Part 33 (1/2)

”Dost feel well enough to walk?” the young knight asked, after a long pause.

”Yea, Sir Raymond.”

”Then get thee outside the camp, and bring me fresh tidings.”

The man obeyed, but ere long he returned, exclaiming: ”'Tis all over.

The enemy are nowhere in sight and our men are even now returning.”

”Then do not tarry longer, but go to thine own tent, for thou needest better care for thy hurts than I can give thee. This flask of wine I give thee, for, by St. Thomas, thou hast need of it. Nay, do not thank me, but away!”

Once more the camp was alive with men, for the threatened attack of the huge army that Philip had gathered together for the relief of Calais had been ignominiously repelled, and it was known that the fate of the town was sealed. Raymond gathered a fairly true account of the fight from the conversation and joyous exclamations of the elated soldiery, and presently Sir John Hacket, covered with dust and showing signs of the conflict, entered the tent.

”Art feeling better, Raymond?”

”Ay, Sir John. But how goes it with us?”

”Pa.s.sably well but ever I seem to be a messenger of momentous tidings to thee, whether of good or evil.”

”Then there is something amiss?” questioned the young man eagerly, instinctively surmising that the news was unfavourable.

”Yea, Raymond. My speech was ever blunt, and methinks the sooner I unburden myself of a message of ill-tidings the easier 'tis for both of us. Briefly, Sir Maurice hath fallen like the true and gallant knight he was, and thou art the last of the Revyngtons of Churston.”

”Alack-a-me that it should be so! For though I knew but little of him, I esteemed him a gallant, gentle, and honourable knight even before I wot he was my kinsman. And Sir Reginald Scarsdale--what of him?”

”His heart is stronger than his body. In the first impact he was swept from his saddle by a mere stripling.”

”And he is killed, wounded, or taken?”

”Neither, save that he is shaken by the fall, and the King vows that since he cannot hold his own against a youth he will send him home, seeing that his fighting days are over.”

”And does Sir Reginald know of this?”

”Ay, and if the King will not relent--and he is hard to turn from his purpose--'twill be the first Scarsdale since the Conquest whose feet on his altar-tomb rest not upon a lion.”

”Alas! the King's decision will hit him hard! Do you, Sir John, convey my expressions of regret to the gentle knight, and say that it will give me great pleasure should he deign to visit me.”

For several days more Raymond lay weak and ill in his tent, but as April drew on and the weather became warmer his strength began slowly to return. At length, pale and wan, the young knight was able to walk slowly about the camp, supported by two of his archers.

Still the siege continued, a long-drawn, tedious task, with little chance of knightly deeds of daring to earn advancement. The close-drawn lines of the besiegers still kept tenacious grip upon the town, and, though famine and disease wrought havoc amongst its gallant defenders, the end seemed as far off as ever.

The return of summer found Sir Raymond Revyngton completely restored in health, though still chafing with impatience at the life of inactivity, for the younger knights looked with disfavour upon the King's methods of conducting the siege, and would rather have had the opportunity of leading their men to the a.s.sault than sit down before the town waiting for famine to do its fell work.

Friendly tilting-matches, hawking, and sports of a similar nature were indulged in, and Raymond, with an exuberance of energy, took a leading part in the pastimes. Many a pleasant afternoon was spent in the open country around the English lines, hunting or making sport with hounds and falcons, for not an armed Frenchman was to be seen within twenty leagues of Calais, save the starving wretches within its gates.

One afternoon in July Raymond and a score of young knights rode south-eastwards along the sand-dunes, each knight accompanied by a mounted serving-man and a number of hounds. The country was not of a nature to yield much sport, yet, eager to while away the time, the little cavalcade rode carelessly on over the low sandhills.

On their right spread the blue waters of the English Channel, in front towered the chalky heights of Gris-nez, while behind lay the red-tiled houses and grey walls of Calais, with the semicircle of tents that marked the English lines.

At length they reached the summit of a low hill, and here they reined in their steeds.