Saint George for England

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This etext was produced by Martin Robb (MartinRobb@ieee.org).

Saint George for England

by G. A. Henty

PREFACE.

MY DEAR LADS,

You may be told perhaps that there is no good to be obtained from tales of
fighting and bloodshed, - that there is no moral to be drawn from such
histories. Believe it not. War has its lessons as well as Peace. You will
learn from tales like this that determination and enthusiasm can accomplish
marvels, that true courage is generally accompanied by magnanimity and
gentleness, and that if not in itself the very highest of virtues, it is
the parent of almost all the others, since but few of them can be practised
without it. The courage of our forefathers has created the greatest empire
in the world around a small and in itself insignificant island; if this
empire is ever lost, it will be by the cowardice of their descendants.

At no period of her history did England stand so high in the eyes of Europe
as in the time whose events are recorded in this volume. A chivalrous king
and an even more chivalrous prince had infected the whole people with their
martial spirit, and the result was that their armies were for a time
invincible, and the most astonishing successes were gained against numbers
which would appear overwhelming. The victories of Cressy and Poitiers may
be to some extent accounted for by superior generalship and discipline on
the part of the conquerors; but this will not account for the great naval
victory over the Spanish fleet off the coast of Sussex, a victory even more
surprising and won against greater odds than was that gained in the same
waters centuries later over the Spanish Armada. The historical facts of the
story are all drawn from Froissart and other contemporary historians, as
collated and compared by Mr. James in his carefully written history. They
may therefore be relied upon as accurate in every important particular.

Yours sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.

CHAPTER I: A WAYFARER

It was a bitterly cold night in the month of November, 1330. The rain was
pouring heavily, when a woman, with child in her arms, entered the little
village of Southwark. She had evidently come from a distance, for her
dress was travel-stained and muddy. She tottered rather than walked, and
when, upon her arrival at the gateway on the southern side of London
Bridge, she found that the hour was past and the gates closed for the
night, she leant against the wall with a faint groan of exhaustion and
disappointment.

After remaining, as if in doubt, for some time, she feebly made her way
into the village. Here were many houses of entertainment, for travelers
like herself often arrived too late to enter the gates, and had to abide
outside for the night. Moreover, house rent was dear within the walls of
the crowded city, and many, whose business brought them to town, found it
cheaper to take up their abode in the quiet hostels of Southwark rather
than to stay in the more expensive inns within the walls. The lights came
out brightly from many of the casements, with sounds of boisterous songs
and laughter. The woman passed these without a pause. Presently she
stopped before a cottage, from which a feeble light alone showed that it
was tenanted.

She knocked at the door. It was opened by a pleasant-faced man of some
thirty years old.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I am a wayfarer," the woman answered feebly. "Canst take me and my child
in for the night?"

"You have made a mistake," the man said; "this is no inn. Further up the
road there are plenty of places where you can find such accommodation as
you lack."

"I have passed them," the woman said, "but all seemed full of roisterers. I
am wet and weary, and my strength is nigh spent. I can pay thee, good
fellow, and I pray you as a Christian to let me come in and sleep before
your fire for the night. When the gates are open in the morning I will go;
for I have a friend within the city who will, methinks, receive me.

The tone of voice, and the addressing of himself as good fellow, at once
convinced the man that the woman before him was no common wayfarer.

"Come in," he said; "Geoffrey Ward is not a man to shut his doors in a
woman's face on a night like this, nor does he need payment for such small
hospitality. Come hither, Madge!" he shouted; and at his voice a woman
came down from the upper chamber. "Sister," he said; "this is a wayfarer
who needs shelter for the night; she is wet and weary. Do you take her up
to your room and lend her some dry clothing; then make her a cup of warm
posset, which she needs sorely. I will fetch an armful of fresh rushes from
the shed and strew them here: I will sleep in the smithy. Quick, girl," he
said sharply; "she is fainting with cold and fatigue." And as he spoke he
caught the woman as she was about to fall, and laid her gently on the
ground. "She is of better station than she seems," he said to his sister;
"like enough some poor lady whose husband has taken part in the troubles;
but that is no business of ours. Quick, Madge, and get these wet things off
her; she is soaked to the skin. I will go round to the Green Dragon and
will fetch a cup of warm cordial, which I warrant me will put fresh life
into her."

