The Black Arrow

Chapter 3

It was near six in the May morning when d**k began to ride down

into the fen upon his homeward way. The sky was all blue; the

jolly wind blew loud and steady; the windmill-sails were spinning;

and the willows over all the fen rippling and whitening like a

field of corn. He had been all night in the saddle, but his heart

was good and his body sound, and he rode right merrily.

The path went down and down into the marsh, till he lost sight of

all the neighbouring landmarks but Kettley windmill on the knoll

behind him, and the extreme top of Tunstall Forest far before. On

either hand there were great fields of blowing reeds and willows,

pools of water shaking in the wind, and treacherous bogs, as green

as emerald, to tempt and to betray the traveller. The path lay

almost straight through the morass. It was already very ancient;

its foundation had been laid by Roman soldiery; in the lapse of

ages much of it had sunk, and every here and there, for a few

hundred yards, it lay submerged below the stagnant waters of the

fen.

About a mile from Kettley, d**k came to one such break in the plain

line of causeway, where the reeds and willows grew dispersedly like

little islands and confused the eye. The gap, besides, was more

than usually long; it was a place where any stranger might come

readily to mischief; and d**k bethought him, with something like a

pang, of the lad whom he had so imperfectly directed. As for

himself, one look backward to where the windmill sails were turning

black against the blue of heaven - one look forward to the high

ground of Tunstall Forest, and he was sufficiently directed and

held straight on, the water washing to his horse's knees, as safe

as on a highway.

Half-way across, and when he had already sighted the path rising

high and dry upon the farther side, he was aware of a great

splashing on his right, and saw a grey horse, sunk to its belly in

the mud, and still spasmodically struggling. Instantly, as though

it had divined the neighbourhood of help, the poor beast began to

neigh most piercingly. It rolled, meanwhile, a blood-shot eye,

insane with terror; and as it sprawled wallowing in the quag,

clouds of stinging insects rose and buzzed about it in the air.

"Alack!" thought d**k, "can the poor lad have perished? There is

his horse, for certain - a brave grey! Nay, comrade, if thou

criest to me so piteously, I will do all man can to help thee.

Shalt not lie there to drown by inches!"

And he made ready his crossbow, and put a quarrel through the

creature's head.

Dick rode on after this act of rugged mercy, somewhat sobered in

spirit, and looking closely about him for any sign of his less

happy predecessor in the way. "I would I had dared to tell him

further," he thought; "for I fear he has miscarried in the slough."

And just as he was so thinking, a voice cried upon his name from

the causeway side, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw the lad's

face peering from a clump of reeds.

"Are ye there?" he said, reining in. "Ye lay so close among the

reeds that I had passed you by. I saw your horse bemired, and put

him from his agony; which, by my sooth! an ye had been a more

merciful rider, ye had done yourself. But come forth out of your

hiding. Here be none to trouble you."

"Nay, good boy, I have no arms, nor skill to use them if I had,"

replied the other, stepping forth upon the pathway.

"Why call me 'boy'?" cried d**k. "Y' are not, I trow, the elder of

us twain."

"Good Master Shelton," said the other, "prithee forgive me. I have

none the least intention to offend. Rather I would in every way

beseech your gentleness and favour, for I am now worse bested than

ever, having lost my way, my cloak, and my poor horse. To have a

riding-rod and spurs, and never a horse to sit upon! And before

all," he added, looking ruefully upon his clothes - "before all, to

be so sorrily besmirched!"

"Tut!" cried d**k. "Would ye mind a ducking? Blood of wound or

dust of travel - that's a man's adornment."

"Nay, then, I like him better plain," observed the lad. "But,

prithee, how shall I do? Prithee, good Master Richard, help me

with your good counsel. If I come not safe to Holywood, I am

undone."

"Nay," said d**k, dismounting, "I will give more than counsel.

Take my horse, and I will run awhile, and when I am weary we shall

change again, that so, riding and running, both may go the

speedier."

So the change was made, and they went forward as briskly as they

durst on the uneven causeway, d**k with his hand upon the other's

knee.

"How call ye your name?" asked d**k.

"Call me John Matcham," replied the lad.

"And what make ye to Holywood?" d**k continued.

"I seek sanctuary from a man that would oppress me," was the

answer. "The good Abbot of Holywood is a strong pillar to the

weak."

"And how came ye with Sir Daniel, Master Matcham?" pursued d**k.

"Nay," cried the other, "by the abuse of force! He hath taken me

by violence from my own place; dressed me in these weeds; ridden

with me till my heart was sick; gibed me till I could 'a' wept; and

when certain of my friends pursued, thinking to have me back, claps

me in the rear to stand their shot! I was even grazed in the right

foot, and walk but lamely. Nay, there shall come a day between us;

he shall smart for all!"

