 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Jeremy Pavier. The Black Arrow. A Tale of the Two Roses by Robert Louis Stevenson. Dedication. Critic on the hearth. No one but myself knows what I have suffered, nor what my books have gained, by your unsleeping watchfulness and admirable pertinacity. And now, here is a volume that goes into the world and lacks your impremature. A strange thing in our joint lives, and the reason of it, strange as still. I have watched with interest, with pain, and at length with amusement, your unavailing attempts to peruse the Black Arrow. And I think I should lack humour indeed, if I let the occasion slip, and did not place your name in the fly leaf of the only book of mine that you have never read, and never will read. That others may display more constancy, is still my hope. The tale was written years ago for a particular audience, and, I may say, in rivalry with a particular author. I think I should do well to name him Mr. Alfred R. Phillips. It was not without its reward at the time. I could not, indeed, displace Mr. Phillips from his well-won priority, but in the eyes of readers who thought less than nothing of Treasure Island, the Black Arrow was supposed to mark a clear advance. Those who read volumes, and those who read story papers, belong to different worlds. The verdict on Treasure Island was reversed in the other court. I wonder, will it be the same with its successor? RLS Saranac Lake April 8, 1888 Prologue John Amendolle On a certain afternoon, in the late springtime, the bell upon Tunstall Moathouse was heard ringing at an unaccustomed hour. Far and near, in the forest and in the fields along the river, people began to desert their labours and hurry towards the sound, and in Tunstall Hamlet a group of poor country folks stood wandering at the summons. Tunstall Hamlet, at that period, in the reign of old King Henry VI, wore much the same appearance as it wears today. A score or so of houses, heavily framed with oak, stood scattered in a long green valley ascending from the river. At the foot, the road crossed a bridge, and, mounting on the other side, disappeared into the fringes of the forest, on its way to the Moathouse, and further forth to Holywood Abbey. Halfway up the village, the church stood among use. On every side the slopes were crowned, and the view bounded by the green elms and greening oak trees of the forest. Hard by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon a knoll, and here the group had collected, half a dozen women, and one tall fellow in a russet smock, discussing what the bell betided. An express had gone through the Hamlet half an hour before, and drunk a pot of ale in the saddle, not daring to dismount for the hurry of his errand. But he had been ignorant himself of what was forward, and only bore sealed letters from Sir Daniel Brackley to Sir Oliver Oates, the parson who kept the Moathouse in the master's absence. But now there was the noise of a horse, and soon, out of the edge of the wood and over the echoing bridge, there rode up young master Richard Shelton, Sir Daniel's ward. He at the least would know, and they hailed him and begged him to explain. He drew bridle willingly enough. A young fellow, not yet eighteen, sun-browned and grey-eyed, in a jacket of deer's leather, with a black velvet collar, a green hood upon his head, and a steel crossbow at his back. The express, it appeared, had brought great news. A battle was impending. Sir Daniel had sent for every man that could draw a bow or carry a bill to go post-haste kettly, under pain of his severe displeasure. But for whom they were to fight, or of where the battle was expected, Dick knew nothing. Sir Oliver would come shortly himself, and Bennett Hatch was arming at that moment, for he it was who should lead the party. It is the ruin of this kind land, woman said, if the barons live at war plough folk must eat roots. No, he said, Dick, every man that follows shall have six pence a day, and the archers twelve. If they live, returned the woman, that may very well be, but how if they die, my master? They cannot better die than for their natural lord, said Dick. No natural lord of mine, said the man in the smock. I followed the Walsingham's, so we all did down Briley Way till two years ago come Candlemas. And now I must side with Brackley. It was the lord that did it. Call ye that natural? But now, what with Sir Daniel, and what with Sir Oliver, that knows more of law than honesty? I have no natural lord, but poor King Harry the Sixth, God bless him. The poor innocent that cannot tell his right hand from his left. Ye speak with an ill tongue friend, and said Dick, to miscall your good master and my lord the king in the same libel. But King Harry, praise be the saints, has come again into his right mind, and will have all things peaceably ordained. As for Sir Daniel, ye are very brave behind his back. But I will be no tale-bearer, and let that suffice. And I say no harm of you, Master Richard, returned the peasant. Ye are a lad, but when ye come to a man's inches, ye'll find ye have an empty pocket. I say no more. The saints help Sir Daniel's neighbours, and the blessed may protect his wards. Clips me, said Richard. You speak what I cannot hear with honour. Sir Daniel is my good master and my guardian. Come now, will you read me a riddle, returned Clipsby. On whose side is Sir Daniel? I know not, said Dick, colouring a little for his guardian had changed size continually in the troubles of that period, and every change had brought him some increase of fortune. I, returned Clipsby, you nor no man, for indeed he is one that goes to bed Lancaster and gets up yawg. Just then the bridge rang under horseshoe iron, and the party turned and saw Bennett Hatch come galloping. A brown-faced, grizzled fellow, heavy of hand and grim of mean, armed with sword and spear, a steel salad on his head, a leather jacket upon his body. He was a great man in these parts, Sir Daniel's right hand in peace and war, and at that time by his master's interest, Bayliff of the Hundred. Clipsby, he shouted, off to the moat-house, and send all of the laggards the same gate. Bolia will give you Jack and Salad. We must ride before curfew. Look to it. He that is last at the lich gate, Sir Daniel shall reward. Look to it right well, and I know you for a man of nought. Nance, he added to one of the women, his old apple-yard uptown. Al Warranty replied the woman, in his field for sure. So the group dispersed, and while Clipsby walked leisurely over the bridge, Bennett and Young Shelton rode up the road together, through the village and past the church. You will see the old shrew, said Bennett. You will waste more time grumbling and preting of Harry V than would serve a man to stew a horse, and all because he's been to the French wars. The house to which they were bound was the last in the village, standing alone among lilacs, and beyond it, on three sides, there was open meadow rising towards the borders of the woods, hatched dismounted, through his reign over the fence, and walked down the field, dick keeping close at his elbow, to where the old soldier was digging, knee deep in his cabbages, and now and again in a cracked voice, singing a snatch of song. He was all dressed in leather, only his hood and tippet were of black frieze and tied with scarlet. His face was like a walnut shell, both for colour and wrinkles, but his old grey eye was still clear enough, and his sight unabated. Perhaps he was deaf, perhaps he thought it unworthy of an old archer of Agincourt to pay any heed to such disturbances. But neither the surly notes of the alarm bell, nor the near approach of Bennett and the lad, appeared at all to move him, and he continued obstinately digging, and piped up, very thin and shaky. Now, dear lady, if thy will be, I pray you that you will rue on me. Nick Applyard said Hatch. Sir Oliver commends him to you, and bids that you shall come within this hour to the moat house, there to take command. The old fellow looked up. Save you, my masters, he said, Grinnin, and where goeth Master Hatch? Master Hatch is off to Ketley, with every man that we can horse, returned Bennett. There is a fight toward, it seems, and my lord stays a reinforcement. I verily returned Applyard. And what will you leave me to garrison with all? I leave you six good men, and Sir Oliver to boot, and said Hatch. It will not hold the place, said Applyard. The number suffices not. It would take too score to make it good. Why, it's for that we came to you, old shrew, replied the other. Who else is there but you that could do ought in such a house with such a garrison? I, when the pinch comes, you remember the old shrew, returned Nick. There is not a man of you that can back a horse or hold a bill, and as for archery, sent Michael. If old Harry the Fifth were back again, he would stand and let you shoot at him for a far than a shoot. Nay, Nick, there's some can draw good bow yet, said Bennett. Draw good bow, cried Applyard. Yes. But who'll shoot me a good shoot? It's there the eye comes in, and their head between your shoulders. Now what might you call a long shoot, Bennett Hatch? Well, said Bennett, looking about him, it would be a long shoot from here into the forest. Nay, it would be a long shoot, said the old fellow, turning to look over his shoulder. And then he put up his hand over his eyes and stood staring. Why, what are you looking at? I spent it with a chuckle. Do you see Harry the Fifth? The veteran continued looking up the hill in silence. The sun shone broadly over the shelving meadows. A few white sheep wandered browsing. All was still but the distant changle of the bell. What is it, Applyard? asked Dick. Why, the birds, said Applyard. And sure enough, over the top of the forest, where it ran down in a tongue among the meadows, and ended in a pair of goodly green elms, about a bow shot from the field where they were standing, a flight of birds was skimming to and fro, in evident disorder. What of the birds, said Bennett? I returned, Applyard. You're a wise man to go to war, Master Bennett. Birds are a good sentry. In forest places they be the first line of battle. Look you now, if we lay here in camp, there might be archers skulking down to get the wind of us. And here would you be, not in the wiser. Why, old shrew, said Hatch, there be no men nearer us than Sir Daniels, but Ketley, you're as safe as in London Tower, and you raise scares upon a man for a few chaffinches and sparrows. Hear him, grinned Applyard. How many a rogue would give his two crop ears to have a shoot at either of us? Said Michael, man, they hate us like two pole cats. Well, sooth it is, they hate Sir Daniel. And said Hatch, a little sobered. Aye, they hate Sir Daniel, and they hate every man that serves with him, said Applyard. And in the first order of hating, they hate Bennett Hatch, an old Nicholas the Bowman. See here, if there was a stout fellow yonder in the wood edge, you and I stood fair for him, as by St. George we stand. Which think he would he choose? You for a good wager, answered Hatch. My sircoat to a leather belt, it would be you, cried the old archer. Ye burn Grimstone, Bennett. Down there, forgive you that, me master. As for me, I'll soon be in a good place, God grant, and out of bow-shoot, aye, and cannon-shoot, of all their malices. I am an old man, and draw fast to Homewood, where the bed is ready. But for you, Bennett, you have to remain behind here at your own peril, and if you come to my years unhanged, the old true blue English spirit will be dead. Ye are the surest old dalt in Tunstall Forest, returned Hatch, visibly ruffled by these threats. Get ye to your arms before Sir Oliver come, and leave Prating for one good while. And ye had talked so much with Harry the Fifth, his ears would have been richer than his pocket. An arrow sang in the air like a huge hornet. It struck old Appliart between the shoulder-bades, and pierced him, clean through, and