The Armourers Prentices | Page 3

porch a man, a few years over
thirty, likewise in mourning, with a paler, sharper countenance than the
brothers, and an uncomfortable pleading expression of self-
justification.
"How now, lads!" he said, "what means this passion? You have taken
the matter too hastily. There was no thought that ye should part till you
had some purpose in view. Nay, we should be fain for Ambrose to bide
on here, so he would leave his portion for me to deal with, and teach
little Will his primer and accidence. You are a quiet lad, Ambrose, and
can rule your tongue better than Stephen."
"Thanks, brother John," said Ambrose, somewhat sarcastically, "but
where Stephen goes I go."
"I would--I would have found Stephen a place among the prickers or

rangers, if--" hesitated John. "In sooth, I would yet do it, if he would
make it up with the housewife."
"My father looked higher for his son than a pricker's office," returned
Ambrose.
"That do I wot," said John, "and therefore, 'tis for his own good that I
would send him forth. His godfather, our uncle Birkenholt, he will
assuredly provide for him, and set him forth--"
The door of the house was opened, and a shrewish voice cried, "Mr.
Birkenholt--here, husband! You are wanted. Here's little Kate crying to
have yonder smooth pouch to stroke, and I cannot reach it for her."
"Father set store by that otter-skin pouch, for poor Prince Arthur slew
the otter," cried Stephen. "Surely, John, you'll not let the babes make a
toy of that?"
John made a helpless gesture, and at a renewed call, went indoors.
"You are right, Ambrose," said Stephen, "this is no place for us. Why
should we tarry any longer to see everything moiled and set at nought?
I have couched in the forest before, and 'tis summer time."
"Nay," said Ambrose, "we must make up our fardels and have our
money in our pouches before we can depart. We must tarry the night,
and call John to his reckoning, and so might we set forth early enough
in the morning to lie at Winchester that night and take counsel with our
uncle Birkenholt."
"I would not stop short at Winchester," said Stephen. "London for me,
where uncle Randall will find us preferment!"
"And what wilt do for Spring!"
"Take him with me, of course!" exclaimed Stephen. "What! would I
leave him to be kicked and pinched by Will, and hanged belike by
Mistress Maud?"

"I doubt me whether the poor old hound will brook the journey."
"Then I'll carry him!"
Ambrose looked at the big dog as if he thought it would be a serious
undertaking, but he had known and loved Spring as his brother's
property ever since his memory began, and he scarcely felt that they
could be separable for weal or woe.
The verdurers of the New Forest were of gentle blood, and their office
was well-nigh hereditary. The Birkenholts had held it for many
generations, and the reversion passed as a matter of course to the eldest
son of the late holder, who had newly been laid in the burial ground of
Beaulieu Abbey. John Birkenholt, whose mother had been of knightly
lineage, had resented his father's second marriage with the daughter of
a yeoman on the verge of the Forest, suspected of a strain of gipsy
blood, and had lived little at home, becoming a sort of agent at
Southampton for business connected with the timber which was yearly
cut in the Forest to supply material for the shipping. He had wedded the
daughter of a person engaged in law business at Southampton, and had
only been an occasional visitor at home, ever after the death of his
stepmother. She had left these two boys, unwelcome appendages in his
sight. They had obtained a certain amount of education at Beaulieu
Abbey, where a school was kept, and where Ambrose daily studied,
though for the last few months Stephen had assisted his father in his
forest duties.
Death had come suddenly to break up the household in the early spring
of 1515, and John Birkenholt had returned as if to a patrimony,
bringing his wife and children with him. The funeral ceremonies had
been conducted at Beaulieu Abbey on the extensive scale of the
sixteenth century, the requiem, the feast, and the dole, all taking place
there, leaving the Forest lodge in its ordinary quiet.
It had always been understood that on their father's death the two
younger sons must make their own way in the world; but he had hoped
to live until they were a little older, when he might himself have started
them in life, or expressed his wishes respecting them to their elder

brother. As it was, however, there was no commendation of them,
nothing but