ng the
place of honor to the right of the gleeman to the free-handed
new-comer. he had thrown off his steel cap and his brigandine,
and had placed them with his sword, his quiver and his painted
long-bow, on the top of his varied heap of plunder in the corner.
now, with his thick and somewhat bowed legs stretched in front of
the blaze, his green jerkin thrown open, and a great quart pot
held in his corded fist, he looked the picture of comfort and of
good-fellowship. his hard-set face had softened, and the thick
crop of crisp brown curls which had been hidden by his helmet
grew low upon his massive neck. he might have been forty years
of age, though hard toil and harder pleasure had left their grim
marks upon his features. alleyne had ceased painting his pied
merlin, and sat, brush in hand, staring with open eyes at a type
of man so strange and so unlike any whom he had met. men had
been good or had been bad in his catalogue, but here was a man
who was fierce one instant and gentle the next, with a curse on
his lips and a smile in his eye. what was to be made of such a
man as that?
it chanced that the soldier looked up and saw the questioning
glance which the young clerk threw upon him. he raised his
flagon and drank to him, with a merry flash of his white teeth.
"a toi, mon garcon," he cried. "hast surely never seen a man-at-
arms, that thou shouldst stare so?"
"i never have," said alleyne frankly, "though i have oft heard
talk of their deeds."
"by my hilt!" cried the other, "if you were to cross the narrow
sea you would find them as thick as bees at a tee-hole. couldst
not shoot a bolt down any street of bordeaux, i warrant, but you
would pink archer, squire, or knight. there are more
breastplates than gaberdines to be seen, i promise you."
"and where got you all these pretty things?" asked hordle john,
pointing at the heap in the corner.
"where there is as much more waiting for any brave lad to pick it
up. where a good man can always earn a good wage, and where he
need look upon no man as his paymaster, but just reach his hand
out and help himself. aye, it is a goodly and a proper life.
and here i drink to mine old comrades, and the saints be with
them! arouse all together, me, enfants, under pain of my
displeasure. to sir claude latour and the white company!"
"sir claude latour and the white company!" shouted the
travellers, draining off their goblets.
"well quaffed, mes braves! it is for me to fill your cups again,
since you have drained them to my dear lads of the white jerkin.
hola! mon ange, bring wine and ale. how runs the old stave?--
we'll drink all together to the gray goose feather and the
land where the gray goose flew."
he roared out the catch in a harsh, unmusical voice, and ended
with a shout of laughter. "i trust that i am a better bowman
than a minstrel," said he.
"methinks i have some remembrance of the lilt," remarked the
gleeman, running his fingers over the strings, "hoping that it
will give thee no offence, most holy sir"--with a vicious snap at
alleyne--"and with the kind permit of the company, i will even
venture upon it."
many a time in the after days alleyne edricson seemed to see that
scene, for all that so many which were stranger and more stirring
were soon to crowd upon him. the fat, red-faced gleeman, the
listening group, the archer with upraised finger beating in time
to the music, and the huge sprawling figure of hordle john, all
thrown into red light and black shadow by the flickering fire in
the centre--memory was to come often lovingly back to it. at the
time he was lost in admiration at the deft way in which the
jongleur disguised the loss of his two missing strings, and the
lusty, hearty fashion in which he trolled out his little ballad
of the outland bowmen, which ran in some such fashion as this:
what of the bow? the bow was made in england: of true wood, of
yew wood, the wood of english bows; so men who are free love the
old yew tree and the land where the yew tree grows.
what of the cord? the cord was made in england: a rough cord, a
tough cord, a cord that bowmen love; so we'll drain our jacks to
the english flax and the land where the hemp was wove.
what of the shaft? the shaft was cut in england: a long shaft,
a strong shaft, barbed and trim and true; so we'll drink all
together to the gray goose feather and the land where the gray
goose flew.
what of the men? the men were bred in england: the bowman--the
yeoman-- the lads of dale and fell here's to you--and to you; to
the hearts that are true and the land where the true hearts
dwell.
"well sung, by my hilt!" shouted the archer in high delight.
"many a night have i heard that song, both in the old war-time
and after in the days of the white company, when black simon of
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