Sir Nigel by Arthur Conan Doyle (good novels to read .TXT) 📕

His dress was as noteworthy as his person. A rich purple doublet and cloak was marked on the lapels with a strange scarlet device shaped like a wedge. Costly lace hung round his shoulders, and amid its soft folds there smoldered the dull red of a heavy golden chain. A knight’s belt at his waist and a knight’s golden spurs twinkling from his doeskin riding-boots proclaimed his rank, and on the wrist of his left gauntlet there sat a demure little hooded falcon of a breed which in itself was a mark of the dignity of the owner. Of weapons he had none, but a mandolin was slung by a black silken band over his back, and the high brown end projected above his shoulder. Such was the man, quaint, critical, masterful, with a touch of what is formidable behind it, who now surveyed the opposing groups of armed men and angry monks with an eye which commanded their attention.

“Excusez!” said he, in a lisping French. “Excusez, mes amis! I had thought to arouse from prayer or meditation, but never have I seen such a holy exercise as this under an abbey’s roof, with swords for breviaries and archers for acolytes. I fear that I have come amiss, and yet I ride on an errand from one who permits no delay.”

The Abbot, and possibly the sacrist also, had begun to realize that events had gone a great deal farther than they had intended, and that without an extreme scandal it was no easy matter for them to save their dignity and the good name of Waverley. Therefore, in spite of the debonair, not to say disrespectful, bearing of the newcomer, they rejoiced at his appearance and intervention.

“I am the Abbot of Waverley, fair son,” said the prelate. “If your message deal with a public matter it may be fitly repeated in the chapterhouse; if not I will give you audience in my own chamber; for it is clear to me that you are a gentle man of blood and coat-armor who would not lightly break in upon the business of our court - a business which, as you have remarked, is little welcome to men of peace like myself and the brethren of the rule of Saint Bernard.”

“Pardieu! Father Abbot,” said the stranger. “One had but to glance at you and your men to see that the business was indeed little to your taste, and it may be even less so when I say that rather than see this young person in the window, who hath a noble bearing, further molested by these archers, I will myself adventure my person on his behalf.”

The Abbot’s smile turned to a frown at these frank words. “It would become you better, sir, to deliver the message of which you say that you are the bearer, than to uphold a prisoner against the rightful judgment of a court.”

The stranger swept the court with his questioning eye. “The message is not for you, good father Abbot. It is for one whom I know not. I have been to his house, and they have sent me hither. The name is Nigel Loring.”

“It is for me, fair sir.”

“I had thought as much. I knew your father, Eustace Loring, and though he would have made two of you, yet he has left his stamp plain enough upon your face.”

“You know not the truth of this matter,” said the Abbot. “If you are a loyal man, you will stand aside, for this young man hath grievously offended against the law, and it is for the King’s lieges to give us their support.”

“And you have haled him up for judgment,” cried the stranger with much amusement. “It is as though a rookery sat in judgment upon a falcon. I warrant that you have found it easier to judge than to punish. Let me tell you, father Abbot, that this standeth not aright. When powers such as these were given to the like of you, they were given that you might check a brawling underling or correct a drunken woodman, and not that you might drag the best blood in England to your bar and set your archers on him if he questioned your findings.”

The Abbot was little used to hear such words of reproof uttered in so stern a voice under his own abbey roof and before his listening monks. “You may perchance find that an Abbey court has more powers than you wot of, Sir Knight,” said he, “if knight indeed you be who are so uncourteous and short in your speech. Ere we go further, I would ask your name and style?”

The stranger laughed. “It is easy to see that you are indeed men of peace,” said he proudly. “Had I shown this sign,” and he touched the token upon his lapels, “whether on shield or pennon, in the marches of France or Scotland, there is not a cavalier but would have known the red pile of Chandos.”

Chandos, John Chandos, the flower of English chivalry, the pink of knight-errantry, the hero already of fifty desperate enterprises, a man known and honored from end to end of Europe! Nigel gazed at him as one who sees a vision. The archers stood back abashed, while the monks crowded closer to stare at the famous soldier of the French wars. The Abbot abated his tone, and a smile came to his angry face.

