Sir Nigel - Arthur Conan Doyle (the beginning after the end novel read .TXT) 📗

deeply modified the English fashions of dress. The old tunic, over-tunic and cyclas were too sad and simple for the new fashions, so now strange and brilliant cote-hardies, pourpoints, courtepies, paltocks, hanselines and many other wondrous garments, parti-colored or diapered, with looped, embroidered or escalloped edges, flamed and glittered round the King. He himself, in black velvet and gold, formed a dark rich center to the finery around him. On his right sat the Prince, on his left the Bishop, while Dame Ermyntrude marshaled the forces of the household outside, alert and watchful, pouring in her dishes and her flagons at the right moment, rallying her tired servants, encouraging the van, hurrying the rear, hastening up her reserves, the tapping of her oak stick heard everywhere the pressure was the greatest.

Behind the King, clad in his best, but looking drab and sorry amid the brilliant costumes round him, Nigel himself, regardless of an aching body and a twisted knee, waited upon his royal guests, who threw many a merry jest at him over their shoulders as they still chuckled at the adventure of the bridge.

“By the rood!” said King Edward, leaning back, with a chicken bone held daintily between the courtesy fingers of his left hand, “the play is too good for this country stage. You must to Windsor with me, Nigel, and bring with you this great suit of harness in which you lurk. There you shall hold the lists with your eyes in your midriff, and unless some one cleave you to the waist I see not how any harm can befall you. Never have I seen so small a nut in so great a shell.”

The Prince, looking back with laughing eyes, saw by Nigel’s flushed and embarrassed face that his poverty hung heavily upon him. ” Nay,” said he kindly, “such a workman is surely worthy of better tools.”

“And it is for his master to see that he has them,” added the King. “The court armorer will look to it that the next time your helmet is carried away, Nigel, your head shall be inside it.”

Nigel, red to the roots of his flaxen hair, stammered out some words of thanks.

John Chandos, however, had a fresh suggestion, and he cocked a roguish eye as he made it: “Surely, my liege, your bounty is little needed in this case. It is the ancient law of arms that if two cavaliers start to joust, and one either by maladdress or misadventure fail to meet the shock, then his arms become the property of him who still holds the lists. This being so, methinks, Sir Hubert de Burgh, that the fine hauberk of Milan and the helmet of Bordeaux steel in which you rode to Tilford should remain with our young host as some small remembrance of your visit.”

The suggestion raised a general chorus of approval and laughter, in which all joined, save only Sir Hubert himself, who, flushed with anger, fixed his baleful eyes upon Chandos’ mischievous and smiling face.

“I said that I did not play that foolish game, and I know nothing of its laws,” said he; “but you know well, John, that if you would have a bout with sharpened spear or sword, where two ride to the ground, and only one away from it, you have not far to go to find it.”

“Nay, nay, would you ride to the ground? Surely you had best walk, Hubert,” said Chandos. “On your feet I know well that I should not see your back as we have seen it to-day. Say what you will, your horse has played you false, and I claim your suit of harness for Nigel Loring.”

“Your tongue is overlong, John, and I am weary of its endless clack!” said Sir Hubert, his yellow mustache bristling from a scarlet face. “If you claim my harness, do you yourself come and take it. If there is a moon in the sky you may try this very night when the board is cleared.”

“Nay, fair sirs,” cried the King, smiling from one to the other, “this matter must be followed no further. Do you fill a bumper of Gascony, John, and you also, Hubert. Now pledge each other, I pray you, as good and loyal comrades who would scorn to fight save in your King’s quarrel. We can spare neither of you while there is so much work for brave hearts over the sea. As to this matter of the harness, John Chandos speaks truly where it concerns a joust in the lists, but we hold that such a law is scarce binding in this, which was but a wayside passage and a gentle trial of arms. On the other hand, in the case of your Squire, Master Manny, there can be no doubt that his suit is forfeit.”

“It is a grievous hearing for him, my liege,” said Walter Manny; “for he is a poor man and hath been at sore pains to fit himself for the wars. Yet what you say shall be done, fair sire. So, if you will come to me in the morning, Squire Loring, John Widdicombe’s suit will be handed over to you.”

“Then with the King’s leave, I will hand it back to him,” said Nigel, troubled and stammering; “for indeed I had rather never ride to the wars than take from a brave man his only suit of plate.”

“There spoke your father’s spirit!” cried the King. “By the rood! Nigel, I like you full well. Let the matter bide in my hands. But I marvel much that Sir Aymery the Lombard hath not come to us yet from Windsor.”

