The House of Walderne | Page 6

man of the party. He is tall of stature, his limbs those of a giant, his fist ponderous as a sledge hammer; a tunic of skins confined around the waist by a belt of untanned leather, in which is stuck a hunting knife, adorns his upper story: short breeches of skin, and leggings, with the undressed fur of a fox outside, complete his bedecking.
A loud barking of dogs was heard, then a trampling of horses; some looked astonished, others rose to their feet, and opening the door looked out into the storm.
"What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?"
"Some travellers I met outside as I was returning home from the chase, having got caught in the storm myself," replied a gruff voice; "they had seen our light, but were trying in vain to get into our nest."
"How many?"
"Two, a knight and a squire."
"Bring them in, in God's name; all are welcome tonight.
"But for all that," said he, sotto voce, "it may be easier to get in than out."
A brief pause, the horses were stabled, the guests entered.
"We have come to crave your hospitality," said the knight.
"It is free to all--sit you down, and in a few minutes the women will serve the supper."
They seated themselves--no names were asked, a few remarks were made upon that subject which interests all Englishmen so deeply even now--the weather.
"Hast travelled far?" asked the chieftain.
"Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we must have wandered miles from it."
"Many miles," said a low, sweet voice.
The knight then noticed the woman for the first time--he might have said lady--who sat on the right of this grim king. Her features and bearing were so superior to her surroundings that he started, as men do when they spy a rich flower in a garden of herbs. By her side was a boy, evidently her son, for he had her dark features, so unlike the general type around.
"How came such folk here?" thought De Montfort.
The meal was at length served, the stew poured into wooden bowls; no spoons or forks were provided. The fingers and the lips had to do their work unaided, in that day, at least in the huts of the peasantry. Bread, or rather baked corn cakes, were produced; herbs floated in the soup for flavouring; vegetables, properly so called, were there none.
Many a time had our travellers partaken of rougher fare in their campaigns, and they were well content with their food; so they ate contentedly with good appetite. The wind howled without, the snow found its way in through divers apertures, but the warmth of the central fire filled the hovel. Their hosts produced a decoction of honey, called mead, of which a little went a long way, and soon they were all quite convivial.
"Canst thou not sing a song, Stephen, like a gallant troubadour from the land of the sunny south, to reward our hosts for their entertainment?"
And Stephen sang one of the touching amatory ballads which had emanated so copiously from the unfortunate Albigenses of the land of Oc. The sweet soft sounds charmed, although the hosts understood not their meaning.
"And now, my lad, have not thy parents taught thee a song?" said the knight, addressing the boy.
"Sing thy song of the Greenwood, Martin," added the mother.
And the boy sang, with a sweet and child-like accent, a song of the exploits of the famous Robin Hood and Little John:
Come listen to me, ye gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear; And I will tell, of what befell, To a bold outlaw, in Nottinghamshire.
As Robin Hood, in the forest stood, Beneath the shade of the greenwood tree, He the presence did scan, of a fine young man, As fine as ever a jay might be.
Abroad he spread a cloak of red, A cloak of scarlet fine and gay, Again and again, he frisked over the plain, And merrily chanted a roundelay.
The ballad went on to tell how next day Robin saw this fine bird, whose name was Allan-a-dale, with his feathers all moultered; because his bonnie love had been snatched from him and was about to be wed to a wizened old knight, at a neighbouring church, against her will. And then how Robin Hood and Little John, and twenty-four of their merrie men, stopped the ceremony, and Little John, assuming the Bishop's robe, married the fair bride to Allan-a-dale, who thereupon became their man and took to an outlaw's life with his bonny wife.
"Well sung, my lad, but when thou shalt marry, I wish thee a better priest than Little John; here is a guerdon for thee, a rose noble; some day thou wilt be a famous minstrel.
"And now, my Stephen, let us sleep, if our good hosts will permit."
"There is a hut hard by, such as