he fell forward on his face among the cabbages. Hatch, with a broken cry, leaped into the air, then, stooping double, he ran for the cover of the house. And in the meanwhile Dick Shelton had dropped behind a lilac, and had his crossbow bent and shouldered, covering the point of the forest. Not a leaf stirred. The sheep were patiently browsing. The birds had settled. But there lay the old man, with a cloth-yard arrow standing in his back, and there were Hatch, holding to the gable, and Dick, crouching and ready behind the lilac bush. Do ye see, oh! cried Hatch. Not a twig stirs, said Dick. I think shame to leave him lying, said Bennet, coming forward once more, with hesitating steps and a very pale countenance. Keep a good eye on the wood, Master Shelton. Keep a clear eye on the wood. The saints are soilous. Here was a good shoot. Bennet raised the old arch on his knee. He was not yet dead. His face worked, and his eyes shut and opened like machinery. And he had a most horrible, ugly look, with one in pain. Can ye hear, old Nick? asked Hatch. Have ye a last wish before ye wend, old brother? Pluck out the shaft, and let me pass a Mary's name. Gassed Appelhead. I'd be done with old England. Pluck it out. Master Dick, said Bennet, come hither, and pull me a good pull upon the arrow. He would faint past the poor sinner. Dick laid down his crossbow, and pulling hard upon the arrow, drew it forth. A gush of blood followed. The old archer scrambled half upon his feet, called once upon the name of God, and then fell dead. Hatch, upon his knees among the cabbages, prayed fervently for the welfare of the passing spirit. But even as he prayed, it was plain that his mind was still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon the corner of the wood from which the shot had come. When he had done, he got to his feet again, drew off one of his mailed gauntlets, and wiped his pale face, which was all wet with terror. Aye, he said. It'll be my turn next. Who has done this, Bennet? Richard asked, still holding the arrow in his hand. Nay, the saints know, said Hatch. Here are good two-score Christian souls that we have hunted out of house and holding. He and I. He has paid his shot, poor shrew. Nor will it be long, may hap ere I pay mine. Said Daniel, driveth over hard. This is a strange shaft, said the lad, looking at the arrow in his hand. Aye, by my faith, cried Bennet, black and black feathered. Here is an ill-favoured shaft, by my sooth. For black, they say, bodes burial. And here be words written. Wipe the blood away. What regi? Apple-yared, fro John a mendall. Red-Shelton. What should this be tokened? Nay, I like it not, returned the retainer, shaking his head. John a mendall. Here is a rogue's name for those that be up in the world. But why stand we here to make a mark? Take him by the knees, good Master Shelton, while I lift him by the shoulders. Let us lay him in his house. This will be a rare shock to poor Sir Oliver. He will turn paper-colour. He will pray like a windmill. They took up the old archer, and carried him between them into his house, where he had dwelt alone. There they laid him on the floor, out of regard for the mattress, and sought, as best they might, to straighten and compose his limbs. Apple-yared's house was clean and bare. There was a bed, with a blue cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint stools, a hinged table in the chimney corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier's armory of bows and defensive armour. Hatch began to look about him curiously. Nick had money, he said. He may have had three score pounds put by. I would, I could light a punt. When you lose an old friend, Master Richard, the best consolation is to air him. See now this chest? I would go a mighty wager, there is a bushel of gold therein. He had a strong hand to get, and a hard hand to keep with all, and Apple-yared the archer. Now may God rest his spirit. Near eighty year he was afoot and about, and ever getting. But now he's on the broad of his back bush-rew, and no more lacketh. And if his chattels came to a good friend, he would be merrier, he thinks, in heaven. Come, Hatch, said Dick, respect his stone-blind eyes. Would he rob the man before his body? Nay, he would walk. Hatch made several signs of the cross. But by this time his natural complexion had returned, and he was not easily to be dashed from any purpose. It would have gone hard with the chest had not the gate sounded, and presently after the door of the house opened, had mitted a tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyed man of near fifty in a surplus and black robe. Apple-yard, the newcomer was saying as he entered. But he stopped dead. Ave Maria, he cried. Saints be our shield. What cheer is this? Cold cheer with Apple-yards surpassing, and said Hatch, with perfect chivalness, shot at his own door, and alighteth even now at purgatory gates. Aye, there, if tales be true, he shall lack neither coal nor candle. Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it, sick and white. This is a judgment. Oh, a great stroke! He sobbed, and rattled off a leash of prayers. Hatch, meanwhile, reverently doffed his salad and knelt down. Aye, Bennett, said the priest, somewhat recovering. And what may this be? What enemy hath done this? Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow. See, it is written upon with words, said Dick. Nay, cried the priest. This is a foul hearing. John a mendall, a right lullity word, and black a few as for an omen. Sirs, this nae arrow likes me not, but it importers rather to take counsel. Who should this be? Be think you, Bennett. Of so many black ill-willers, which should he be that doth so hardly outface us? Simnall? I do much question it. The Walsingham's? Nay, they are not yet so broken. They still think to have the law over us when times change. There was Simon Marnsbury, too. How think ye, Bennett? What think ye, Sir? returned Hatch. Of Ellis Duckworth. Nay, Bennett, never. Nay, not he, said the priest. There cometh never any rising Bennett from below. So all judicious chronicles concord in their opinion. But rebellion travelleth ever downward from above. And when Dick, Tom, and Harry take them to their bills, look ever narrowly to see what lord is profited thereby. Now, Sir Daniel, having once more joined him to the Queen's party, is in ill odor with the Yorkish lords. Then, Bennett, comes the blow. By what procuring I yet seek, but therein lies the nerve of this disconfiture. And please, you so, Oliver, Sir Bennett, the axels are so hot in this country that I have long been smelling fire. So did this poor sinner Applyard. And, by your leave, men's spirits are so foully inclined to all of us, that it needs neither York nor Lancaster to spur them on. Hear my plain thoughts. You, the Dara Clark, and Sir Daniel, that sails on any wind, ye have taken many men's goods, and beaten and hanged not a few. Ye are called to count for this. In the end, I want not how ye have ever the uppermost at law, and ye think all patched. But give me leave, Sir Oliver. The man that ye have dispossessed and beaten is but the angrier. And some day, when the Black Devil is by, he will up with his bow, and clout me a yard of arrow through your inwards. Nay, Bennett, you're in the wrong. Bennett, you should be glad to be corrected, said Sir Oliver. You are a praetor, Bennett, a talker, a babbler. Your mouth is wider than your two ears. Mend it, Bennett. Mend it. Nay, I say no more. Have it as ye list, said the retainer. The priest now rose from the stool, and from the writing-case that hung about his neck took forth wax and a taper and a flint and steel. With these he sealed up the chest and the cupboard with Sir Daniel's arms, hatch looking on disconsolate. And then the whole party proceeded, somewhat timorously, to sally from the house and get to horse. "'Tis time we were on the road, Sir Oliver,' said hatch, as he held the priest's stirrup while he mounted. Nay, but, Bennett, things have changed, returned the parson. There is now no apple-yard, rest his soul, to keep the garrison. I shall keep you, Bennett. I must have a good man to rest me on in this day of Black Arrows. The arrow that flyeth by day, says the evangel. I have no mind of the context. Nay, I am a slugged priest. I am too deep in men's affairs. Well, let us ride forth, Master Hatch. The Jackman should be at the church by now. So they rode forward down the road, with the wind after them, blowing the tails of the parson's cloak. And behind them, as they went, clouds began to arise and blot out the sinking sun. They had passed three of the scattered houses that make up Tunstall Hamlet, when, coming to a turn, they saw the church before them. Ten or a dozen houses clustered immediately round it. But to the back, the churchyard was next to the meadows. At the lich gate, near a score of men were gathered, some in the saddle, some standing by their horses' heads. They were variously armed and mounted, some with spears, some with bills, some with bows, and some bestriding plough-horses, still splashed with the mire of the Foro. For these were the very dregs of the country. And all the better men and the fair equipments were already with Sir Daniel in the field. We have not done a miss, praise be the cross of Holywood. Sir Daniel will be right content, observed the priest, inwardly numbering the troop. Who goes? Stand, if ye be true, shouted Bennett. A man was seen slipping through the churchyard among the ews, and at the sound of this summons he discarded all concealments, and fairly took to his heels for the forest. The men at the gate, who had been hitherto unaware of the strange's presence, woke and scattered. Those who had dismounted began scrambling into the saddle, the rest rode in pursuit. But they had to make the circuit of the consecrated ground, and it was plain their quarry would escape them. Hatch, roaring an oath, put his horse at the hedge to head him off. But the beast refused, and sent his rider sprawling in the dust. And though he was up again in a moment, and had caught the bridle, the time had gone by, and the fugitive had gained too great a lead for any hope of capture. The wisest of all had been Dick Shelton. Instead of starting in a vain pursuit, he had whipped his crossbow from his back, bent it, and set a quarrel to the string. And now, when the others had desisted, he turned to Bennet and asked if he should shoot. Shoot, shoot! cried the priest, with sanguinary violence. Cover him, Master Dick, said Bennet. Bring me him down like a ripe apple. The fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety. But this last part of the meadow ran very steeply uphill, and the man ran slower in proportion. And what with the grainness of the falling night, and the uneven movements of the runner, it was no easy aim. And as Dick levelled his bow, he felt a kind of pity, and a half desire that he might miss. The quarrel sped. The man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from hatch and the pursuers. But they were counting their corn before the harvest. The man fell lightly, he was likely afoot again, turned, and waved his cap in a bravado, and was out of sight next moment in the margin of the wood. And the plague go with him, cried Bennet. He has thieves' heels. He can run by St. Bambry. But you touched him, Master Shelton. He is still in your quarrel. May he never have good, I grudge him less. Nay, but what made he by the church? asked Sir Oliver. I am shrewdly afraid there has been mischief here. Clipsby, good fellow, get you down from your horse, and search thoroughly among the ewes. Clipsby was gone but a little while, ere he returned, carrying a paper. This writing was pinned to the church door, he said, handing it to the parson. I found not else, Sir Parson. Now by the power of Mother Church, cried Sir Oliver. But this runs hard on sacrilege. For the King's good pleasure, or the Lord of the Manor, well. But that every run the hedge in a green jerking should fashion papers to the chancel door. Nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard. And men have burned for matters of less weight. But what have we here? The light falls apace. Good Master Richard, you have young eyes. Read me, I pray, this libel. Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand, and read it aloud. It contains some lines of very rugged dogrel, hardly even rhyming, written in a gross character, and most uncouthly spelt. With the spelling somewhat bettered, this is how they ran. I had four black arrows under my belt. Four for the griefs that I have felt. Four for the number of ill men that have oppressed me now and then. One is gone, one is well sped. Old Apple Yard is dead. One is for Master Bennet Hatch, that burned Grimstone, Walls, and Thatch. One for Sir Oliver Jotes, that cut Sir Harry Shelton's throat. Sir Daniel, you shall have the fort. We shall think it fair sport. You shall each have your own part, a black arrow in each black heart. Get ye to your knees for to pray. Yard dead thieves by ye and nay. John Amendol of the Greenwood and his Jolly Fellowship. Item. We have Moarrows and Good Hemp and Cord for others of your following. Now well a day for charity, and the Christian graces, cried Sir Oliver, lamentably. Sirs, this is an ill world, and groweth daily worse. I will swear upon the cross of Hollywood I am as innocent of that good night's hurt, I am as innocent of that good night's hurt, whether in act or purpose, as the babe uncristened. Neither was his throat cut, for therein they are again in error, as there still live credible witnesses to show. It boots not, Sir Parson, said Bennet. Here is unseasonable talk. Nay, Master Bennet, not so. Keep ye in ye due place, good Bennet, answered the priest. I shall make mine innocence appear. I will, upon no consideration, lose my poor life in error. I take all men to witness that I am clear of this matter. I was not even in the moat-house. I was sent of an errand before nine upon the clock. Sir Oliver, said Hatch, interrupting. Since it pleases you not to stop this sermon, I will take other means. Gough, sound to horse. And while the tucket was sounding, Bennet moved close to the bewildered Parson and whispered violently in his ear. Dick Shelton saw the priest's eye turned upon him for an instant in a startled glance. He had some cause for thought, for this Sir Harry Shelton was his own natural father. But he said never a word and kept his countenance unmoved. Hatch and Sir Oliver discussed together for a while their altered situation. Ten men it was decided between them should be reserved, not only to Garrison the moat-house, but to escort the priest across the wood. In the meantime, as Bennet was to remain behind, the command of the reinforcement was given to Master Shelton. Indeed, there was no choice. The men were lautish fellows, dull and unskilled in war, while Dick was not only popular, but resolute and grave beyond his age. Although his youth had been spent in these rough country places, the lad had been well taught in letters by Sir Oliver, and Hatch himself had shown him the management of arms and the first principles of command. Bennet had always been kind and helpful. He was one of those who are cruel as the grave to those they call their enemies, but ruggedly faithful and well-willing to their friends. And now, while Sir Oliver entered the next house to write in his swift, exquisite penmanship a memorandum of the last occurrences to his master Sir Daniel Brackley, Bennet came up to his pupil to wish him godspeed upon his enterprise. He must go the long way about, Master Shelton, he said, round by the bridge for your life. Keep a sure man, fifty paces are for you, to draw shots, and go softly till you are past the wood. If the rogues fall upon you, ride for it. You will do nought by standing, and keep ever forward, Master Shelton. Turn me not back again, and you love your life. There is no help in Tunstall, mind ye that. And now, since you go to the great wars about the king, and I continue to dwell here in extreme jeopardy of my life, and the saints alone can certify we shall meet again below, I give you my last counsels now at your riding. Keep an eye on Sir Daniel, he is unsure. Put not your trust in the Jack Priest, he intendeth not amiss, but doth the will of others. It is a handgun for Sir Daniel. Get your good lordship where ye go, make you strong friends, look to it, and think ever a pattern of a while on Bennet Hatch. There are worse rogues afoot than Bennet, so Godspeed. And heaven be with you, Bennet, returned Dick. You were a good friend to meward, and so I shall say ever. And lucky Master added Hatch, with a certain embarrassment. If this amend oil should get a shaft into me, you might, may hap, lay out a gold mark, or may hap a pound for my poor soul, for it is like to go stiff with me in purgatory. You shall have your will of it, Bennet, and Sir Dick. But watch here, man, we shall meet again, where ye shall have more need of ale than masses. The saints so granted, Master Dick, returned the other. But here comes Sir Oliver. And he were as quick with the longbow as with the pen. He would be a brave man at arms. Sir Oliver gave Dick a sealed packet with this superscription. To my right, wordful Master, Sir Daniel Brackley, night be this delivered in haste. And Dick, putting it in the bosom of his jacket, gave the word, and set forth westward up the village. Book 1. The Two Lads Chapter 1. At the sign of the sun in Ketley Sir Daniel and his men lay in and about Ketley that night, warmly quartered and well patrolled. But the night at Tunstall was one who never rested from money-getting, and even now, when he was on the brink of an adventure which should make or mar him, he was up an hour after midnight to squeeze poor neighbours. He was one who trafficked greatly in disputed inheritances. It was his way to buy out the most unlikely claimant, and then, by the favour he carried with great lords about the king, procure unjust decisions in his favour. Or, if that was too roundabout, to seize the disputed manner by force of arms, and rely on his influence, and Sir Oliver's cunning in the law, to hold what he had snatched. Ketley was one such place. He had come very lately into his clutches. He still met with opposition from the tenants, and it was to overall discontent that he had led his troops that way. By two in the morning Sir Daniel sat in the in-room, close by the fireside, for it was cold at that hour among the fends of Ketley. By his elbow stood a pothole of spiced ale. He had taken off his visoured headpiece, and sat with his bald head and thin dark visage resting on one hand, wrapped warmly in a sanguine coloured cloak. At the lower end of the room, about a dozen of his men stood sentry over the door, or lay asleep on benches, and somewhat nearer hand, a young lad, apparently of twelve or thirteen, was stretched in a mantle on the floor. The host of the sun stood before the great man. Now mark me, my host, Sir Daniel said. Follow but my orders, and I shall be your good lord ever. I must have good men for head boroughs, and I will have Adam a more high constable. See to it narrowly. If other men be chosen, it shall avail you nothing. Rather, it shall be found to your sore cost. For those that have paid rent to Walsingham, I shall take good measure. You among the rest, my host. Good night, said the host. I will swear upon the cross of Hollywood. I did but pay to Walsingham upon compulsion. Nay, bully knight. I love not the rogue Walsingham's. They were as poor as thieves, bully knight. Give me a great lord like you. Nay, ask me among the neighbours. I am stout for Brackley. It may be, said Sir Daniel dryly. You shall then pay twice. The innkeeper made a horrid grimace. But this was a piece of bad luck that might readily befall a tenant in these unruly times, and he was perhaps glad to make his peace so easily. Bring up your fellow Selton, cried the night, and one of his retainers led up a poor, cringing old man as pale as a candle and all shaking with the fenn fever. Sirah, said Sir Daniel, your name. And please your worship, replied the man. My name is Condol. Condol of Shoreby. At your good worship's pleasure. I have heard you will reported on, returned the night. You deal in trees and rogue. You trudge the country leasing. You are heavily suspicioned of the death of several's. How, fellow Aesop old? But I will bring you down. Right honourable, and my reverent lord. The man cried. Here is some hodgepodge, saving your good presence. I am but a poor private man and have hurting on. The undersheriff did report of you most vilely, said the night. Seize me, sayeth he, that Tyndall of Shoreby. Condol, my good lord. Condol is my poor name, said the unfortunate. Condol, or Tyndall, it is all one, replied Sir Daniel coolly, for by my sooth Yah here, and I do mightily suspect your honesty. If you would save your neck, write me swiftly an obligation for twenty pound. For twenty pound, my good lord, cried Condol. Here is Midsomer Madness. My whole estate amounted not to seventy shillings. Condol, or Tyndall, returned Sir Daniel grinning. I will run my peril of that loss. Write me down twenty, and when I have recovered all I may, I will be good lord to you, and pardon you the rest. Alas, my good lord, it may not be. I have no skill to write, said Condol. Well, a day he returned the night. Here, then, is no remedy. Yet I would feign have spared you, Tyndall, had my conscience suffered. Selden, take me this old shrew softly to the nearest ailment, hang me him tenderly by the neck, where I might see him at my riding. Fare you well, good master Condol, dear master Tyndall, your post haste for paradise. Fare you well, then. Nay, my right pleasant lord, replied Condol, forcing an obsequious smile, and you be so masterful, as doth write well become your I will even, with all my poor skill, do your bidding. Friend, quothed Daniel, he will now write to score. Go to. You are too cunning for a livelihood of seventy shillings. Selden, see him write me this in good form, and have it duly witnessed. And so Daniel, who was a very merry night, non-merrier in England, took a drink of his mulled ale, and lay back, smiling. Meanwhile, the boy upon the floor began to stir, and presently sat up, and looked about him with a scare. Hither, said so Daniel, and as the other rose at his command, and came slowly towards him, he leaned back, and laughed outright. By the rude, he cried, a sturdy boy. The lad flushed crimson with anger, and darted a look of hate out of his dark eyes. Now that he was on his legs, it was more difficult to make certain of his age. His face looked somewhat older in expression, but it was as smooth as a young child's, and in bone and body he was unusually slender, and somewhat awkward of gait. You have called me, sir Daniel, he said. Was it to laugh at my poor plight? Nay now, let laugh, said the night. Good shrew, let laugh. I pray you. And you could see yourself, I warrant you would laugh the first. Well cried the lad, flushing. You shall answer this when he answer for the other. Laugh while yet you may. Nay now, good cousin, replied Sir Daniel, with some earnestness. Think not that I mock at you, except in mirth, as between kinsfolk and singular friends. I will make you a marriage of a thousand pounds. Go to, and cherish you exceedingly. I took you indeed roughly, as the time demanded. But from henceforth I shall ungrudgingly maintain and cheerfully serve you. You shall be Mrs. Shelton, Lady Shelton by my troth. For the lad promises bravely. Tut, you will not shy for honest laughter. It purges melancholy. They are no rogues who laugh good cousin. Good mind host, lay me a meal now for my cousin, Master John. City down, sweetheart, and eat. Nay, said Master John, I will break no bread. Since she forced me to this sin, I will fast for my soul's interest. But, good mind host, I pray you out of courtesy, give