“We are indeed men of peace, Sir John, and little skilled in warlike blazonry,” said he; ” yet stout as are our Abbey walls, they are not so thick that the fame of your exploits has not passed through them and reached our ears. If it be your pleasure to take an interest in this young and misguided Squire, it is not for us to thwart your kind intention or to withhold such grace as you request. I am glad indeed that he hath one who can set him so fair an example for a friend.”

“I thank you for your courtesy, good father Abbot,” said Chandos carelessly. “This young Squire has, however, a better friend than myself, one who is kinder to those he loves and more terrible to those he hates. It is from him I bear a message.”

“I pray you, fair and honored sir,” said Nigel, “that you will tell me what is the message that you bear.”

“The message, mon ami, is that your friend comes into these parts and would have a night’s lodging at the manor house of Tilford for the love and respect that he bears your family.”

“Nay, he is most welcome,” said Nigel, “and yet I hope that he is one who can relish a soldier’s fare and sleep under a humble roof, for indeed we can but give our best, poor as it is.”

“He is indeed a soldier and a good one,” Chandos answered, laughing, ” and I warrant he has slept in rougher quarters than Tilford Manor-house.”

“I have few friends, fair sir,” said Nigel, with a puzzled face. “I pray you give me this gentleman’s name.”

“His name is Edward.”

“Sir Edward Mortimer of Kent, perchance, or is it Sir Edward Brocas of whom the Lady Ermyntrude talks?”

“Nay, he is known as Edward only, and if you ask a second name it is Plantagenet, for he who comes to seek the shelter of your roof is your liege lord and mine, the King’s high majesty, Edward of England.”

VI. IN WHICH LADY ERMYNTRUDE OPENS THE IRON COFFER

AS in a dream Nigel heard these stupendous and incredible words. As in a dream also he had a vision of a smiling and conciliatory Abbot, of an obsequious sacrist, and of a band of archers who cleared a path for him and for the King’s messenger through the motley crowd who had choked the entrance of the Abbey court. A minute later he was walking by the side of Chandos through the peaceful cloister, and in front in the open archway of the great gate was the broad yellow road between its borders of green meadowland. The spring air was the sweeter and the more fragrant for that chill dread of dishonor and captivity which had so recently frozen his ardent heart. He had already passed the portal when a hand plucked at his sleeve and he turned to find himself confronted by the brown honest face and hazel eyes of the archer who had interfered in his behalf.

” Well,” said Aylward, “what have you to say to me, young sir?”

“What can I say, my good fellow, save that I thank you with all my heart? By Saint Paul! if you had been my blood brother you could not have stood by me more stoutly.”

“Nay! but this is not enough.”

Nigel colored with vexation, and the more so as Chandos was listening with his critical smile to their conversation. “If you had heard what was said in the court,” said he, “you would understand that I am not blessed at this moment with much of this world’s gear. The black death and the monks have between them been heavy upon our estate. Willingly would I give you a handful of gold for your assistance, since that is what you seem to crave; but indeed I have it not, and so once more I say that you must be satisfied with my thanks.”

“Your gold is nothing to me,” said Aylward shortly, “nor would you buy my loyalty if you filled my wallet with rose nobles, so long as you were not a man after my own heart. But I have seen you back the yellow horse, and I have seen you face the Abbot of Waverley, and you are such a master as I would very gladly serve if you have by chance a place for such a man. I have seen your following, and I doubt not that they were stout fellows in your grandfather’s time; but which of them now would draw a bowstring to his ear? Through you I have left the service of the Abbey of Waverley, and where can I look now for a post? If I stay here I am all undone like a fretted bowstring.”

“Nay, there can be no difficulty there,” said Chandos. “Padieu! a roistering, swaggering dare-devil archer is worth his price on the French border. There are two hundred such who march behind my own person, and I would ask nothing better than to see you among them.”

“I thank you, noble sir, for your offer,” said Aylward, ” and I had rather follow your banner than many another one, for it is well known that it goes ever forward, and I have heard enough of the wars to know that there are small pickings for the man who lags behind. Yet, if the Squire will have me, I would choose to fight under the five roses of Loring, for though I was born in the hundred of Easebourne and the rape of Chichester, yet I have grown up and learned to use the longbow in these parts, and as the free son of a free franklin I had rather serve my own neighbor than a stranger.”

“My good fellow,” said Nigel, “I have told you that I could in no wise reward you for such service.”

“If you will but take me to the wars I will see