CHAPTER II   THE RETURN OF THE GRÂCE À DIEU

For the nonce all thoughts of the expected arrival of Sir Oliver Lysle were forgotten, save by the Lady Bertha and her son.

The pennons and garlands were already being removed, the minstrels trooped silently back to the great hall, and the banner of the Lysles was lowered to half-mast.

Yet, although all outward signs of merrymaking had disappeared, the feast provided for the tenantry was to be partaken of on the arrival of the Grâce à Dieu.

Soldiers and peasants gathered in small knots, eagerly discussing the events that were likely to ensue consequent upon the late monarch's decease.

"But Prince Henry was ever a young gallivant," observed Arnold Gripwell. "I' faith, 'tis no great advancement to have seen the inside of a gaol."

"Have a care, gossip, or thine ears will suffer for it," remonstrated a bearded master-archer. "Boys will be boys, they say. Perchance our King has put off all his ill-deeds."

"They do say that he hath made absolute confession," said another. "I have it on authority of a member of Sir Thomas Erpingham's household that the Prince hath repaired to the chapel of a recluse, and, laying bare to him the misdeeds of his whole life, hath put off the mantle of vice, and hath returned decently adorned with the cloak of virtue."

"So be it," replied Gripwell stoutly. "The late King, though his title to the throne were but a hollow one, was ever a soldier and a man. Give me a man whom I can serve and follow to the wars, say I."

"Then perchance thy wish will be gratified, Arnold," remarked Sampson, the master-bowman. "Prince Henry bore himself like a man at Homildon fight, as thou knowest. Who knows but that ere long we shall follow him to France to win back his own?"

"Pray Heaven it be so," returned the master-at-arms heartily. "For my part, I'd as lief cross the narrow seas as a common soldier. Well I remember my grandsire's tales of how the manhood of England crossed thither in the time of the great Edward. Every mean archer, who went as poor as a church mouse and did not lay his bones on French soil, returned laden with rich booty. Did not my grandsire purchase the copyhold of the farm at Nutbourne out of his ransom of a French knight?"

"But what think you, Master Sampson?" asked an archer eagerly. "Dost think that the new King will make war?"

"He hath by far a better opportunity than Henry of Lancaster, the saints rest his soul," replied the bowman. "That base rebel, Glendower, hath been driven from the Welsh marches, and lies in hiding in the wilds of that leek-ridden country. The Scots, too, are kept well in hand, so that peace on the borders is to be depended upon. The King hath but to raise his hand, and from the length and breadth of the realm the yeomen of England will flock to his banner."

Sir Oliver's retainers were not far from the mark. Like the household of many another knight, his men-at-arms and archers were tolerably well versed in the affairs affecting the kingdom's welfare. To them war was both a trade and the means of following an honourable profession.

Meanwhile the Grâce à Dieu had gained the mouth of the little rithe leading up to the quay, and was preparing to anchor.

Again the excitement rose, but in the midst of the hum of suppressed anticipation an archer called attention to a significant fact: Sir Oliver's shield was not displayed from the ship's quarter.

"Heaven forfend that he be dead," exclaimed Gripwell. "See, the Lady Bertha hath noticed the omission."

Unable to conceal her agitation, the châtelaine, quitting the post of honour, had crossed the drawbridge, and, accompanied by Geoffrey, was hastening towards the wharf, a crowd of archers and men-at-arms following at a respectful distance.

Already the small craft that belonged to the manor had put off to the newly-arrived ship, which, for want of water, could not approach within a bowshot of the shore.

"Where is thy master, Sir Oliver, Simeon?" asked the Lady Bertha, trying the while to maintain her composure, as a burly, bow-legged man stepped out of the boat and scrambled up the steps of the wharf.

Simeon Cross was the master-shipman of the Grâce à Dieu. For more than two-score years had he earned his bread on the waters, being more used to the heaving planks of a ship than to hard ground.

Awkwardly he shuffled with his feet, scarce daring to raise his eyes to meet the stern, expectant look of the Châtelaine of Warblington.

"Answer me, rascal. Where is Sir Oliver?"

"Lady, I have ever been unshipshape with my tongue; were I to talk much my words would trip like a scowed anchor. Ere long black would be white, and white black, and——"

"Cease thy babbling, Simeon, and answer yea or nay. Is Sir Oliver alive and well?"

"Lady, yea and nay. Yea, since he is still in the flesh, and nay, by reason of——"

"The saints be praised!" ejaculated the fair questioner, reassured by the old seaman's reply. "But stand aside, I pray you, for I perceive that Oswald Steyning draws near. Tell me, Oswald, how comes it that thou hast deserted thy master? Is it meet that a squire should return without his lord?"