me a cup of fair water. I shall be much beholden to your courtesy indeed. You shall have a dispensation. Go to, cried the night. Shall be well shriven by my faith. Content you, then, and eat. But the lad was obstinate, drank a cup of water, and once more wrapping himself closely in his mantle, sat in a far corner, brooding. In an hour or two, there rose a stir in the village, of sentries challenging, and the clatter of arms and horses. And then a troop drew up by the indoor, and Richard Shelton, splashed with mud, presented himself upon the threshold. Save you, Sir Daniel, he said. How, Dicky Shelton, cried the night, and at the mention of Dick's name, the other lad looked curiously across. What maketh Bennett Hatch? Please, you so night, to take cognisance of this packet from Swallowa, wherein are all things fully stated, answered Richard, presenting the priest's letter. And please, you father, you were best may call speed to Risingham, for on the way hither we encountered one riding furiously with letters, and by his report my lord of Risingham was sore-bested, and lacked exceedingly your presence. How, say you, sore-bested? returned the night. Nay, then, we will make speed sitting down, good Richard. As the world goes in this poor elm of England, he that rides softliest rides surest. Delay, they say, begetteth peril. But it is rather this itch of doing that undoes men, market, Dick. But let me see first what cattle have you brought? Selden, a link here at the door. And Sir Daniel strode forth into the village street, and by the red glow of a torch inspected him his new troops. He was an unpopular neighbour and an unpopular master. But as a leader in war he was well beloved by those who rode behind his penant. His dash, his proved courage, his forethought for the soldier's comfort, even his rough jibes were all to the taste of the bold blades in jack and salad. Nay, by the root, he cried, what poor dogs are these? Here be some as crooked as a bow, and some as lean as a spear. Friends, you shall ride in the front of the battle. I can spare you, friends. Mark me this old villain on the pie-bold. A two-year mutton riding on a hog would look more soldierly. Ha! Clipsby, are you there, old rat? You are a man I could lose with a good heart. Ye shall go in front of all, with a bull's-eye painted on your jack, to be the better but for archery, sirre. Ye shall show me the way. I will show you any way, Sir Daniel, but the way to change sides. Returned Clipsby, sturdily. Sir Daniel laughed to give four. Why, well said, he cried, has to shrew tongue in thy mouth. Go to. I will forgive you for that merry word. Selden? See them fed, both man and brute. The night re-entered the inn. Now, friend Dick, he said, fall to. Here is good ale and bacon. Eat while that I read. Sir Daniel opened the packet, and as he read his brow darkened. When he had done, he sat a little, musing. Then he looked sharply at his ward. Dick, said he, he have seen this penny-rime? The lad replied in the affirmative. It bears your father's name, continued the night, and our poor shrew of a parson is, by some mad soul, accused of slaying him. He did most eagerly deny it, answered Dick. He did, cried the night very sharply. He'd him not. He has a loose tongue, he babbles like a jack sparrow. Someday, when I may find the leisure, Dick, I will myself more fully inform you of these matters. There was one duck-worth shrewdly blamed for it. But the times were troubled, and there was no justice to be got. It befell at the moat-house, Dick ventured, with a beating at his heart. It befell between the moat-house and Hollywood, replied Sir Daniel calmly. But he shot a covert glance, black with suspicion, at Dick's face. And now, added the night, speed you with your meal. You shall return to Tunstall with a line from me. Dick's face fell sorely. Pretty, Sir Daniel, he cried, send one of the villains. I beseech you, let me to the battle. I can strike a stroke, I promise you. I must doubt it not, replied Sir Daniel, sitting down to write. But here, Dick, is no honour to be won. I lie in carefully till I have sure tidings of the war, and then ride to join me with the conqueror. Cry not on cowardice, it is but wisdom, Dick. For this poor realm so tosseth with rebellion, and the king's name and custody so changeeth hands, that no man may be certain of the morrow. Toss-pot and shuttle-wit run in. But my lord, good counsel, sits o' one side, waiting. With that, Sir Daniel, turning his back to Dick, and quite at the farther end of the long table, began to write his letter with his mouth on one side. For the business of the black arrow is stuck sorely in his throat. Meanwhile, young Shelton was going on heartily enough with his breakfast, when he felt a touch upon his arm and a very soft voice whispering in his ear. Make not a sound, I do beseech you, said the voice. But of your charity, tell me the straight way to Hollywood. Beseech you, now, good boy, comfort a poor soul in peril and extreme distress, and set me so far forth upon the way to my repose. Take the path by the windmill, and sit, Dick, in the same tone. It will bring you to till ferry, there inquire again. And without turning his head, he fell again to eating. But with the tail of his eye he caught a glimpse of the young lad, called Master John, stealthily creeping from the room. Why, thought Dick, he is as young as I. Good boy, doth he call me. And I had known, I should have seen the violet hang there, I had told him. Well, if he goes to defend, I may come up with him and pull his ears. Half an hour later, Sir Daniel gave Dick the letter, and bait him speed to the moat-house. And again, some half an hour after Dick's departure, a messenger came, in hot haste, from my Lord of Risingham. Sir Daniel, the messenger said, he lose great honour by my sooth. The fight began again this morning ere the dawn, and we have beaten their van and scattered their right wing. Only the main battle standeth fast. And we had your fresh men, we should tilt you them all into the river. What so night? Will ye be the last? It stands not with your good credit. Nay, cried the night. I was, but now upon the march. Selden, found me the tucket. Sir, I am with you on the instant. It is not two hours since the more part of my command came in, sir messenger. What would ye have? Spurring his good meat, but yet it killed the charger. Bustle-boys! By this time the tucket was sounding cheerly in the morning, and from all sides Sir Daniel's men poured into the main street and formed before the inn. They had slept upon their arms with charges saddled, and in ten minutes five score men at arms and arches, cleanly equipped and briskly disciplined, stood ranked and ready. The chief part were in Sir Daniel's livery, Murray and Blue, which gave the greatest show to their array. The best arm drove first, and away out of sight, at the tail of the column, came the sorry reinforcement of the night before. Sir Daniel looked with pride along the line. Here be the lads to serve you in a pinch, he said. They are pretty men indeed, replied the messenger. It but augments my sorrow that he had not marched the earlier. Well, said the night, what would ye? The beginning of a feast and the end of a fray, it's a messenger, and he mounted into his saddle. Why, how now, he cried. John, join her. Nay, by the sacred rude, where is she? Host, where is that girl? Girl, Sir Daniel, cried the landlord. Nay, sir, I saw no girl. Boy, then, doth add, cried the night. Could ye not see it was a wench? She in the Murray-coloured mantle. She that broke her fast with water-row. Where is she? Nay, the saint's blesses. Master John, ye called him, said the host. Well, I thought non-evil. He is gone. I saw him, her. I saw her in the stable, a good hour gone. I was saddling a grey horse. Now, by the rude, cried Sir Daniel, the wench was worth five hundred pound to me and more. Sir Knight, observed the messenger with bitterness. While that ye are here, roaring for five hundred pounds, the realm of England is elsewhere being lost in one. It is well said, replied Sir Daniel. Selden, fall me out with six crossbowmen. Hunt me her down. I cannot what it cost, but at my returning, let me find her at the moat-house. Be it upon your head. And now, Sir Messenger, we march. And the troop broke into a good trot, and Selden and his six men were left behind. The six men were left behind upon the street of Ketley, with the staring villagers. End of chapter one, book one. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Jeremy Pavier. The Black Arrow, A Tale of the Two Roses, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Book one, The Two Lads. Chapter two, In the Fen. It was near six in the main morning when Dick began to ride down into the Fen upon his homeward way. The sky was all blue, the jolly wind blew loud and steady, the windmill sails were spinning, and the willows all over the Fen rippling and whitening like a field of corn. He had been all night in the saddle, but his heart was good and his body sound, and he rode right merrily. The path went down and down into the marsh, till he lost sight of all the neighbouring landmarks, but Ketley windmill on the knoll behind him, and the extreme top of Tunstall Forest far below. On either hand there were great fields of blowing reeds and willows, pools of water shaking in the wind, and treacherous bogs, as green as emerald, to tempt and to portray the traveller. The path lay almost straight through the morass. It was already very ancient. Its foundation had been laid by Roman soldiery. In the laps of ages much of it had sunk, and every here and there, for a few hundred yards, it lay submerged below the stagnant waters of the Fen. About a mile from Ketley, Dick came to one such break in the plain line of Causeway, where the reeds and willows grew dispersedly, like little islands and confused the eye. The gap, besides, was more than usually long. It was a place where any stranger might come readily to mischief, and Dick bethought him with something like a pang of the lad whom he had so imperfectly directed. As for himself, want to look backward to where the windmill's sails were turning black against the blue of heaven, want to look forward to the high ground of Tunstall Forest, and he was sufficiently directed and held straight on, the water washing to his horse's knees, as safe as on a highway. Halfway across, and when he had already cited the path rising high and dry upon the farther side, he was aware of a great splashing on his right, and saw a grey horse sunk to its belly in the mud, and still spasmodically struggling. Instantly, as though it had divined the neighborhood of help, the poor beast began to neigh most piercingly. It rolled, meanwhile, a bloodshot eye, insane with terror, and as it sprawled, wallowing in the quag, clouds of stinging insects rose and buzzed about it in the air. A lack, thought Dick, can the poor lad have perished? There is his horse for certain, a brave grey. Nay, comrade, if thou cryest to me so pitiously, I will do all man can to help thee. Shalt not lie there to drown by inches, and he made ready his crossbow, and put a quarrel through the creature's head. Dick rode on after this act of rugged mercy, somewhat sobered in spirit, and looking closely about him for any sign of his less happy predecessor in the way. I would I had dared to tell him further, he thought, for I fear he has miscarried in the slough. And just as he was so thinking, a voice cried upon his name from the causeway side, and looking over his shoulder, he saw the lad's face peering from a clump of reeds. Are you there? he said, reigning in. He lay so close among the reeds that I had passed you by. I saw your horse be mired, and put him from his agony, which by my soothe, and he had been a more merciful rider you had done yourself. But come forth after your hiding. He had been none to trouble you. Nay, good boy, I have no arms, nor skill to use them if I had, replied