"Would ye shoot at the moon with a hand-gun?" said d**k. "'Tis a

valiant knight, and hath a hand of iron. An he guessed I had made

or meddled with your flight, it would go sore with me."

"Ay, poor boy," returned the other, "y' are his ward, I know it.

By the same token, so am I, or so he saith; or else he hath bought

my marriage - I wot not rightly which; but it is some handle to

oppress me by."

"Boy again!" said d**k.

"Nay, then, shall I call you girl, good Richard?" asked Matcham.

"Never a girl for me," returned d**k. "I do abjure the crew of

them!"

"Ye speak boyishly," said the other. "Ye think more of them than

ye pretend."

"Not I," said d**k, stoutly. "They come not in my mind. A plague

of them, say I! Give me to hunt and to fight and to feast, and to

live with jolly foresters. I never heard of a maid yet that was

for any service, save one only; and she, poor shrew, was burned for

a witch and the wearing of men's clothes in spite of nature."

Master Matcham crossed himself with fervour, and appeared to pray.

"What make ye?" d**k inquired.

"I pray for her spirit," answered the other, with a somewhat

troubled voice.

"For a witch's spirit?" d**k cried. "But pray for her, an ye list;

she was the best wench in Europe, was this Joan of Arc. Old

Appleyard the archer ran from her, he said, as if she had been

Mahoun. Nay, she was a brave wench."

"Well, but, good Master Richard," resumed Matcham, "an ye like

maids so little, y' are no true natural man; for God made them

twain by intention, and brought true love into the world, to be

man's hope and woman's comfort."

"Faugh!" said d**k. "Y' are a milk-sopping baby, so to harp on

women. An ye think I be no true man, get down upon the path, and

whether at fists, back-sword, or bow and arrow, I will prove my

manhood on your body."

"Nay, I am no fighter," said Matcham, eagerly. "I mean no tittle

of offence. I meant but pleasantry. And if I talk of women, it is

because I heard ye were to marry."

"I to marry!" d**k exclaimed. "Well, it is the first I hear of it.

And with whom was I to marry?"

"One Joan Sedley," replied Matcham, colouring. "It was Sir

Daniel's doing; he hath money to gain upon both sides; and, indeed,

I have heard the poor wench bemoaning herself pitifully of the

match. It seems she is of your mind, or else distasted to the

bridegroom."

"Well! marriage is like death, it comes to all," said d**k, with

resignation. "And she bemoaned herself? I pray ye now, see there

how shuttle-witted are these girls: to bemoan herself before that

she had seen me! Do I bemoan myself? Not I. An I be to marry, I

will marry dry-eyed! But if ye know her, prithee, of what favour

is she? fair or foul? And is she shrewish or pleasant?"

"Nay, what matters it?" said Matcham. "An y' are to marry, ye can

but marry. What matters foul or fair? These be but toys. Y' are

no milksop, Master Richard; ye will wed with dry eyes, anyhow."

"It is well said," replied Shelton. "Little I reck."

"Your lady wife is like to have a pleasant lord," said Matcham.

"She shall have the lord Heaven made her for," returned d**k. "It

trow there be worse as well as better."

"Ah, the poor wench!" cried the other.

"And why so poor?" asked d**k.

"To wed a man of wood," replied his companion. "O me, for a wooden

husband!"

"I think I be a man of wood, indeed," said d**k, "to trudge afoot

the while you ride my horse; but it is good wood, I trow."

"Good d**k, forgive me," cried the other. "Nay, y' are the best

heart in England; I but laughed. Forgive me now, sweet Dick."

"Nay, no fool words," returned d**k, a little embarrassed by his

companion's warmth. "No harm is done. I am not touchy, praise the

saints."

And at that moment the wind, which was blowing straight behind them

as they went, brought them the rough flourish of Sir Daniel's

trumpeter.

"Hark!" said d**k, "the tucket soundeth."

"Ay," said Matcham, "they have found my flight, and now I am

unhorsed!" and he became pale as death.

"Nay, what cheer!" returned d**k. "Y' have a long start, and we

are near the ferry. And it is I, methinks, that am unhorsed."

"Alack, I shall be taken!" cried the fugitive. "d**k, kind d**k,

beseech ye help me but a little!"

"Why, now, what aileth thee?" said d**k. "Methinks I help you very

patently. But my heart is sorry for so spiritless a fellow! And

see ye here, John Matcham - sith John Matcham is your name - I,

Richard Shelton, tide what betideth, come what may, will see you

safe in Holywood. The saints so do to me again if I default you.

Come, pick me up a good heart, Sir White-face. The way betters

here; spur me the horse. Go faster! faster! Nay, mind not for me;

I can run like a deer."

So, with the horse trotting hard, and d**k running easily

alongside, they crossed the remainder of the fen, and came out upon

the banks of the river by the ferryman's hut.