Part 28 (1/2)
”Raymond, my beloved son,” he exclaimed in a voice broken with emotion, ”'tis hard that I should have to tell thee what I am about to utter, but, before Heaven, I must do it, both for mine own peace of mind and for thine own. Two score and three years ago this very day I slew a man. The quarrel was of his own seeking, 'tis true, but, nevertheless, the law was set against me, and I was made outlaw!”
The master-bowman paused to note the effect of this announcement, but, beyond a tightening of his lips, Redward betrayed no sign of dismay at this astounding confession.
”Then I fled from the country, and a.s.sumed a name to which I have no right,” resumed Redward. ”In this I did thee a great injustice, for the ban falls on the outlaw's children equally with himself; and on this account I ought never to have taken a wife or to have had a son.”
”I care not for myself, father. But what if, even now, thou art recognised?”
”It matters not, my son. A secret kept for over two score years may well remain a secret; but I have a misgiving that I shall never see the sun set to-morrow.”
”Father!”
”Nay, Raymond, 'tis but a small matter. I cannot live much longer, and to fall in battle is a worthy end. But the worst is to be told.
Thou wouldst marry the Lady Audrey!”
The young squire shuddered at the altered prospect.
”Alack a day!” he groaned.
”Ay, Raymond. I fear thou wilt curse the day thou camest into the world, for to my sorrow I must tell thee--the brother of that lady's father was the man I slew!”
For a moment the squire was incapable of speech, then, recovering himself with an effort, he exclaimed, ”Nay, father, I blame you not.
It is rather the fate of circ.u.mstances and my own foolish pride that made me look so high. I cannot for one moment continue my suit for the hand of the Lady Audrey, neither can I ever hope to wear the spurs of knighthood; but I am still thy son.”
”And wouldst thou know thy true name?”
”Not unless it please thee, father; 'Raymond Buckland' hath served me well these four-and-twenty years; but,” he added with pardonable curiosity, ”if I may I would desire to know.”
”Dost call to mind Sir Edmund Revyngton?”
”Indifferently so; I wot he is a knight of Devon.”
”He is also my brother, and, being without issue, his heir would be, but for the bar of outlawry, Redward Revyngton, now known to all men as Redward Buckland.”
It was a long story, that narrative of life marred by an act committed in a moment of anger, but breathlessly Raymond listened till the master-bowman had finished.
”And if so be thou comest scatheless from the wars,” he added, ”the abbot of Netley will deliver into thy hands certain doc.u.ments pertaining to thy welfare, and, should Heaven grant that this decree of outlawry be rescinded (though I shall never live to see the day), I pray that thou wilt ever acquit thyself as an honourable gentleman of Devon.”
Slowly father and son returned towards the camp, and as they pa.s.sed between the long lines of tents, Redward paused before a lodging in front of which was a s.h.i.+eld displaying a mailed hand argent on a field azure.
Leaving Raymond standing in the gloom, the master-bowman went up and spoke to a man-at-arms who stood outside the tent.
”My master cannot hold converse with any one this night, especially an archer,” exclaimed the man roughly.
”Convey my message to thy master and leave him to decide the point, sirrah!” replied Redward in a tone of authority, and, on seeing that a squire had joined him, the soldier obeyed.
Soon he reappeared, and holding open the flap of the tent, signed for the visitors to enter.
Following his father, Raymond saw a tall, well-built man, who in spite of his grey hairs and carefully-trimmed white beard, carried his years with ease. He had laid aside his armour, and, judging by the still lighted candles in front of a prie-dieu, he had but just risen from his orisons.