the other, stepping forth upon the pathway. Why, call me boy, cried Dick, you are not a drow the elder of us twain? Good Master Shelton said the other, pretty forgive me, I have none the least intention to offend, rather I would in every way beseech your gentleness and favour, for I am now worst bested than ever, having lost my way, my cloak, and my poor horse. To have a riding rod and spurs, and never a horse to sit upon. And before all, he added, looking roofily upon his clothes, before all to be so sorely besmurched. Tut, cried Dick, would you mind a ducking? Blood of wound or dust of travel, that's a man's adornment. Nay, then, I like him better plain, observed the lad, but pretty, how shall I do? Pretty, good Master Richard, help me with your good counsel. If I come not safe to Hollywood, I am undone. Nay, said Dick, my dismounting, I will give more than counsel, take my horse and I will run awhile, and when I am weary, we shall change again. That so, riding and running, both may go the speedier. So the change was made, and they went forward as briskly as they durst on the uneven causeway. Dick with his hand upon the other's knee. How call ye your name, as Dick? Call me John Machum, replied the lad. And what make ye to Hollywood, Dick continued. I seek sanctuary from a man that would oppress me, was the answer. The good abbot of Hollywood is a strong pillar to the weak. And how came he with Sir Daniel, Master Machum, pursued Dick? Nay, cried the other, by the abusive force. He hath taken me by violence from my own place, dressed me in these weeds, ridden with me till my heart was sick, jived me till I could have wept. And when certain of my friends pursued, thinking to have me back, clapped me in the rear to stand their shot, and was even grazed in the right foot, and walked but lamely. Nay, there shall come a day between us, he shall smart for all. But she shoot at the moon with a handgun, said Dick, tis a valiant night, and hath a hand of iron. And he guessed I had made or meddled with your flight, it would go sore with me. I, poor boy, return the other, yer is ward, I know it. By the same token so am I. Also he saith, or else he hath bought my marriage, I what not rightly which. But it is some handle to oppress me by. Boy again, said Dick. Nay, then, shall I call you girl, good Richard? asked Machum. Never a girl for me, return, Dick. I do abjure the crew of them. He speak boyishly, said the other. He think more of them than he pretend. Not I, said Dick, stoutly. They come not in my mind. I plague of them, say I. Give me to hunt, and to fight, and to feast, and to live with jolly foresters. I never heard of a maid yet that was for any service save one only. And she, poor Shrew, was burned for a witch, and the wearing of men's clothes in spite of nature. Master Machum crossed himself with fervour and appeared to pray. What make ye, Dick inquired? I pray for her spirit, answered the other, with somewhat troubled voice. For a witch's spirit, Dick cried. But pray for her, Annie List. She was the best wench in Europe, was this Joan of Arc. Old Appleyard the Archer ran from her, he said, as if she had been Mahoon. Nay, she was a brave wench. Well, but good Master Richard, resumed Machum. And ye like maid so little, ye are no true natural man. For God made them twain by intention, and brought true love into the world, to be man's hope and woman's comfort. Fah, said Dick, ye're a milk-stopping baby, so to harp on women. And ye think I be no true man, get down upon the path, and whether at fists, back-sword, or bow and arrow, I will prove my manhood on your body. Nay, I am no fighter, said Machum, eagerly. I mean no titl of offence. I meant but pleasantry. And if I talk of women, it is because I heard you were to marry. I, to marry, Dick exclaimed. Well, this is the first I hear of it. And with whom was I to marry? One Joan saidly, replied Machum, coloring. It was Sir Daniel's doing. He hath money to gain upon both sides, and indeed I have heard the poor wench bemoaning herself pitifully of the match. It seems she is of your mind, or else distasted to the bridegroom. Well, marriage is like death. It comes to all, said Dick with resignation. And she bemoaned herself. And I pray ye now, see there how shuttle-witted are these girls, to bemoan herself before that she had seen me. Do I bemoan myself? Not I. And I be to marry. I will marry dry-eyed. But if ye know her, pretty, of what favour is she? Fair or foul? And is she shrewish or pleasant? Nay, what matters it, said Machum. And ye are to marry, ye can but marry. What matters foul or fair? These be but toys. Ye are no milk-soap, Master Richard. Ye will wed with dry eyes anyhow. It is well said, replied Shelton. Little I rec. Your lady wife is like to have a pleasant lord, said Machum. She shall have the lord heaven made for her, returned Dick. It trow there be worse, as well as better. Ah, the poor wench, cried the other. And why so poor, asked Dick. To wed a man of wood, replied his companion. Well, me, for a wooden husband. I think I be a man of wood indeed, said Dick, to trudge a foot the while you ride my horse. But it is good wood, I trow. Good Dick, forgive me, cried the other. Nay, ye are the best-hearted England. But I laughed. Forgive me now, sweet Dick. Nay, no full words, returned Dick. Little embarrassed by his companion's warmth. No harm is done. I am not touchy, praise the saints. And at that moment, the wind, which was blowing straight behind them as they went, brought them the rough flourish of Sir Daniel's trumpeter. Hark, said Dick, the tuck it soundeth. I, said Machum, they have found my flight, and now I am unhorst. And he became pale as death. Nay, watch here, returned Dick. You have a long start, and we are near the ferry. And it is I, me thinks, that I am unhorst. I lack, I shall be taken, cried the fugitive. Dick, kind Dick, beseech he help me but a little. Point out what aileth thee, said Dick, me thinks I help you very patently. But my heart is so sorry for so spiritual as a fellow. And see ye here, John Machum. Sith, John Machum, is your name. I, Richard Shelton, tide what be tideth, come what may, will see you safe in Hollywood. The saints so do to me again if I default you. Come, pick me up a good heart, so white face. The way better's here. Spare me the horse, go faster, faster. Nay, mine not for me. I can run like a deer. So, with the horse trotting hard, and Dick running easily alongside, they crossed the remainder of the fed, and came out upon the banks of the river by the ferryman's hut. End of chapter two, book one. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Jeremy Pavier. The Black Arrow. A Tale of the Two Roses. By Robert Louis Stevenson. Book one. Chapter three. The Fen Ferry. The River Till was a wide, sluggish clay water, oozing out of fens, and in this part of its course, it strained among some score of willow-covered marshy islets. It was a dingy stream, but upon this bright, spirited morning, everything was become beautiful. The wind and the Martins broke it up into innumerable dimples, and the reflection of the sky was scattered over all the surface in crumbs of smiling blue. Creek ran up to meet the path, and close under the bank, the ferryman's hut lay snugly. It was of wattle and clay, and the grass grew green upon the roof. Dick went to the door and opened it. Within, upon a foul old russet cloak, the ferryman lay stretched and shivering, a great hulk of a man, but lean and shaken by the country fever. Hey, Master Shelton, he said. Be for the ferry. Ill times, ill times. Look to yourself. There is a fellow-ship abroad. You are better turn around on your two heels and try the bridge. Nay, time's in the saddle, answered Dick. Time will ride, Hugh ferryman. I am hot in haste. A willful man returned the ferryman rising, and you win safe to the moat house. You've done lucky, but I say no more. And then catching sight of Macham. Who be this, he asked, as he paused, blinking on the threshold of his cabin. It is my kinsman, Master Macham, answered Dick. Give you good day, good ferryman, said Macham, who had dismounted and now came forward, leading the horse. Launch me your boat, I prithee. We are sore in haste. The gaunt ferryman continued staring. By the mass, he cried at length and laughed with open throat. Macham collared to his neck and winced, and Dick, with an angry countenance, put his hand on the lout's shoulder. How now, churl, he cried, for to thy business and leave mocking thy betters. Hugh ferryman grumblingly undid his boat and shoved it a little forth into the deep water. Then Dick led in the horse and Macham followed. Ye be mortal, small maid, Master, said Hugh, with a wide grin. Something of the wrong model I'll be like. Nay, Master Sheldt, I'm for you, he added, getting to his oars. A cat may look at a king. I did but take a shot of the eye of Master Macham. Sira, no more words, said Dick. Bend me your back. They were by that time at the mouth of the creek, and the view opened up and down the river. Everywhere it was enclosed with islands. Clay banks were falling in, willows nodding, reeds waving, martins dipping and piping. There was no sign of man in the labyrinth of waters. My Master, said the ferryman, keeping the boat steady with one oar. I have a shrew guest that John Fenn is on the island. He bears me a black grudge to all of Sir Daniels. How if I turned me upstream and landed you an arrow flight above the path? You were best not meddle with John Fenn. How, then, is he of this company? As Dick. Nay, mom's the word, said Hugh. But I would go up water, Dick. How if Master Macham came by an arrow, and he laughed again? Be it so, Hugh, answered Dick. Lucky, then, pursued Hugh. Sit it shall so be. Unsling me your crossbow, so. Now make it ready. Good. Place me a quarrel. Aye. Keep it so, and look upon me grimly. What meaneth this? Ask Dick. Why, my master, if I steal you a cross, it must be under force or fear, replied the ferryman. For else, if John Fenn got wind of it, he would like to prove my most distrustful neighbour. Do these chills ride so roughly? Dick inquired. Do they command Sir Daniels own ferry? Nay, whispered the ferryman, winking. Mark me. Sir Daniel shall down. His time is out. He shall down. Mom. And he bent over his oars. They pulled a long way up the river, turned the tail of an island, and came softly down a narrow channel next the opposite bank. Then Hugh held water in midstream. I must land you here among the willows, he said. Here is no path but willow swamps and quagmires, answered Dick. Master Shelton, replied Hugh, I dare not take he nearer down for your own sake now. He watches me the ferry lying on his bow. All that go by, and O Sir Daniel goodwill, he shoot us down like rabbits. I heard him swear it by the rude. And I had not known you of old days, I, and from so high upward, I would have let you go on. But for old days' remembrance, and because you had this toy with you that's not fit for wounds of warfare, I did risk my two ears to have you over whole. Content you, I can know more on my salvation. Hugh was still speaking, lying on his oars, when there came a great shout from among the willows on the island, and sounds followed as of a strong man bristing roughly through the wood. I'm a rain, cried Hugh. He was on the upper island all the while. He pulled straight for sure. Threat me with your bow, good Dick. Threat me with it plain, he added. I have tried to save your skins, save you mine. The boat ran into a tough thicket of willows with a crash. Matchum, pale but steady and alert, and a sign from Dick ran along with thwarts and leaped ashore. Dick, taking the horse by the bridle, sought to follow. But what with the animals' bulk and what with the closeness of the thicket, both stuck fast. The horse, nade and trampled, and the boat, which was swinging in eddy, came on and off and pitched with violence. It may not be Hugh. Here is no landing, cried Dick. But he still struggled valiantly with