XIV
In the Last Stronghold—The Work of the Women—An Arrow from an Unexpected Quarter—Amabel's Message—The Friar's Queer Art-Work—Edgar Amazed—The Count and Luke at Variance—The Count Marches Against the Keep—The Fight at the Doorway—Edgar Captures Luke—The Attack Repulsed—Amabel's Return—Henry of Huntingdon—Amabel Tells Her Further Adventures—She Becomes an Actor—Saves a Life—Wins Friends—Aids Two Lovers—And Returns with the Best of News:
CHAPTER XIV
Though the actual fighting of the night had not been hard upon any of the garrison except those captured in the tower and the bowmen, all slept heavily after the withdrawal of the besiegers. They were exhausted by anxiety and watching, for that day—beginning with the arrival of Luke's lying letter and ending with the taking of the two towers—was the most exciting they had passed. Even after all the rest were asleep, Lady Mortimer and a few of her tire-women were awake and at a service in their chapel, praying for the support of Heaven in the coming struggle. Because so much has been said of the men and their work, it must not be supposed that during the siege the women of the castle did not do their part. But in that day women did women's work, content to leave men the fighting and planning for which they were better fitted by nature. The women found enough to busy them in caring for the wounded and in feeding the hungry. They worked hard all day, and if there was any time to spare from their household duties, they made themselves useful in carying sheaves of arrows or even baskets of stones for the mangonels, or in seeing that the sentries or the men on duty in various portions of the building were provided with food and drink. Even the sewing and mending of the men's clothing and the washing of soiled garments or the serving at table sometimes gave employment to the maidens, wives, and widows, who were assisted by the older boys and girls. Now that all were forced to withdraw into the narrow quarters of the keep, every space was filled to overflowing, and strict discipline was necessary in order that the non-combatants might not interfere with the work of the defenders.
The cooking was done in great fireplaces, of which there were several in the keep, and the women and children were gathered in the upper rooms mainly, while the lower floors were allotted to the men. The Friar's own room—being but a small apartment—was set aside for Edgar and himself alone, though few of the rooms had less than four or five occupants, and some had more. The top of the keep, being protected by heavy battlemented walls, gave the garrison room for air and exercise, though there was some danger to them at times when the bowmen of the besiegers would fire a volley upward, hoping to do some damage.
During the forenoon of the next day Edgar and Hugh were upon the top of the keep, when suddenly a blunt arrow, coming from the river side fell upon the floor not ten feet from where they stood. Startled by this shaft, that must have been shot by a bowman either on the river or close to the foot of the keep, they were relieved, on picking it up, to find that it was a messenger of peace rather than of war, and bore, tied close to the head, a little slip of parchment. Edgar cut it loose from its wrappings and unrolled it. Upon the parchment, written in a very small handwriting, was this message:
"To-night at about the first darkness let Hugh of Cambray or Edgar Mortimer be ready at the place where I came out. If all is well, I will come. I bring good news. All is well with me.
Leaving the parchment with Hugh, whose delight made his eyes sparkle while he read the words over and over, Edgar descended into the keep to inform Lady Mortimer and the Friar that Amabel had safely accomplished her task, and would soon be with them again. Lady Mortimer seemed to forget all the unpleasant happenings of the siege in her joy over the safety of Lady Amabel, and in the promise her words conveyed. But when Edgar went to the Friar's door and was invited to enter, he was so amazed by the Friar's occupation that he almost forgot to give the news he carried. Friar, Bacon, seated at his little table or desk pushed near to the window, seemed to be engaged in some sort of illumination. He had before him a box of colors, some that he had borrowed of Lady Mortimer, and was making a small picture upon glass, correcting it every now and then as he held it up to the window.
Of all the Friar's strange occupations, this certainly seemed to Edgar the strangest. The Friar put down his brush as Edgar entered, and rising asked: "What is it? Any new attack threatened? I thought there was time to complete a little piece of work I had in mind."
"No; nothing from the Count," Edgar answered, "but I have had news from the Lady Amabel. A blunt arrow shot upward from the river side of the castle brought word that she was safe, and better yet, that she is the bearer of good news. I suppose she has secured help from the Earl of Huntingdon."
"When will she herself return?" the Friar asked, seating himself at his work again when he saw Edgar had done so, and picking up his brush. "As soon as it is dark. She will come in by the underground passage," Edgar replied. "I wonder that the Count has not put a guard at the back of the castle, either in boats or on the other shore."
"It does not surprise me." remarked the Friar, "for I have suspected all along that he would be only too glad if the garrison should escape, leaving him to take possession of the castle. I think it is for that reason he has not guarded it. As to relief coming, the Count does not expect a relieving force. He knows that there are few motives that would lead a nobleman to risk a battle for a friend. Besides he is willing to take the chance."
