CHAPTER XVII   OF THE COMPANY AT THE SIGN OF THE BUCKLE

Glad to have come out of their difficulties so lightly, Arnold Gripwell and the three lads set out along the path indicated by the kindly Dick o' Birling.

Reaching the summit of the cliff they turned to gaze upon the scene of their shipwreck. Far below them the crowd of wreckers and fishermen seemed like a swarm of ants as they flocked around the stranded hull of the Etoile, now left high and dry, slashing with their axes at the planks and tearing away everything they could lay their hands on.

The sun was low in the western sky ere the wayfarers crossed the Ouse at Seaford and reached the little village of Bishopstone.

"Here is an inn," said Gripwell, pointing to a long straggling building, from the upper storey of which a broom was displayed denoting the fact that wayfarers could find rest and refreshment.

"Welcome to the Buckle Inn, gentles," shouted the host. "What might be your commands?"

"A joint of English roast beef will not be amiss," replied Gripwell. "After that beds with fresh straw, an it please thee."

"The Buckle is ever known for the quality of its beds, fair sirs," replied the host with well-assumed dignity. "I pray ye enter."

The four wayfarers promptly accepted the invitation, and found themselves in a long narrow room, with low, oaken rafters black with smoke. Gathered around a fire blazing on an open hearth were nearly a score of men, clad in white surcoats blazoned with the cross of St. George. Many of them had removed their armour, and were stretching their limbs before the comforting fire.

"Welcome, comrades," shouted a burly giant with a thick crop of reddish hair. "Sit at your ease and drain a tankard with honest archers. Whence come ye?"

"From France," replied Gripwell, overjoyed at the sight of a friendly surcoat.

A roar of laughter greeted his reply.

"From France, quotha? Nay, by my hilt, ye are going the wrong way. 'Tis to France that all stout-hearted men are wending their way."

"Nor will ye find me backward in that matter," replied Arnold stoutly. "We have but lately set foot in England and are sore in want of news. Discuss with us, I pray thee."

"Hast not heard that King Harry hath summoned all true Englishmen, knights, squires, men-at-arms and bowmen to assemble at Southampton for the taking of France? Such an army hath never before been equalled. They say that a chirurgeon and twelve others of his class are to go with us for the comfort of the sick and wounded."

"The first part of thy speech delights my heart, comrades, but concerning the latter, one leech in the field will, I trow, do more harm than a score of French lances."

"Thou speakest pertly, sir stranger. Methinks if thy comb were cut thy crowing would be somewhat less."

"Give me a stout broadsword, archer, and I'll warrant, old as I am, that thou wilt not clip it."

This was a direct challenge. In a moment all was confusion, some of the company shouting encouragement to the man-at-arms, others urging their comrade to carry out his threat, while the host of the Buckle besought his patrons to have regard for the good ordering of the inn.

"The loan of thy sword, friend," said Gripwell calmly, addressing himself to an archer who was shouting himself hoarse on his behalf.

"Take it comrade—but stay, where have I seen thy face before? Why, 'tis none other than Arnold Gripwell, who clove a Scot to the chin with his own claymore at Homildon Field."

"Then thou art Thomas Voysey, the archer who threw the ox over his shoulder in the market-place at York. By St. Thomas à Becket, to think that I did not recognize an old comrade ere this. Thy hand, Thomas; when this slight bickering is over I'll quaff a tankard with thee."

"Nay, I meant no offence," protested the man who had expressed his intention of cutting Gripwell's comb. "I have ever a regard for a staunch veteran."

"'Tis too late to climb down, friend," replied Gripwell resolutely. "If so be that thou art unwilling to cross steel, let us discuss the matter in another way. I do perceive a bundle of stout staves in yonder corner. What sayest thou—art willing to try a bout with cudgels?"

Clearly the aggressor was anxious to avoid an encounter, but yielding to the clamour and ironical jeers of his comrades, he selected a weapon and stood on his guard.

"Have at thee," shouted the man-at-arms, and the next instant the bout began.

With a quick succession of dull taps as the cudgels met, both combatants warmed to their work. Blows were smartly parried and counter-strokes rapidly delivered. Arnold's antagonist was younger and more heavily built, but he lacked the endurance and coolness of the veteran. Slowly, but surely, amid the subdued enthusiasm of the spectators, the elder man forced his opponent backwards, till, with the sweat running down his face and his breath coming in quick gasps, the archer lost all control of himself. Whirling his heavy cudgel he strove by a succession of powerful strokes to break down the veteran's guard; till, seizing a favourable opportunity, Gripwell got home a shrewd blow on his antagonist's forehead, following it up by a sharp cut that sent the archer's weapon flying to the far end of the room.

"Thou art the better man," gasped the archer, clapping his hands to his bruised pate.

"Spoken like a sensible rogue," replied Arnold, throwing down his cudgel. "My hand, comrade! Thou, too, shalt share a cup with me, though I have but a groat in my pouch, of which one penny is for my bed. Host, a tankard of thy best ale."

Good humour having been restored, the rest of the evening passed in story and song, till tired out with the crowded events of the last few days, Geoffrey and his companions were glad to seek repose.

On the morrow it was decided that the man-at-arms and his comrades should travel in company with the archers, not only for the sake of protection on the road, but because the sturdy and honest soldiery, hearing the condition of Geoffrey and Oswald, insisted on sharing their meals with the lads who had undergone such adventurous ordeals in the land of the Fleur de Lys.

"I cannot see why King Harry—God bless him!—should call his army together at Southampton," remarked Voysey, the master-bowman, as the company took to the road once more. "I am a man of Rye, my comrades all hail from ancient and loyal Cinque Ports, and seeing the distance across the Channel is lesser than from Southampton, it is passing strange that we should have this long march thither, not that I complain—'tis a soldier's duty to obey orders."

"Nevertheless, to me the plan is simple enough," replied Gripwell. "By landing at Harfleur—a strong place, for I know it well—and advancing up the valley of the Seine the King can use his army as a wedge, to split the French kingdom asunder. Rouen and Paris, rich cities, are likely to fall into his hands, and, mark you, the booty that is to be had!"

"Ay," replied the bowman, reflectively. "A man can cross to France with naught but his clothes and his arms, and return home laden with gold. 'Twas thus in my grandsire's time. So now for a prosperous campaign, comrades!"

Talking thus, the long miles seemed to slip by, and late afternoon found Geoffrey and his comrades in the city of Chichester.

"'Tis enough for one day," observed the leader of the detachment of the Cinque Ports archers. "Here we will rest till the morrow."

"As thou wilt," replied Gripwell. "But since we are within half a score miles of Warblington, my young masters will be wanting to push on. How sayest thou, Master Geoffrey?"

"Right gladly, Arnold."

"Then so be it. Comrades, adieu, and may we meet ere long on French soil."

Amidst the boisterous and hearty farewells of the archers Geoffrey and his three companions set out on the last stage of their homeward journey. Along the well-known highway they sped, recognizing in every landmark an old friend. Quickly the great West Gate of Chichester was left behind; then the Saxon tower of Bosham Church loomed up on their left hand, to bear them company till the fishing hamlet of Emsworth hove in sight. Then, joy of joys, the grey tower of Warblington Castle, standing out clearly against the setting sun, bade them welcome home.

As for Geoffrey, the discomforts and perils of his journeyings were forgotten; he regarded them as a closed page of his life-story. He realized that a new phase of his existence was about to commence, and that on French soil he would have a chance to win his spurs. But even in the midst of his day-dreams came the disquieting thought that, however creditably he had borne himself in his mission, he had left Sir Oliver still a prisoner in a foreign land.