at three-score and ten, are blithe and ready
to lay lance in rest for England's cause, it would ill be-seem me
to prate of service done. It is sooth that I have received seven
and twenty wounds. There is the more reason that I should be
thankful that I am still long of breath and sound in limb. I
have also seen some bickering and scuffling. Six great land
battles I count, with four upon sea, and seven and fifty onfalls,
skirmishes and bushments. I have held two and twenty towns, and
I have been at the intaking of thirty-one. Surely then it would
be bitter shame to me, and also to you, since my fame is yours,
that I should now hold back if a man's work is to be done.
Besides, bethink you how low is our purse, with bailiff and reeve
ever croaking of empty farms and wasting lands. Were it not for
this constableship which the Earl of Salisbury hath bestowed
upon us we could scarce uphold the state which is fitting to our
degree. Therefore, my sweeting, there is the more need that I
should turn to where there is good pay to be earned and brave
ransoms to be won."

"Ah, my dear lord," quoth she, with sad, weary eyes. "I thought
that at last I had you to mine own self, even though your youth
had been spent afar from my side. Yet my voice, as I know well,
should speed you on to glory and renown, not hold you back when
fame is to be won. Yet what can I say, for all men know that
your valor needs the curb and not the spur. It goes to my heart
that you should ride forth now a mere knight bachelor, when there
is no noble in the land who hath so good a claim to the square
pennon, save only that you have not the money to uphold it."

"And whose fault that, my sweet bird?" said he.

"No fault, my fair lord, but a virtue: for how many rich ransoms
have you won, and yet have scattered the crowns among page and
archer and varlet, until in a week you had not as much as would
buy food and forage. It is a most knightly largesse, and yet
withouten money how can man rise?"

"Dirt and dross!" cried he.

"What matter rise or fall, so that duty be done and honor gained.
Banneret or bachelor, square pennon or forked, I would not give a
denier for the difference, and the less since Sir John Chandos,
chosen flower of English chivalry, is himself but a humble
knight. But meanwhile fret not thyself, my heart's dove, for it
is like that there may be no war waged, and we must await the
news. But here are three strangers, and one, as I take it, a
soldier fresh from service. It is likely that he may give us
word of what is stirring over the water."

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