So saying, he took down his flat cap from its peg on the wall and went out,
while his sister at once proceeded to remove the drenched garments and to
rub the cold hands of the guest until she recovered consciousness. When
Geoffrey Ward returned, the woman was sitting in a settle by the fireside,
dressed in a warm woolen garment belonging to his sister.

Madge had thrown fresh wood on the fire, which was blazing brightly now.
The woman drank the steaming beverage which her host brought with him. The
colour came faintly again into her cheeks.

"I thank you, indeed," she said, "for your kindness. Had you not taken me
in I think I would have died at your door, for indeed I could go no
further; and though I hold not to life, yet would I fain live until I have
delivered my boy into the hands of those who will be kind to him, and this
will, I trust, be tomorrow."

"Say nought about it," Geoffrey answered; "Madge and I are right glad to
have been of service to you. It would be a poor world indeed if one could
not give a corner of one's fireside to a fellow-creature on such a night as
this, especially when that fellow creature is a woman with a child. Poor
little chap! He looks right well and sturdy, and seems to have taken no
ill from his journey."

"Truly, he is well and sturdy," the mother said, looking at him proudly;
"indeed I have been almost wishing today that he were lighter by a few
pounds, for in truth I am not used to carry him far, and his weight has
sorely tried me. His name is Walter, and I trust," she added, looking at
the powerful figure of her host, "that he will grow up as straight and as
stalwart as yourself." The child, who was about three years old, was indeed
an exceedingly fine little fellow, as he sat, in one scanty garment, in his
mother's lap, gazing with round eyes at the blazing fire; and the smith
thought how pretty a picture the child and mother made. She was a fair,
gentle-looking girl some two-and-twenty years old, and it was easy enough
to see now from her delicate features and soft shapely hands that she had
never been accustomed to toil.

"And now," the smith said, "I will e'en say good night. The hour is late,
and I shall be having the watch coming along to know why I keep a fire so
long after the curfew. Should you be a stranger in the city, I will gladly
act as your guide in the morning to the friends whom you seek, that is,
should they be known to me; but if not, we shall doubtless find them
without difficulty."

So saying, the smith retired to his bed of rushes in the smithy, and soon
afterwards the tired visitor, with her baby, lay down on the rushes in
front of the fire, for in those days none of the working or artisan class
used beds, which were not indeed, for centuries afterwards, in usage by the
common people.

In the morning Geoffrey Ward found that his guest desired to find one Giles
Fletcher, a maker of bows.

"I know him well," the smith said. "There are many who do a larger
business, and hold their heads higher; but Giles Fletcher is well esteemed
as a good workman, whose wares can be depended upon. It is often said of
him that did he take less pains he would thrive more; but he handles each
bow that he makes as if he loved it, and finishes and polishes each with
his own hand. Therefore he doeth not so much trade as those who are less
particular with their wares, for he hath to charge a high price to be able
to live. But none who have ever bought his bows have regretted the silver
which they cost. Many and many a gross of arrowheads have I sold him, and
he is well-nigh as particular in their make as he is over the spring and
temper of his own bows. Many a friendly wrangle have I had with him over
their weight and finish, and it is not many who find fault with my
handiwork, though I say it myself; and now, madam, I am at your service."

During the night the wayfarer's clothes had been dried. The cloak was of
rough quality, such as might have been used by a peasant woman; but the
rest, though of sombre colour, were of good material and fashion. Seeing
that her kind entertainers would be hurt by the offer of money, the lady
contented herself with thanking Madge warmly, and saying that she hoped to
come across the bridge one day with Dame Fletcher; then, under the guidance
of Geoffrey, who insisted on carrying the boy, she set out from the smith's
cottage. They passed under the outer gate and across the bridge, which
later on was covered with a double line of houses and shops, but was now a
narrow structure. Over the gateway across the river, upon pikes, were a
number of heads and human limbs. The lady shuddered as she looked up.

"It is an ugly sight," the smith said, "and I can see no warrant for such
exposure of the dead. There are the heads of Wallace, of three of Robert
Bruce's brothers, and of many other valiant Scotsmen who fought against the
king's grandfather some twenty years back. But after all they fought for
their country, just as Harold and our ancestors against the Normans under
William, and I think it a foul shame that men who have done no other harm
should be beheaded, still less that their heads and limbs should be stuck
up there gibbering at all passers-by. There are over a score of them, and
every fresh trouble adds to their number; but pardon me," he said suddenly
as a sob from the figure by his side called his attention from the heads on
the top of the gateway, "I am rough and heedless in speech, as my sister
Madge does often tell me, and it may well be that I have said something
which wounded you."