Edgar watched the Friar's painting as he listened; and when the bit of glass was held up again to the window he was surprised to see that it bore the picture of Satan himself, painted in minature upon the glass, and vividly colored. He started back in horror, but the Friar only smiled, as he said, "Do you recognize the foul fiend? I have given him horns, tail, pitchfork, cloven-foot, and all." Then seeing Edgar's real fright and dismay, the Friar said seriously, "My friend, be of good cheer. This is no idle folly, or thoughtlessness. You must know that I am a student of nature's mysteries, but that I use my knowledge, such as it is, only for the best objects. You have been kind and hospitable to a poor old man, and in return I shall do all I can to assist you in holding your father's castle until he returns. They have not scrupled to use deceit against us; I shall use deceit against them, when the time arrives. Surely you can trust me? I tell you again, I do no evil."
"Trust you?" Edgar exclaimed. "You have won the right to be trusted, and to be rewarded richly for all you have done."
"Enough then," said the Friar, resuming his work upon the little picture. "But it will be best for you to tell your men—all of them—not to be affrighted by any strange appearances they may see."
Then closing the wooden shutters until the room was dark he brought from his mysterious little cupboard another strange bit of apparatus, and showed Edgar its mysteries. The young lord, at first terrified and amazed, at last fully understood the Friar's strange apparatus, and laughed heartily as the Franciscan caused strange figures to appear upon the wall, to move about and disappear at will. He promised to prepare his men for these mysteries, and departed, after the Friar had put away his queer contrivance in the locked cupboard.
About noon of that day, in spite of Luke's remonstrances, the Count's impatience to continue the attack could be no longer restrained. He believed that, by advancing along the western rampart, he could throw a bridge over the gap separating the wall from the western door of the keep, and could then batter down the door and gain entrance to the keep, talking it by storm. Luke argued that the keep was far stronger than the other towers, and better provided with means of resisting attack. The garrison, too, knowing that they were in the last stronghold, would fight with desperation.
"The only attacks that have been quickly successful," the Count insisted, "are the bold assaults. Your tower was burnt; your mine was discovered, and proved useless; your mangonels might have battered upon the defenses for a year without doing much harm. But the ram has cleared a way for us every time, and whenever we have breached the walls, the cowardly knaves of the garrison have scuttled away to their next wall or tower. No, Luke; you are a shrewd mole, but you have not the courage to make a good soldier. You are but a clerk or a recreant priest, after all. Yours is not the red blood that makes the soldier!"
Luke's flaming cheeks proved this false as he said:
"You are scornful of me, my lord Count; and yet I will say nothing of my work in your behalf. I will, however, defend myself from the charge of cowardice. Was I not always at your back in every charge?"
"Yes," the Count admitted, with a roar of laughter, "that is where you ever will be found, Luke the Lurdane,—at my back! While I wield the sword that clears the path, you ever come after, poking at my fleeing enemies with a long pole! Enough, Luke. I will make the attack at once. And you, if you like, shall follow at my heel, shielded by my armor and your own!" And he laughed uproariously.
Luke at this lost his temper, and rose, confronting the Count, as he said in a voice thick with rage:
"Try it, Count, try it! And I will fight either at your side or in your van, as you choose! I have warned you you will be defeated, and if you hope to take the keep, you will do well to hope for the strength of the steel headpiece that protects the brain of Luke the Lurdane! For I tell you plainly that without that brain, the sword of Count Guy de Ferrers would be of no more use against these walls than would a broomstick or a mop-handle!"
Before he was done, the Count with an oath sprang to his feet and drew his sword, but Luke had slipped from the tent, and was gone, laughing in his turn.
Following him out, the Count gave orders that an assaulting column should be formed and march at once upon the castle. The men obeyed with good will, for their successes of the night before had made them full of confidence and eager to complete their triumph. They were angry over the losses they had suffered, and longed especially to punish the practicers of the Black Art whom they blamed for the death of their comrades in arms.
Mounting his horse, the Count led them briskly over the plateau, and only dismounted when they had come to the northwest tower—the last that had fallen into their hands. They entered this tower, passed through it, and marched five or six abreast along the rampart, carrying with them long beams or logs with which to bridge the gap between the rampart and the western door oi the keep.
As all this movement was carried out openly in broad daylight, the sentries of the garrison at once carried word of the attack to their commanders, and Hugh, Edgar, and the Friar all brought every available man to resist the advance. The Friar set up two catapults on top of the keep, depressing them so they bore upon the middle of the rampart below. Hugh put the most skillful bowmen at the loopholes and upper windows, urging them to make every arrow tell, and to reserve their fire always until they saw a chance to reach some exposed enemy. Edgar, with the stoutest of the men-at-arms, was posted behind the door and at the loopholes on each side. Above were a few men ready to drop stones or to pour boiling oil upon the heads of the besiegers when they were actually in the doorway.
