Saint George for England | Page 5

his sister; "like enough some poor lady whose
husband has taken part in the troubles; but that is no business of ours.
Quick, Madge, and get these wet things off her; she is soaked to the
skin. I will go round to the Green Dragon and will fetch a cup of warm
cordial, which I warrant me will put fresh life into her."
So saying, he took down his flat cap from its peg on the wall and went
out, while his sister at once proceeded to remove the drenched
garments and to rub the cold hands of the guest until she recovered
consciousness. When Geoffrey Ward returned, the woman was sitting
in a settle by the fireside, dressed in a warm woolen garment belonging
to his sister.
Madge had thrown fresh wood on the fire, which was blazing brightly
now. The woman drank the steaming beverage which her host brought
with him. The colour came faintly again into her cheeks.
"I thank you, indeed," she said, "for your kindness. Had you not taken
me in I think I would have died at your door, for indeed I could go no
further; and though I hold not to life, yet would I fain live until I have
delivered my boy into the hands of those who will be kind to him, and
this will, I trust, be tomorrow."
"Say nought about it," Geoffrey answered; "Madge and I are right glad
to have been of service to you. It would be a poor world indeed if one
could not give a corner of one's fireside to a fellow-creature on such a
night as this, especially when that fellow creature is a woman with a
child. Poor little chap! He looks right well and sturdy, and seems to
have taken no ill from his journey."
"Truly, he is well and sturdy," the mother said, looking at him proudly;
"indeed I have been almost wishing today that he were lighter by a few
pounds, for in truth I am not used to carry him far, and his weight has
sorely tried me. His name is Walter, and I trust," she added, looking at

the powerful figure of her host, "that he will grow up as straight and as
stalwart as yourself." The child, who was about three years old, was
indeed an exceedingly fine little fellow, as he sat, in one scanty
garment, in his mother's lap, gazing with round eyes at the blazing fire;
and the smith thought how pretty a picture the child and mother made.
She was a fair, gentle-looking girl some two-and-twenty years old, and
it was easy enough to see now from her delicate features and soft
shapely hands that she had never been accustomed to toil.
"And now," the smith said, "I will e'en say good night. The hour is late,
and I shall be having the watch coming along to know why I keep a fire
so long after the curfew. Should you be a stranger in the city, I will
gladly act as your guide in the morning to the friends whom you seek,
that is, should they be known to me; but if not, we shall doubtless find
them without difficulty."
So saying, the smith retired to his bed of rushes in the smithy, and soon
afterwards the tired visitor, with her baby, lay down on the rushes in
front of the fire, for in those days none of the working or artisan class
used beds, which were not indeed, for centuries afterwards, in usage by
the common people.
In the morning Geoffrey Ward found that his guest desired to find one
Giles Fletcher, a maker of bows.
"I know him well," the smith said. "There are many who do a larger
business, and hold their heads higher; but Giles Fletcher is well
esteemed as a good workman, whose wares can be depended upon. It is
often said of him that did he take less pains he would thrive more; but
he handles each bow that he makes as if he loved it, and finishes and
polishes each with his own hand. Therefore he doeth not so much trade
as those who are less particular with their wares, for he hath to charge a
high price to be able to live. But none who have ever bought his bows
have regretted the silver which they cost. Many and many a gross of
arrowheads have I sold him, and he is well-nigh as particular in their
make as he is over the spring and temper of his own bows. Many a
friendly wrangle have I had with him over their weight and finish, and
it is not many who find fault with my handiwork, though I say it myself;
and now, madam, I am at your