"You meant no ill," the lady replied; "it was my own thoughts and troubles
which drew tears from me; say not more about it, I pray you.

They passed under the gateway, with its ghastly burden, and were soon in
the crowded streets of London. High overhead the houses extended, each
story advancing beyond that below it until the occupiers of the attics
could well-nigh shake hands across. They soon left the more crowded
streets, and turning to the right, after ten minutes walking, the smith
stopped in front of a bowyer shop near Aldgate.

"This is the shop," he said, "and there is Giles Fletcher himself trying
the spring and pull of one of his bows. Here I will leave you, and will one
of these days return to inquire if your health has taken ought of harm by
the rough buffeting of the storm of yester-even."

So saying he handed the child to its mother, and with a wave of the hand
took his leave, not waiting to listen to the renewed thanks which his late
guest endeavoured to give him.

The shop was open in front, a projecting penthouse sheltered it from the
weather; two or three bows lay upon a wide shelf in front, and several
large sheaves of arrows tied together stood by the wall. A powerful man of
some forty years old was standing in the middle of the shop with a bent bow
in his arm, taking aim at a spot in the wall. Through an open door three
men could be seen in an inner workshop cutting and shaping the wood for
bows. The bowyer looked round as his visitor entered the shop, and then,
with a sudden exclamation, lowered the bow.

"Hush, Giles!" the lady exclaimed; "it is I, but name no names; it were
best that none knew me here."

The craftsman closed the door of communication into the inner room. "My
Lady Alice," he exclaimed in a low tone, "you here, and in such a guise?"

"Surely it is I," the lady sighed, "although sometimes I am well-nigh
inclined to ask myself whether it be truly I or not, or whether this be not
all a dreadful dream."

"I had heard but vaguely of your troubles," Giles Fletcher said, "but hoped
that the rumours were false. Ever since the Duke of Kent was executed the
air has been full of rumours. Then came news of the killing of Mortimer and
of the imprisonment of the king's mother, and it was said that many who
were thought to be of her party had been attacked and slain, and I heard -"
and there he stopped.

"You heard rightly, good Giles, it is all true. A week after the slaying of
Mortimer a band of knights and men-at-arms arrived at our castle and
demanded admittance in the king's name. Sir Roland refused, for he had news
that many were taking up arms, but it was useless. The castle was attacked,
and after three days' fighting, was taken. Roland was killed, and I was
cast out with my child. Afterwards they repented that they had let me go,
and searched far and wide for me; but I was hidden in the cottage of a
woodcutter. They were too busy in hunting down others whom they proclaimed
to be enemies of the king, as they had wrongfully said of Roland, who had
but done his duty faithfully to Queen Isabella, and was assuredly no enemy
of her son, although he might well be opposed to the weak and indolent
king, his father. However, when the search relaxed I borrowed the cloak of
the good man's wife and set out for London, whither I have traveled on
foot, believing that you and Bertha would take me in and shelter me in my
great need."

"Aye, that will we willingly," Giles said. "Was not Bertha your nurse ? and
to whom should you come if not to her? But will it please you to mount the
stairs, for Bertha will not forgive me if I keep you talking down here.
What a joy it will be to her to see you again!"

So saying, Giles led the way to the apartment above. There was a scream of
surprise and joy from his wife, and then Giles quietly withdrew downstairs
again, leaving the women to cry in each other's arms.

A few days later Geoffrey Ward entered the shop of Giles Fletcher.

"I have brought you twenty score of arrowheads, Master Giles," he said.
"They have been longer in hand than is usual with me, but I have been
pressed. And how goes it with the lady whom I brought to your door last
week?"