Since every man knew his station beforehand, it took but a few minutes to place every member of the garrison, including the women who now served as sentries on the other side of the keep, ready to bring instant word of a second attack.
When the assaulting column began its march along the rampart, the Friar began to discharge darts from his two catapults. These were carefully aimed, and none missed its mark. One of them struck the Count a glancing blow upon the helm, almost overturning him. Another struck down a soldier who was holding the end of a large beam, and a third carried two more men over into the courtyard. But they were under fire for so short a time that not much was done to check the column. The bowmen also shot slowly and deliberately, and while many of the shots were caught upon the shields, others slew a number of the besiegers. When the column had reached the gap in the wall, they were too near for effective shooting, and they succeeded in laying a rude bridge across from the end of the rampart to the door of the keep. Across this bridge the Count went first, but hardly had he reached the door and began to cut at it with his battle-ax, than he was joined by Luke, who had followed the column, and running nimbly across the rampart, reached the Count's side, crying as he came up: "Let us see who will be foremost to-day, my lord Count!"
In this Luke was wise as well as bold, for being in the very doorway they were protected somewhat by the arch over their heads from the objects thrown from above. The next rank or two of their followers occupied the most perilous place, and a number of them were struck down. Suddenly, just as a caldron of boiling oil was emptied upon the heads of these men, and they drew back a few paces to escape it, being warned by the cries of their comrades, the door opened in front of the Count and Luke, and they found themselves face to face with Edgar and his followers. These sprang forward as the door swung back, and fiercely assailed the two leaders of the besiegers. The Count retreated, whereupon Luke, shouting, "Onward, Count Ferrers!" charged furiously forward, striking right and left with his battle-ax. Edgar warded a blow with the blade of his sword, which broke under the heavy ax, and then, dropping his broken sword, ran in upon Luke, seized him by the neck before he could again raise the ax, and hurled him to the ground. Then before Luke could rise, one of the men-at-arms caught a hooked battle-ax in the fallen man's coat of mail and dragged him inward. The door was then shut in the besiegers' faces, and securely barred.
Luke cried out, "I yield, Edgar Mortimer, rescue or no rescue!" and throwing down his ax, allowed himself to be securely bound.
Meanwhile, the rain of stones and arrows upon the attacking column was too heavy to be endured, and they retreated along the rampart to the shelter of their own tower, in spite of the Count's attempts to rally them, and lead them again against the door. He stood upon the rampart actually alone for a few moments, but another dart from the Friar's well-aimed catapult coming too near for comfort, the Count followed his retreating party, and the door closed behind him. His attack had failed, and his losses had been great. But the Count, as usual, blamed his men for cowardice rather than himself for foolhardiness. He had received a lesson, however, that kept him quiet during the rest of that day, which was fortunate, since it left Edgar free to go with Hugh and three stout soldiers at nightfall to the opening of the underground way.
Hardly had they arrived at the end of the passage and, pushing aside the thick bushes that screened the entrance, stepped out upon the river-shore, when they heard the sound of oars, but faintly, as if the oars had been muffled. They could see nothing, but soon a light skiff approached, and they heard its prow come with a grating sound into the pebbly shore. Then a young fellow stepped ashore, a well-built young man in a suit of mail, and turning assisted the Lady Amabel—who was again in woman's clothing—to alight.
Edgar stepped forward and took her in his arms, saying: "Good news or bad news—I am thankful that you are once more with us!"
Amabel turned and greeted Hugh, grasping his hand warmly, and then spoke to her companion:
"This is Edgar, son of Baron Mortimer, and this is Hugh of Cambray, the baron's comrade in arms, whom he left in charge of the garrison. Edgar and Hugh, I come with Henry of Huntingdon, the son of the Earl. His father is upon the further shore with his forces. But come, let us go into the castle, where I can tell you something of my story. How goes on the siege?"
"We hold only the keep," Hugh answered, "but it is uninjured, and yet defies the Count. Luke the Lurdane is captured, and we can give a good account of all members of the garrison who remain. The Count has captured some of them—about thirty. But let us go onward."
Lighting a torch that he had used during their journey through the passage, Hugh led the way, and soon all were again in the great hall, where Lady Mortimer thankfully greeted them.
As no alarm had been given during their absence, they sat down around the wide fireplace, and after a hasty account of the progress of the siege—of which the pretense of her capture greatly interested Lady Amabel—the young girl in turn told something of her own adventures. She told first of her walk along the bank of the river, of her reception in the farmhouse, and of her journey on the farm- wagon to the next market-town, where the farmer left her at the inn.