the obstinate thicket and the startled animal. A tall man appeared upon the shore of the island, a longbow in his hands. Dick saw him for an instant, with a corner of his eye, bending the bow with a great effort. His face crimson with hurry. Who goes, he shouted. Hugh, who goes? Tis master Shelton, John, replied the ferryman. Stand, Dick Shelton, bawled the man upon the island. You shall have no hurt upon the rude. Stand, back out, Hugh and ferryman. Dick cried a taunting answer. Nay, then, you shall go off foot, returned the man, and he let drive an arrow. The horse, struck by the shaft, lashed out in agony and terror. The boat capsized, and the next moment all was struggling in the eddies of the river. When Dick came up, he was within a yard of the bank. And before his eyes were clear, his hand had closed on something firm and strong that instantly began to drag him forward. It was the riding rod that match him, crawling forth upon an overhanging willow, had opportunally thrust into his grasp. By the mass, cried Dick, as he was held to shore, that makes a life I owe you. I swim like a cannonball. And he turned instantly towards the island. Midway over, Hugh ferryman was swimming with his upturned boat, while John Affen, furious at the ill fortune of his shot, bawled him to hurry. Come, Jack, said Shelton, run for it. And Hugh can hail his barge across, or the pair of them can get it righted. We may be able to cry. And adding an example to his words, he began to run, dodging among the willows, and marshy places leaping from tussock to tussock. He had no time to look for his direction. All he could do was turn his back upon the river, and put all his heart to running. Presently, however, the ground began to rise, which showed him he was still in the right way. And soon after, they came forth upon a slope of solid turf, where elms began to mingle with the willows. But here match him, who had been dragging far into the rear, threw himself fairly down. Leave me, Dick, he cried pantingly. I can no more. Dick turned and came back to where his companion lay. Nay, Jack, leave thee, he cried. That were a knave's trick, to be sure. When you risked a shot and a ducking, I and a drowning too, to save my life. Drowning ensues, for why I did not pull you in along with me. The saints alone can tell. Nay, said match him, I would have saved us both, good Dick, for I can swim. Can ye so? cried Dick with open eyes. It was the one manly accomplishment, of which he was himself incapable. In the order of the things that he admired, next to having killed a man in a single fight, came swimming. Well, he said, here is a lesson to despise no man. I promise to care for you as far as Hollywood, and by the rude Jack, you are more capable to care for me. Well, Dick, we're friends now, said match him. Nay, I never was unfriend, answered Dick. You're a brave lad in your way, albeit something of a milk-soap, too. I never met your like before this day. But Prithee, fetch back your breath and let us on. Here is no place for chatter. My foot hurt shrewdly, said match him. Nay, I have forgot your foot, returned Dick. Well, we must go the gentler. I would, I knew rightly where we were. I have clean lost the path. Yet that may be for the better, too. And they watched the ferry, they watched the path be like as well. I would, Sir Daniel, were back with two score men. He would sweep me these rascals as the wind sweeps leaves. Come, Jack, lean ye on me shoulder ye poor shrew. Nay, ye're not tall enough. What age are ye for a wager? Twelve? Nay, I am sixteen, said match him. Ye're poorly grown to height, then, answered Dick. But take my hand. We shall go softly, never fear. I owe you a life. I am a good repayer, Jack, of good or evil. They began to go forward up the slope. We must hit the road early or late, continued Dick. And then, for a fresh start. By the mass. But ye have a rickety hand, Jack. If I had a hand like that, I would think shame. I tell you, he went on with a shudden chuckle. I swear by the mass, I believe Hugh Ferryman took ye for a maid. Nay, never cried the other, colouring high. I did, though, for a wager, Dick exclaimed. Small blame to him. Ye look like a maid than a man. And tell ye more, ye're a strange-looking rogue for a boy. But for a hussy, Jack, ye would be right fair. Ye would. Ye would be well favoured for a wedge. Well, said match him. Ye know right well that I am none. Nay, I know that. I do but jest, said Dick. Ye'll be a man before ye mother, Jack. What cheer, my bully? Ye shall strike shrewd strokes. Now, which, I mile, of you or me, ye shall be first night to Jack. For nighted I shall be your die-fought. Sir Richard Shelton Knight. It soundeth bravely. But sir John Matchum soundeth not amiss. Pretty Dick, stop till I drink, said the other, pausing where a little clear spring welled out of the slope into a gravel base and no bigger than a pocket. And oh, Dick, if I might come by anything to eat, my very heart aches with hunger. Why, fool, did ye not eat a Kettle, as Dick? I had made a vow. It was a sin I had been led into, stammered Matchum. But now, if it were but dry bread, I would eat it greedily. Said she then and eat, said Dick, for that I scout a little forward for the road. And he took a wallet from his girdle, wherein were bread and pieces of dry bacon. And while Matchum fell heartily too, struck farther forth among them trees. A little beyond, there was a dip in the ground, or a string that soaked among dead leaves. And beyond that, again, the trees were better grown and stood wider, and oak and beech began to take the place of willow and elm. The continued tossing and pouring of the wind among the leaves sufficiently concealed the sounds of his footsteps on the mast. It was for the ear what a moonless night is to the eye. But for all that, Dick went cautiously, slipping from one big trunk to another, and looking sharply about him as he went. Suddenly a doe passed like a shadow through the underwood in front of him, and he paused, disgusted at the chance. This part of the wood had been certainly deserted. But now that the poor deer had run, she was like a messenger he would have sent before him to announce his coming. And instead of pushing farther, he turned him to the nearest well-grown tree and rapidly began to climb. Luck had served him well. The oak on which he had mounted was one of the tallest in that quarter of the wood, and easily out-topped its neighbours by a fathom and a half. And when Dick had clambered into the topmost fork, and clung there, swinging dizzily in the great wind, he saw behind him the whole ferry plain as far as Kettle, and the till, wandering on the woody islets, and in front of him the white line of high road winding through the forest. The boat had been righted. It was even now midway on the ferry. Beyond that there was no sign of man, nor aught moving but the wind. He was about to descend, when, taking a last view, his eye lit upon a string of moving points about the middle of the fen. Plainly, a small troop was threading the causeway, and that at a good pace. And this gave him some concern as he shinned vigorously down the trunk and returned across the wood for his companion. End of book one, chapter three. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Red by Jeremy Pauvier. The Black Arrow. A Tale of the Two Roses by Robert Louis Stevenson. Book one, chapter four, a Greenwood Company. Machin was well rested and revived, and the two lads, winged by what Dick had seen, hurried through the remainder of the outwood, crossed the road in safety, and began to mount into the high ground of Tunstall Forest. The trees grew more and more in groves, with heathy places in between, sandy, gorsy, and dotted with old ewes. The ground became more and more uneven, full of pits and hillocks. And with every step of the ascent, the wind still blew the shriller, and the trees bent before the gusts like fishing rods. They had just entered one of the clearings, when Dick suddenly clapped down upon his face among the brambles, and began to crawl slowly backward towards the shelter of the grove. Machin, in great bewilderment, for he could see no reason for this flight, still imitated his companion's course, and it was not until they had gained the harbour of a thicket that he turned and begged him to explain. For all reply, Dick pointed with his finger. At the far end of the clearing, a fir grew high above the neighbouring wood, and planted its black shock of foliage clear against the sky. For about fifty feet above the ground, the trunk grew straight and solid like a column. At that level, it split into two massive boughs, and in the fork, like a mast-headed seaman, there stood a man in a green tabard, spying far and wide. The sun glistened upon his hair. With one hand he shaded his eyes to look abroad, and he kept slowly rolling his head from side to side with the regularity of a machine. The lads exchanged glances. Let us try to the left, said Dick. We had near fallen fowl, Jack. Ten minutes afterwards, they struck into a beaten path. Here is a piece of forest that I know not, Dick remarked. Where goeth me this track? Let us even try, said Machin. A few yards further, the path came to the top of a ridge, and began to go down abruptly to a cup-shaped hollow. At the foot, out of a thick wood of flowering hawthorn, two or three roofless gables, blackened as if by fire, and a single tall chimney marked the ruins of a house. What may this be? whispered Machin. An A by the mast I know not, answered Dick. I am all at sea. Let us go warily. With beating hearts, they descended through the hawthorns. Here and there, they passed signs of recent cultivation. Fruit trees, and pot herbs, ran wild among the thickets. Your sundial had fallen in the grass. It seemed they were treading what once had been a garden, yet a little farther, and they came forth before the ruins of the house. It had been a pleasant mansion, and a strong. A dry ditch was dug deep about it, but it was now choked with masonry and bridged by a fallen rafter. The two father walls still stood, the sun shining through their empty windows, but the remainder of the building had collapsed, and now lay in a great can of ruin, grime with fire. Already, in the interior, a few plants were springing green among the chinks. Now I bethink me, whispered Dick. This must be Grimstone. It was a hold of one Simon Malmesbury. Sir Daniel was his bane. It was Bennett Hatch that burned it, and now five years ago. Nin Seuth was a pity, for it was a fair house. Down in the hollow, where no wind blew, it was both warm and still, and Macham, laying one hand upon Dick's arm, held up a warning finger. Hissed, he said. Then came a strange sound, breaking on the quiet. It was twice repeated, how they recognised its nature. It was the sound of a big man clearing his throat. It was the sound of a big man clearing his throat. And just then a hoarse, untuneful voice broke into singing. Then up and spake the master, the king of the outlaws, would make ye hear my merry men among the greenwood shores. And Gamelin made answer, he looked never a down, or they must need to walk in wood that may not walk in town. The singer paused. A faint clink of iron followed. And then silence. The two lads stood looking at each other. Whoever he might be, their invisible neighbour, was just beyond the ruin. And suddenly the colour came into Macham's face, and the next moment he had crossed the fallen rafter, and was climbing cautiously on the huge pile of lumber that filled the interior of the ruthless house. Dick would have withheld him, had he been in time, as it was, he was faint to follow. Right in the corner of the ruin, two rafters had fallen crosswise, and protected a clear space no larger than a pew in church. Into this the lads silently lowered themselves. There they were perfectly concealed, and through an arrow loophole commanded a view upon the further side. Peering through this, they were struck stiff