"But sadly, Master Ward, very sadly, as I told you when I came across to
thank you again in her name and my own for your kindness to her. She was
but in poor plight after her journey; poor thing, she was little accustomed
to such wet and hardship, and doubtless they took all the more effect
because she was low in spirit and weakened with much grieving. That night
she was taken with a sort of fever, hot and cold by turns, and at times off
her head. Since then she has lain in a high fever and does not know even my
wife; her thoughts ever go back to the storming of the castle, and she
cries aloud and begs them to spare her lord's life. It is pitiful to hear
her. The leech gives but small hope for her life, and in troth, Master
Ward, methinks that God would deal most gently with her were He to take
her. Her heart is already in her husband's grave, for she was ever of a
most loving and faithful nature. Here there would be little comfort for her
- she would fret that her boy would never inherit the lands of his father;
and although she knows well enough that she would be always welcome here,
and that Bertha would serve her as gladly and faithfully as ever she did
when she was her nurse, yet she could not but greatly feel the change. She
was tenderly brought up, being, as I told you last week, the only daughter
of Sir Harold Broome. Her brother, who but a year ago became lord of
Broomecastle at the death of his father, was one of the queen's men, and it
was he, I believe, who brought Sir Roland Somers to that side. He was slain
on the same night as Mortimer, and his lands, like those of Sir Roland,
have been seized by the crown. The child upstairs is by right heir to both
estates, seeing that his uncle died unmarried. They will doubtless be
conferred upon those who have aided the young king in freeing himself from
his mother's domination, for which, indeed, although I lament that Lady
Alice should have suffered so sorely in the doing of it, I blame him not at
all. He is a noble prince and will make us a great king, and the doings of
his mother have been a shame to us all. However, I meddle not in politics.
If the poor lady dies, as methinks is well-nigh certain, Bertha and I will
bring up the boy as our own. I have talked it over with my wife, and so far
she and I are not of one mind. I think it will be best to keep him in
ignorance of his birth and lineage, since the knowledge cannot benefit him,
and will but render him discontented with his lot and make him disinclined
to take to my calling, in which he might otherwise earn a living and rise
to be a respected citizen. But Bertha hath notions. You have not taken a
wife to yourself, Master Geoffrey, or you would know that women oft have
fancies which wander widely from hard facts, and she says she would have
him brought up as a man-at-arms, so that he may do valiant deeds, and win
back some day the title and honour of his family."

Geoffrey Ward laughed. "Trust a woman for being romantic," he said.
"However, Master Fletcher, you need not for the present trouble about the
child's calling, even should its mother die. At any rate, whether he
follows your trade, or whether the blood in his veins leads him to take to
martial deeds, the knowledge of arms may well be of use to him, and I
promise you that such skill as I have I will teach him when he grows old
enough to wield sword and battle-axe. As you know I may, without boasting,
say that he could scarce have a better master, seeing that I have for three
years carried away the prize for the best sword- player at the sports.
Methinks the boy will grow up into a strong and stalwart man, for he is
truly a splendid lad. As to archery, he need not go far to learn it, since
your apprentice, Will Parker, last year won the prize as the best marksman
in the city bounds. Trust me, if his tastes lie that way we will between
us turn him out a rare man-at-arms. But I must stand gossiping no longer;
the rumours that we are likely ere long to have war with France, have
rarely bettered my trade. Since the wars in Scotland men's arms have rusted
somewhat, and my two men are hard at work mending armour and fitting swords
to hilts, and forging pike-heads. You see I am a citizen though I dwell
outside the bounds, because house rent is cheaper and I get my charcoal
without paying the city dues. So I can work somewhat lower than those in
the walls, and I have good custom from many in Kent, who know that my arms
are of as good temper as those turned out by any craftsman in the city."

Giles Fletcher's anticipations as to the result of his guest's illness
turned out to be well founded. The fever abated, but left her prostrate in
strength. For a few weeks she lingered; but she seemed to have little hold
of life, and to care not whether she lived or died. So, gradually she faded
away.

"I know you will take care of my boy as if he were your own, Bertha," she
said one day; "and you and your husband will be far better protectors for
him than I should have been had I lived. Teach him to be honest and true.
It were better, methinks, that he grew up thinking you his father and
mother, for otherwise he may grow discontented with his lot; but this I
leave with you, and you must speak or keep silent according as you see his
disposition and mind. If he is content to settle down to a peaceful life
here, say nought to him which would unsettle his mind; but if Walter turn
out to have an adventurous disposition, then tell him as much as you think
fit of his history, not encouraging him to hope to recover his father's
lands and mine, for that can never be, seeing that before that time can
come they would have been enjoyed for many years by others; but that he may
learn to bear himself bravely and gently as becomes one of good blood."