"I had a little money in my pocket, besides the remaining gold pieces in my belt," she said, "and so was able to take a ride now and then with such of the country people as I encountered upon my way. Fortunately, it was a busy road, and so I made good progress. The carters seemed to think me a nice boy," Amabel smiled, "and several of them refused the money I offered them, saying that 'neighbors should be neighborly.' I had only one unpleasant meeting, and that was with a rough fellow who insisted upon giving me his company through a lonely part of a wood. But I made up my mind the fellow intended to rob me if he could, and so kept upon the alert. I still kept a stout cudgel I had cut to protect me from prowling curs, and when this villain, suddenly stopping in a thick piece of woods, demanded that I give him my money for 'safe-keeping,' I told him I believed my pennies were safer with me than with him; and when he came toward me, I remembered how much depended upon my being free, and so I had no scruple in poking him sharply with the end of my cudgel so as to knock his breath from him, and then taking to my heels. I recalled what you had told me, good Hugh, about striking with the end of my cudgel rather than with its side, and had reason to be glad of the lesson in fence, for I saw the low-browed ruffian no more. I hope he has recovered his breath by this time. Next I fell in with some kindly monks, the traveling performers of a Mystery play, and as our ways lay together, I traveled with them, and even took part in their performance. Their mystery-play was 'The Deluge,' and I was soon chosen to take the part of Noah's wife, the good monks saying that I acted the woman so naturally that they would never suspect me of being a boy! I was sorry enough to leave the kindly monks when their ways separated from mine, and my next day's journey was a sad one indeed. The day after, however, brought me luck again, for as I was passing a cottage I heard sounds of grief and lamentations within. Whereupon I went to the door, and found a young wood-cutter who had cut his leg instead of a tree, and was likely to to bleed to death for lack of a leech to bind up his artery. His father and mother were tearing their hair with mad grief, not knowing enough to stanch the bleeding. 'Wait, good folks,' I cried, 'for I am somewhat skilled in healing.' Then snatching the good wife's kerchief from her head, and a bit of stick from beside the fireplace, I tied a knot in the cloth, pressed it over the artery above the cut, tied it tight, and then showed goodman cutter how to twist it yet tighter with the stick, while his son lay fainting with loss of blood. The best of surgeons could hardly have done better, Lady Mortimer, and there is why your lessons served me well. The blood being stopped, there was time to send for a leech to complete the cure, and I went with the grateful father to town—thus gaining another stage in my journey. The poor father had naught to give me for saving his son's life, save his ax, but that he would fain have me take. When I refused it. he begged me to let him serve me in some fashion, whereupon I told him that I was a timid young fellow, having been ill and having not yet fully recovered my strength, and begged him to tell me how I might go most quickly and safely further on my road to Nottingham. This puzzled the good woodcutter, but by dint of cudgeling his brain he at last remembered that his wife's cousin was a carter, and made journeys every few days to carry goods northward. 'If you had money, Harry—' said he. Whereupon I told him I had plenty, and his face brightened. 'Then all is easy,' he exclaimed. 'Wait until I have seen Robert Carter, and I will manage it. Can you afford as much as four silver pennies?' 'Yes,' said I, 'or twenty, so that I can make speed on my way. I fear sore trouble to my family should I be any way delayed.' And that was no lie, Lady Mortimer, as you must confess. Well, my story is near an end, for Robert the Carter had a good team of horses, and was a fine young fellow with so open a face that my heart bade me trust him. And trust him I did, so far as to say that I had gold and was noble, and that if he would take me as far as he dared go from home I would pay him fifty times his fee. He was eager to earn the money, for there was a sweet maiden who had won his heart, and had named the wedding-day. The money I promised him meant her father's 'yes' to the suit, and so Robert was as eager as I to send me forward. I saw the brown-eyed maiden, and even had speech apart with her, telling her who I was, and begging she would tell her Robert to make haste. After that, he was winged in my service. We left the cart behind, and rode a-horseback, both armed with cudgels and knives until—" here Amabel could not go on for laughter for a moment—"until we met with my good cavalier Henry of Huntingdon, who bade me stand in the name of the king, believing Robert the Carter and myself to be highwaymen! We yielded at once, and upon my discovering his name—my troubles were over. Robert the Carter, with a purse of gold returned to claim his bride, Lady Amabel was taken to Huntingdon Castle where the Earl and Countess received her as a daughter, listened to her story, and promised two hundred men-at-arms to aid in the relief of the Castle of the Red Lion. I went as a beggar-boy, I return escorted by an earl and his son, and with two hundred stout men, who will ask why the Count de Ferrers dares to"