with terror at their predicament. To retreat was impossible, they scarce dares to breathe. Upon the very margin of the ditch, not thirty feet from where they crouched, an iron cauldron bubbled and steamed above a glowing fire, and close by, in an attitude of listening, as though he had caught some sound of their clamouring among the ruins, a tall, red-faced, buttered-looking man stood poised, an iron spoon in his right hand, a horn and a formidable dagger at his belt. Plainly this was the singer. Plainly he had been stirring the cauldron, when some unconscious step among the lumber had fallen upon his ear. A little further off, another man lay slumbering, rolled in a brown cloak, with a butterfly hovering above his face. All this was in a clearing white with daisies, and at an extreme verge, a bow, a sheaf of arrows, and part of a deer's carcass hung upon a flowering hawthorn. Presently the fellow relaxed from his attitude of attention, raised the spoon to his mouth, tasted its contents, nodded, and then fell again to stirring and singing. Oh, that he must need to walk in wood, that may not walk in town, he croaked, taking up his song where he'd left it. Oh, sir, we walk not here at all an evil thing to do, but if we meet with a good king's deer to shoot a shaft in two. Still as he sang, he took from time to time another spoonful of the broth, blew upon it, and tasted it with all the airs of an experienced cook. At length, apparently, he judged the mess was ready. For taking the horn from his girdle, he blew three modulated calls. The other fellow awoke, rolled over, brushed away the butterfly, and looked about him. How now, brother, he said, dinner? I sought, replied the cook, dinner it is, and a dry dinner, too, with neither ale nor bread. But there is little pleasure in the green wood now. Time was when a good fellow could live here like a mitered abbot, set aside the rain and the white frosts, he had his heart's desire both of ale and wine. But now a man's spirit's dead, and there's John Amendole, savers and guarders, but a stuffed booby to scare crows with awe. Now he returned the other, he are too set on meat and drinking lollies. Bid ye a bit, the good time cometh. Lucky, returned the cook. I've even waited for this good time, sith, I was so high. I've been a great friar, I've been a king's archer, I've been a shipment and sailed the salt seas, and I've been in the green wood, before this, for sooth, and shot the king's deer. What cometh of it? Nought. I were better to have bided in the cloister. John Abbott availeth more than John Amendole. By a lady here they come, and one after another tall, likely fellows began to stroll into the lawn. Each as he came, produced a knife and a horned cup, helped himself from the cauldron, and sat down upon the grass to eat. They were very variously equipped and armed, some in rusty smocks and with nothing but a knife and an old bow, others in the height of forest gallantry, all in Lincoln Green, both hood and jerkin, with dainty peacock arrows in their belts, a horn upon a baldrick, and a sword and dagger at their sides. They came in the silence of hunger, and scarce growled a salutation, but fell instantly to meat. There were perhaps a score of them already gathered, when a sound of suppressed cheering arose close by among the hawthorns, and immediately after, five or six woodmen carrying a stretcher debauched upon the lawn. A tall, lusty fellow, somewhat grizzled, and as brown as a smoked ham, walked before them with an air of some authority, his bow at his back, a bright bore spear in his hand. Lads, he cried, good fellows all and my right merry friends, you have sung this while on a dry whistle and lived at little ease. But what said I ever? Abide fortune constantly, she turneth, turneth swift, and lo, here is her little firstling, even that good creature, ale. There was a murmur of applause, as the bearers sat down the stretcher and displayed a goodly cask. And now hasty boys, the man continued, there is work to ward. A handful of archers are, but now come to the ferry. Murray and Blue is there where, they are our butts. They shall all taste arrows. No man of them shall struggle through this wood. For lads, we are here some fifty strong, each man of us most foully wronged. For some, they've lost lands, and some friends. And some, they have been outlawed, all oppressed. Who then has done this evil? Sir Daniel by the root. Shall he then profit? Shall he sit snug in our houses? Shall he till our fields? Shall he suck the bone he rubbed us off? I try not. He getteth him strength at law. He gaineth cases. Nay, there is one case he shall not gain. I have a writ here at my belt, that please the saints shall conquer him. Lawless the cook was by this time already at his second horn of ale. He raised it, as if to pledge the speaker. Master Ellis, he said. You are for vengeance. Well, it be come with you. But your poor brother of the Greenwood had never lands to lose, nor friends to think upon. Lookers rather, for his poor part, to the profit of the thing. He had lever a gold noble, and a potl of canary wine, than all the vengeance is in purgatory. Lawless replied the other. To reach the moat house, Sir Daniel must pass the forest. We shall make that passage dearer a party than any battle. Then, when he hath got to earth, with such ragged handful as escape with ours, all his great friends fallen and fled away, and none to give him aid. We shall be Liga, that old fox about, and great shall be the fall of him. It is a fat buck, he will make a dinner for us all. Aye, returned Lawless, I have eaten many of these dinners beforehand. But the cooking of them is hot work, good Master Ellis. And meanwhile, what do we? We make black arrows, we write rhymes, and we drink fair cold water, that discomfortable drink. You are untrue, Will Lawless. You still smell of the grey fryer's buttery. Greed is your undoing, and said Ellis. We took twenty pounds from Apple Yard. We took seven marks from the messenger last night. A day ago, we had fifty from the merchant. And today, said one of the men, I stopped a fat partner riding a pace for Holywood. Here is his purse. Ellis counted the contents. Fly score shillings, he grumbled. Fool! He had more in his sandal or stitched into his tippet. Ya, but a child, Tom Coco, you have lost the fish. But for all that, Ellis pocketed the purse with nonchalance. He stood, leaning on his ball-spear, and looked round upon the rest. They, in various attitudes, took gregly of the venison potage, and liberally washed it down with ale. This was a good day. They were in luck. But business pressed, and they were speedy in their eating. The first comers had by this time even dispatched their dinner. Some lay down upon the grass and fell instantly asleep, like boa constrictors. Others talked together or overhauled their weapons, and one, whose puma was particularly gay, holding force and alehorn, began to sing. Here is no law in good green shore. Here is no lack of meat. It is merry and quiet with dear for our diet. In summer, when all is sweet. Come winter again with wind and rain. Come winter with snow and sleets. Get home to your places with hoods on your faces, and sit by the fire and eat. All this while, the two lads had listened and lain close. Only Richard Hernd slung his crossbow, and held ready in one hand the wind-ack, or grappling-iron, that he used to bend it. Otherwise, they had not dared to stir, and this scene of forest life had gone on before their eyes like a scene upon a theatre. But now, there came a strange interruption. The tall chimney, which overtopped the remainder of the ruins, rose right above their hiding place. There came a whistle in the air, and then a sounding smack, and the fragments of broken arrow fell about their ears. Someone from the upper quarters of the wood, perhaps the very sentinel they saw posted in the fur, had shot an arrow at the chimney-top. Matchum could not restrain a little cry, which he instantly stifled. And even Dick started with surprise, and dropped the wind-ack from his fingers. But to the fellas on the lawn, the shaft was an expected signal. And they were all afoot together, tightening their belts, testing their bow-strings, loosening sword and dagger in the sheath. Ellis held up his hand. His face had suddenly assumed a look of savage energy, the white of his eyes shone in his sun-brown face. Lads, you know your places. Let not one man's soul escape you. Apple-yard was a wet before a meal. Now we go to table. I have three men whom I will bitterly avenge. Harry Shelton, Simon Malsbury, and, striking his broad bosom, and Ellis duck-worth by their mass. Another man came, red with hurry, through the thorns. "'Tis not so genuine,' he panted. "'They are but seven. Is the arrow gone?' He distraught but now,' replied Ellis. "'Amarane,' cried the messenger. Me thought I heard it whistle, and I go dinnerless. In the space of a minute, some running, some walking sharply, courting as their stations were nearer or farther away. The men of the Black Arrow had all disappeared from the neighbourhood of the ruined house. And the cauldron and the fire, which was now burning low, and the dead deer's carcass on the Hawthorne, remained alone to testify they had been there. A Tale of the Two Roses by Robert Louis Stevenson Book 1 Chapter 5 Bloody as the Hunter The lads lay quiet till the last footstep had melted on the wind. Then they arose, and with many an ache, for they were weary with constraint, clambered through the ruins, and recrossed the ditch upon the rafter. Matchum had picked up the wind-ack and went first, Dick following stiffly with his crossbow on his arm. And now, said Matchum, forth to Holywood. To Holywood? cried Dick. When good fellow stands shot, not I, I would see you hanged first, Jack. You would leave me, would ye? Matchum asked. I, by my sooth, returned Dick, and I be not in time to warn these lads I will go die with them. But would you have me leave my own men that I have lived among? I shall not. Give me my wind-ack. But there was nothing further from Matchum's mind. Dick, he said, he swear before the saints that he would see me safe to Holywood. Would ye be Fosmoren? Would ye desert me, a perjurer? Nay, I swear for the best, return Dick. I meant it too, but now— But look ye, Jack, turn again with me. Let me but warn these men, and, if needs must, stand shot with them. Then shall all be clear, and I will on again to Holywood and purge my noath. Ye but deride me, and, Submatchum, these men ye go to succour, are the same that hunt me to my ruin. Dick scratched his head. I cannot help it, Jack, he said. Here is no remedy. What would ye? Ye run no great peril, man, and these are in the way of death. Death, he added. Think of it. What a murrin do ye keep me here for? Give me the wind-ack. Saint George, shall they all die? Richard Shelton, said Matchum, looking him squally in the face. Would ye then join party with Sir Daniel? Have ye not ears? Heard ye not this ellis, what he said? Or have ye no heart for your own kindly blood, and the father that men slew? Harry Shelton, he said, and Sir Harry Shelton was your father, as the sun shines in heaven. What would ye, Dick cried again? Would ye have me credit thieves? Nay, I have heard it before now, return Matchum. The fame goeth currently. It was Sir Daniel slew him. He slew him under oath. In his own house he shed the innocent blood. Heaven wearies for the avengernaught, and ye, the man's son, ye go about to comfort and defend the murderer. Jack! cried to them. I know not. It may be. What know I? But see here, this man hath bred me up and fostered me, and his men I have hunted with and played among, and to leave them in the hour of peril. Oh, man, if I did that, I was stark dead to honour. Nay, Jack, ye would not ask it. Ye would not wish me to be base. But your father, Dick, said Matchum, somewhat wavering, ye father, and your oath to me. Ye took the saints to witness. My father, cried