A few days later Lady Alice breathed her last, and at her own request was
buried quietly and without pomp, as if she had been a child of the bowman,
a plain stone, with the name "Dame Alice Somers", marking the grave.

The boy grew and throve until at fourteen years old there was no stronger
or sturdier lad of his age within the city bounds. Giles had caused him to
be taught to read and write, accomplishments which were common among the
citizens, although they were until long afterwards rare among the warlike
barons. The greater part of his time, however, was spent in sports with
lads of his own age in Moorfields beyond the walls. The war with France was
now raging, and, as was natural, the boys in their games imitated the
doings of their elders, and mimic battles, ofttimes growing into earnest,
were fought between the lads of the different wards. Walter Fletcher, as
he was known among his play-fellows, had by his strength and courage won
for himself the proud position of captain of the boys of the ward of
Aldgate.

Geoffrey Ward had kept his word, and had already begun to give the lad
lessons in the use of arms. When not engaged otherwise Walter would, almost
every afternoon, cross London Bridge and would spend hours in the
armourer's forge. Geoffrey's business had grown, for the war had caused a
great demand for arms, and he had now six men working in the forge. As soon
as the boy could handle a light tool Geoffrey allowed him to work, and
although not able to wield the heavy sledge Walter was able to do much of
the finer work. Geoffrey encouraged him in this, as, in the first place,
the use of the tools greatly strengthened the boy's muscles, and gave him
an acquaintance with arms. Moreover, Geoffrey was still a bachelor, and he
thought that the boy, whom he as well as Giles had come to love as a son,
might, should he not take up the trade of war, prefer the occupation of an
armourer to that of a bowmaker, in which case he would take him some day as
his partner in the forge. After work was over and the men had gone away,
Geoffrey would give the lad instructions in the use of the arms at which he
had been at work, and so quick and strong was he that he rapidly acquired
their use, and Geoffrey foresaw that he would one day, should his thoughts
turn that way, prove a mighty man-at-arms.

It was the knowledge which he acquired from Geoffrey which had much to do
with Walter's position among his comrades. The skill and strength which he
had acquired in wielding the hammer, and by practice with the sword
rendered him a formidable opponent with the sticks, which formed the
weapons in the mimic battles, and indeed not a few were the complaints
which were brought before Giles Fletcher of bruises and hurts caused by
him.

"You are too turbulent, Walter," the bowyer said one day when a haberdasher
from the ward of Aldersgate came to complain that his son's head had been
badly cut by a blow with a club from Walter Fletcher. "You are always
getting into trouble, and are becoming the terror of other boys. Why do you
not play more quietly? The feuds between the boys of different wards are
becoming a serious nuisance, and many injuries have been inflicted. I hear
that the matter has been mentioned in the Common Council, and that there is
a talk of issuing an order that no boy not yet apprenticed to a trade shall
be allowed to carry a club, and that any found doing so shall be publicly
whipped."

"I don't want to be turbulent," Walter said; "but if the Aldersgate boys
will defy us, what are we to do? I don't hit harder than I can help, and if
Jonah Harris would leave his head unguarded I could not help hitting it."

"I tell you it won't do, Walter," Giles said. "You will be getting yourself
into sore trouble. You are growing too masterful altogether, and have none
of the quiet demeanour and peaceful air which becomes an honest citizen. In
another six months you will be apprenticed, and then I hope we shall hear
no more of these doings."

"My father is talking of apprenticing me, Master Geoffrey," Walter said
that evening. "I hope that you will, as you were good enough to promise,
talk with him about apprenticing me to your craft rather than to his. I
should never take to the making of bows, though, indeed, I like well to use
them; and Will Parker, who is teaching me says that I show rare promise;
but it would never be to my taste to stand all day sawing, and smoothing,
and polishing. One bow is to me much like another, though my father holds
that there are rare differences between them; but it is a nobler craft to
work on iron, and next to using arms the most pleasant thing surely is to
make them. One can fancy what good blows the sword will give and what hard
knocks the armour will turn aside; but some day, Master Geoffrey, when I
have served my time, I mean to follow the army. There is always work there
for armourers to do, and sometimes at a pinch they may even get their share
of fighting."

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