"Sweet lady, I had no choice in the matter," replied the squire, a fair-haired youth of about sixteen years of age. "By the express command of Sir Oliver and of the Lord of Malevereux I stand here this day. Sir Oliver is alive and, I wot, in health, but, alas! a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"Ay, fair lady, of the Lord of Malevereux, otherwise known as the Tyrant of Valadour, who sends this letter by my hand."

Drawing from his pouch a sealed packet, the squire knelt and presented it to the châtelaine.

"From Yves, Baron of Malevereux, Lord of the High, the Middle, and the Low, to the Lady Bertha, Châtelaine of the Castle of Warblington, greeting:—

"Whereas, by the grace of the blessed Saint Hilary, Sir Oliver Lysle, thy husband, hath fallen into my hands, be it known that this is my will and pleasure: Him will I have and hold until a ransom of ten thousand crowns be paid for the release of the said Sir Oliver. It is my request that this sum be paid on or before the eve of the Feast of the blessed Saint Silvester, failing which Sir Oliver must suffer death."

Twice the châtelaine read the missive, then, turning to the squire, she asked—

"Knowest aught of this letter?"

"Nay, fair lady, though I wot 'tis of cold comfort."

"How came Sir Oliver to be taken?"

"By stealth, madame. They of Malevereux seized him as he lay abed in a hostel on the road 'twixt Rouen and Taillemartel. Me they also took, but the Tyrant set me free in order that I might bear tidings to Warblington."

"And did Sir Oliver charge thee by word of mouth?"

"Yea, 'twas thus:—'Present my humblest respects to my dear lady, thy mistress, and say that not a groat is to be paid as ransom for me.' No more, no less."

"That I will bear in mind," replied the châtelaine resolutely. "Meanwhile I must devise some answer to this Tyrant of Malevereux. Hast promise of safe conduct?"

"The word of the Lord of Malevereux is but a poor bond, sweet lady. Yet, since I have his promise, I will right willingly take the risk."

"'Tis well. Now to return to the castle. Arnold, see to the ordering of the men-at-arms, the archers, and the tenants. Let them have their feast, e'en though it be a sad one. Simeon, see to it that the Grâce à Dieu is warped up to the quay at high tide, and take steps to set a goodly store of provisions on board, since to France thou must sail once more. Now, Oswald, bear me company, for there is much on which I must question thee."

All this time Geoffrey had been a silent yet eager listener. Already he had grasped the main points of the situation, and, quick to act, he had made up his mind that the time had come for the son of Sir Oliver Lysle to prove himself worthy of the ancient and honourable name.

"Tell me all thou knowest concerning this Tyrant of Malevereux, Oswald," began Lady Bertha, as the châtelaine and the two lads gained the comparative seclusion of the hall.

"He is the most puissant rogue in all Normandy, ay, in the whole of France," replied the squire. "Though I perceive he has written in a courteous style, worthy of a knight of Christendom, he is but a base robber and oppressor of the poor, and a treacherous enemy to all true gentlemen of coat armour. He hath declared that he fears neither God, man, nor devil, yet withal he is of a craven disposition, and full of superstitious fears."

"It is said that on one day of the year he throws open his Castle of Malevereux to all who would fain partake of his hospitality?"

"That is so, sweet lady. On the Feast of Saint Silvester—in commemoration of a deliverance from a great peril—the Lord of Malevereux doth hold a joust to which all men may come, saving that they leave their arms at the gate. Beyond that 'tis said that no man, other than the Tyrant's retainers, hath set foot within the castle save as a captive."

"The Feast of Saint Silvester!" exclaimed the Lady Bertha. "On that day this base knight would fain receive ransom for Sir Oliver."

"Might I not be permitted to go to France?" asked Geoffrey, speaking for the first time during the conversation. "I would desire to have some small chance of advancement 'gainst this villainous baron."

"Thou'rt but a lad, Geoffrey," replied his mother. "I commend thy courage and determination; they do thee honour, but the task is beyond thee."

"I am almost of the same age as that most puissant knight, Edward the Black Prince, when he fought at Crécy, and as old as our new King when he crossed swords with Lord Percy at Otterburn," asserted Sir Oliver's son. "Oswald hath followed my father Francewards these two years. Therefore, saving your presence, I ought to be up and doing."

"'Tis a matter that demands careful consideration, Geoffrey, though I do perceive that thou art not like a girl that hath to stay at home. Even as a young hawk hath to leave the nest, a knight's son must, sooner or later, quit the shelter of his parents' roof. But of that more anon. It is in my mind that the good knight, Sir Thomas Carberry, who holds the Castle of Portchester should hear of the mishap that hath befallen my lord."

"Wouldst that I ride thither?" asked Geoffrey eagerly, for the doughty knight was ever a favourite of the lad.

"That is my desire, Geoffrey. The day is but young, and thou canst return ere sundown. Oswald shall bear thee company."