Shelton, nay, he would have me go. If Sir Daniel slew him, when the hour comes, this hand shall slay Sir Daniel. But neither him nor his will I desert in peril. And for mine oath, good Jack, ye shall absolve me of it here. For the life's sake of many men that hurt you not, and for mine honour, ye shall set me free. I, Dick, never return, Matchum. And ye leave me, Yaffa sworn, and so I shall declare it. My blood heats, said Dick. Give me the Windack. Give it me. I'll not, said Matchum. I'll save you in your teeth. Not, cried Dick. I'll make you. Try it, said the other. They stood, looking in each other's eyes, each ready for a spring. Then Dick leaped. And though Matchum turned instantly and fled, in two bounds he was overtaken. The Windack was twisted from his grasp. He was thrown roughly to the ground, and Dick stood across him, flushed and menacing, with doubled fist. Matchum lay where he had fallen, with his face in the grass, not thinking of resistance. Dick bent his bow. I'll teach you, he cried fiercely. Oath or no oath, you may go hang for me. Then he turned and began to run. Matchum was on his feet at once, began running after him. What do you want? cried Dick, stopping. What make ye after me? Stand off. We'll follow, and I please, said Matchum. This wood is free to me. Stand back by, lady. We turned Dick, raising his bow. Ah, you're a brave boy, retorted Matchum. Shoot! Dick lowered his weapon in some confusion. See here, he said. You have done me ill enough. Go then. Go ye away, in fair ways, or whether I will or not, I must even drive ye to it. Well, said Matchum doggedly. Y'all are stronger. Do ye worst? I shall not leave to follow thee, Dick, unless thou makest me, he added. Dick was almost beside himself. He'd went against his heart to beat a creature so defenceless, and, for the life of him, he knew no other way to rid himself of this unwelcome, and, as he began to think, perhaps untrue companion. Y'all mad, I think, he cried. Fool fellow, I am hasting to your foes. As fast as foot can carry me, go I do that. I care not, Dick, replied the lad. If ye are bound to die, Dick, I'll die too. I would leave a go with you to prison and go free without you. Well, returned the other. I may stand no longer prating. Follow me, if ye must. But if ye play me false, shall but little advance you. Mark ye that. Shall have a quarrel in thine inwards, boy. So, saying, Dick took once more to his heels, keeping in the margin of the thicket, looking briskly about him as he went. At a good pace, he rattled out of the dell and came again in some more open quarters of the wood. To the left, a little eminence appeared, spotted with golden gorse, and crowned with a black tuft of furs. I shall see from there, he thought, and struck for it across a heathy clearing. He had gone but a few yards when Machum touched him on the arm and pointed. To the eastward of the summit there was a dip, and, as it were, a valley passing to the other side. The heath was not yet out. All the ground was rusty, like an unscowed buckler, and dotted sparingly with use. And there, one following another, Dick saw half a score green jerkins mount in the ascent, and marching at their head, conspicuous by his boarspear. Ellis duckworth in person. One after another gained the top, showed for a moment against the sky, and then dipped upon the further side until the last was gone. Dick looked at Machum with a kindlier eye. So, you are to be true to me, Jack, he asked. I thought you were of the other party. Machum began to sob. Pot cheer, cried Dick. Now, all the saints behold us, would you snivel for a word? You hurt me, sub-Machum. You hurt me when you threw me down. You are a coward to abuse your strength. Nay, that is fool's talk, said Dick roughly. You had no title to my wind-deck, Master John. I would have done right to have well basted you. If you go with me, you must obey me. And so, come. Machum had half a thought to stay behind. But seeing that Dick continued to scour full tilt towards the eminence, and not so much as looked across his shoulder, he soon thought better of that and began to run in turn. But the ground was very difficult and steep. Dick had already a long start and had, at any rate, the lighter heels. And he had long since come to the summit, crawled forward through the furs, and ensconced himself in a thick tuft of gorse before Machum, panting like a deer, rejoined him, and laid down in silence by his side. Below, in the bottom of a considerable valley, the shortcut from Tunstall-Hamlet wound downwards to the ferry. It was well beaten, and the eye followed it easily from point to point. Here, it was bordered by open glades, there the forest closed upon it. Every hundred yards, it ran beside an ambush. Far down the path, the sun shone on seven steel salads, and from time to time, as the trees opened, Selden and his men could be seen riding briskly, still bent upon Sir Daniel's mission. The wind had somewhat fallen, but still trostled merrily with the trees, and perhaps, had Appelyard been there, he would have drawn a warning from the troubled conduct of the birds. Now, Mark, Dick whispered, they'd be already well advanced into the wood, their safety lieth rather than continuing forward. But see ye where this wide glade runeth down before us, and in the midst of it, these two score trees make like an island, there with their safety, and they but come sound as far as that, I will make shift to warn them. But my heart misgiveth me, they are but seven against so many, and they but carry crossbows. The longbow jack will have the uppermost ever. Meanwhile, Selden and his men still wound up the path, ignorant of their danger, and momently drew nearer hand. Once indeed, they paused, drew into a group, and seemed to point and listen. But it was something from far away across the plain that had arrested their attention, a hollow growl of cannon that came from time to time upon the wind, and told of the great battle. It was worth the thought, to be sure, for if the voice of the big guns would thus become audible in tonsill forest, the fight must have rolled ever eastward, and the day, by consequence, gone sore against Ser Daniel and the lords of the dark rows. But presently, the little troop began again to move forward, and came next to a very open, heathy portion of the way. Where but a single tongue of forest ran down to join the road? They were but just a breast of this, when an arrow shone flying. One of the men threw up his arms, his horse reared, and both fell and struggled together in a mouth. Even from where the boys lay, they could hear the rumour of the men's voices crying out. They could see the startled horses prancing, and presently, as the troop began to recover from their first surprise, one fellow beginning to dismount, a second arrow from somewhat farther off glanced in a wide arch, a second rider bit the dust. The man who was dismounting lost hold upon the rain, and his horse fled, galloping, and dragged him by the foot along the road, bumping from stone to stone, and battered by the fleeing hooves. The four who still kept the saddle instantly broke and scattered. One wheeled and rode shrieking towards the ferry, the other three with loose rain and flying raiment came galloping up the road from Tunstall. From every clump they passed, an arrow sped. Soon a horse fell, but the rider found his feet and continued to pursue his comrades till a second shot dispatched him. Another man fell, then another horse. Out of the whole troop there was but one fellow left and he on foot. Only in different directions the noise of the galloping three riderless horses was dying fast to the distance. All this time not one of the assailants had for a moment shown himself. Here and there along the path horse or man rolled undispatched in his agony, but no merciful enemy broke cover to put them from their pain. The solitary survivor stood bewildered in the road beside his fallen charger. He had come the length of that broad glade with the island of timber pointed out by Dick. He was not perhaps five hundred yards from where the boys lay hidden and they could see him plainly looking to and fro in deadly expectation. But nothing came and the man began to pluck up his courage and suddenly unslung and bent his bow at the same time by something in his action. Dick recognized Seldon. At this offer of resistance from all about him in the cover of the woods they went up the sound of laughter. A score of men at least for this was the very thickest of the ambush joined in this cruel and untimely mirth. Then a narrow glanced over Seldon's shoulder and he leaped and ran a little back. Another dart struck quivering at his heel. He made for the cover. A third shaft leaped out right in his face and fell short in front of him. And then the laughter was repeated loudly rising and re-echoing from different thickets. It was plain that his assailants were but baiting him as men in those days baited the poor bull or as the cats still trifles with the mouse. The skirmish was well over. Farther down the road the fellow in green was already calmly gathering the arrows and now in the evil pleasure of their hearts they gave themselves the spectacle of their poor fellow sinner in his torture. Seldon began to understand. He uttered a roar of anger shouldered his crossbow and sent a quarrel and a venture into the wood. Chance favoured him for a slight cry responded. Then, throwing down his weapon Seldon began to run before him up the glade and almost in a straight line for Dick and Machum. The companions of the Black Arrow now began to shoot in earnest. But they were properly served. Their chance had passed. Most of them had now to shoot against the sun and Seldon as he ran bounded from side to side to baffle and deceive their aim. Best of all, by turning up the glade he had defeated their preparations. There were no marksmen posted higher up than the one whom he had just killed or wounded and the confusion of the forest's councils soon became apparent. A whistle sounded thrice and then again twice. It was repeated from another quarter. The woods on either side became full of the sound of people bursting through the Underwood and a bewildered deer ran out into the open stood for a second on three feet with nose in air and then plunged again into the thicket. Seldon still ran bounding. Ever and again an arrow followed him but still would miss. It began to appear as if he might escape. Dick had his bow armed, ready to support him. Even Machum, forgetful of his interest, took sides at heart for the poor fugitive and both lads glowed and trembled in the ardour of their hearts. He was within fifty yards of them when an arrow struck him and he fell. He was up again, indeed, upon the instant. But now he ran staggering and like a blind man turned aside from his direction. Dick leaped to his feet and waved to him. Here he cried, this way, here is help! Nay, run fellow, run! But just then a second arrow struck Seldon in the shoulder. Between the plates of his brigandine and piercing through his jack brought him like a stone to earth. Oh, the poor heart grabbed Machum with clasped hands. And Dick stood petrified upon the hill and marked for archery. Ten to one he had speedily been shot for the foresters were furious with themselves and taken unawares by Dick's appearance in the rear of their position. But instantly, out of a quarter of the woods surprisingly near to the two lads, a stentorian voice arose, the voice of Ellis Duckworth. Hold it, Rod! Shoot not! Take him alive! It is young Shelton! Harry's son! And immediately after, a shrill whistle sounded several times and was again taken up and repeated farther off. The whistle, it appeared, was John Amendall's battle trumpet, by which he published his directions. Ah, foul fortune, cried Dick! We are undone! Swiftly, Jack, come swiftly! And the pair turned and ran back through the open pine clump that covered the summit of the hill. End of book one, chapter five.