>From the moment of his arrival at Tilford, again and again King Edward had asked most eagerly whether Sir Aymery had come, and whether there was any news of him, so that the courtiers glanced at each other in wonder. For Aymery was known to all of them as a famous mercenary of Italy, lately appointed Governor of Calais, and this sudden and urgent summons from the King might well mean some renewal of the war with France, which was the dearest wish of every soldier. Twice the King had stopped his meal and sat with sidelong head; his wine-cup in his hand, listening attentively when some sound like the clatter of hoofs was heard from outside; but the third time there could be no mistake. The tramp and jingle of the horses broke loud upon the ear, and ended in hoarse voices calling out of the darkness, which were answered by the archers posted as sentries without the door.

“Some traveler has indeed arrived, my liege,” said Nigel. “What is your royal will?”

“It can be but Aymery,” the King answered, “for it was only to him that I left the message that he should follow me hither. Bid him come in, I pray you, and make him very welcome at your board.”

Nigel cast open the door, plucking a torch from its bracket as he did so. Half a dozen men-at-arms sat on their horses outside, but one had dismounted, a short, squat, swarthy man with a rat face and quick, restless brown eyes which peered eagerly past Nigel into the red glare of the well-lit hall.

“I am Sir Aymery of Pavia,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, tell me! is the King within?”

“He is at table, fair sir, and he bids you to enter.”

“One moment, young man, one moment, and a secret word in your ear. Wot you why it is that the King has sent for me?”

Nigel read terror in the dark cunning eyes which glanced in sidelong fashion into his. “Nay, I know not.”

“I would I knew - I would I was sure ere I sought his presence.”

“You have but to cross the threshold, fair sir, and doubtless you will learn from the King’s own lips.”

Sir Aymery seemed to gather himself as one who braces for a spring into ice-cold water. Then he crossed with a quick stride from the darkness into the light. The King stood up and held out his hand with a smile upon his long handsome face, and yet it seemed to the Italian that it was the lips which smiled but not the eyes.

“Welcome!” cried Edward. “Welcome to our worthy and faithful Seneschal of Calais! Come, sit here before me at the board, for I have sent for you that I may hear your news from over the sea, and thank you for the care that you have taken of that which is as dear to me as wife or child. Set a place for Sir Aymery there, and give him food and drink, for he has ridden fast and far in our service to-day.”

Throughout the long feast which the skill of the Lady Ermyntrude had arranged, Edward chatted lightly with the Italian as well as with the barons near him. Finally, when the last dish was removed and the gravy-soaked rounds of coarse bread which served as plates had been cast to the dogs, the wine-flagons were passed round; and old Weathercote the minstrel entered timidly with his harp in the hope that he might be allowed to play before the King’s majesty. But Edward had other, sport afoot.

“I pray you, Nigel, to send out the servants, so that we may be alone. I would have two men-at-arms at every door lest we be disturbed in our debate, for it is a matter of privacy. And now, Sir Aymery, these noble lords as well as I, your master, would fain hear from your own lips how all goes forward in France.”

The Italian’s face was calm; but he looked restlessly from one to another along the line of his listeners.

“So far as I know, my liege, all is quiet on the French marches,” said he.

“You have not heard then that they have mustered or gathered to a head with the intention of breaking the truce and making some attempt upon our dominions?”

“Nay, sire, I have heard nothing of it.”

“You set my mind much at ease, Aymery,” said the King; “for if nothing has come to your ears, then surely it cannot be. It was said that the wild Knight de Chargny had come down to St. Omer with his eyes upon my precious jewel and his mailed hands ready to grasp it.”

“Nay, sire, let him come. He will find the jewel safe in its strong box, with a goodly guard over it.”

“You are the guard over my jewel, Aymery.”

“Yes, sire, I am the guard.”

“And you are a faithful guard and one whom I can trust, are you not? You would not barter away that which is so dear to me when I have chosen you out of all my army to hold it for me?”

“Nay, sire, what reasons can there be for such questions? They touch my honor very nearly. You know that I would part with Calais only when I parted with my soul.”

“Then you know nothing of de Chargny’s attempt?”

“Nothing sire.”

“Liar and villain!” yelled the King, springing to his feet and dashing his fist upon the table until the glasses rattled again. “Seize him, archers! Seize him this instant! Stand close by either elbow, lest he do himself a mischief! Now do you dare to tell me to my face, you perjured Lombard, that you know nothing of de Chargny and his plans?”

“As God is my witness I know nothing of him!” The man’s lips were white, and he spoke in a thin, sighing, reedy voice, his eyes wincing away from the fell gaze of the angry King.

Edward laughed bitterly, and drew a paper from his breast. “You are the judges in this case, you, my fair son, and you, Chandos, and you, Manny, and you, Sir Hubert, and you also, my Lord Bishop. By