A huge stone, thrown from the highest part of the after-castle, came crashing through the bottom of the first boat, which instantly sank.

Those of her crew who were unable to maintain their foothold on the submerged boat perished miserably in the mud and water, for those in the other boats, filled with the mad desire of fight, paid slight heed to their misfortunes, being only intent on gaining a foothold on their enemy's decks.

In a short s.p.a.ce the after-part of the galley was surrounded by nine large boats, while the remaining ten headed for the forecastle, and with shouts of fury the English strove to effect an entrance.

The lofty sides and stern rendered their task very difficult and hazardous, the Genoese striking l.u.s.tily with sword, axe, and mace whenever a foeman's head appeared, and it was not until, by Sir John Hacket's order, a portion of the amidship bulwarks were cut through and some of the boats floated over the submerged waist, that a living Englishman stood on the decks of the Genoese.

Headed by the Constable, a party of men-at-arms carried the p.o.o.p ladder by a determined rush and gained the p.o.o.p. Here they were met by Guido and Andrea Spinola and some of the best swordsmen amongst the Genoese, and for a while a fierce struggle ensued, though, profiting by the diversion, another party of Englishmen secured a foothold on the stern of the galley.

Unable to withstand the sweeping blows of the Constable's sword, the Genoese gave back, two of their number going down with their headpieces shattered and their skulls cleft to the chin, and Guido and Andrea alone remained in the van to bar the Englishman's pa.s.sage.

With lightning rapidity their blades met, Sir John warding off the double attack with marvellous skill. Suddenly the elder brother, putting all his strength into the blow, delivered a mighty stroke with his heavy sword at the Constable's head.

Stepping nimbly aside, the knight avoided the deadly sweep of the weapon, and ere the Italian could recover himself Sir John cut him through the gorget till the blade met the top of his enemy's breastplate.

Guido fell forward, and the Constable, unable to withdraw his weapon from the corpse, was obliged to relinquish his sword and take to his mace. With this ponderous instrument of offence Sir John pressed his antagonist so strongly that the latter could but attempt to guard himself. At last, with a crashing blow, the Englishman beat down the defence of the Genoese, shattering his sword and crushing his helmet like an egg-sh.e.l.l.

Disheartened by the fall of both their leaders, and pressed before and behind by increasing numbers, the Genoese retreated till they gathered in a small ring of steel, surrounded by their incensed attackers. Fighting to the last, they fell, till none but those wearing the surcoat of St. George stood upon the after-castle, and close on five score bodies littered the narrow blood-stained p.o.o.p.

By the Constable's order one of his squires displayed his banner, and this was the signal for a hearty cheer from the crews of the two Southampton ships and the crowd of armed men on sh.o.r.e.

But the combat was not yet over. Those of the forecastle still stoutly resisted, and as yet none of the Southampton men, headed by the brave and impetuous Walter de Brakkeleye, had gained any advantage, though, by the Bailiff's order, some of the archers had rowed a short distance off, firing anew on the Genoese whenever they attempted to show themselves above the side.

With the fall of the after-castle, the Genoese were additionally a.s.sailed by the English bowmen, who now held the captured part of the galley; and, on the arrival of a fresh supply of arrows, the deadly hail smote the scanty remnant, who strove in vain to seek shelter.

At length, when no one was left standing upon the forecastle, the English men-at-arms rushed the hardwon stronghold, mercilessly killing those who yet remained alive, and casting their bodies overboard, and the shattered galley was given to the flames.

Then, with shouts and rejoicings, the soldiers returned to the sh.o.r.e.

The countrymen dispersed to their homes, the two English ships hoisted sail and made for Southampton, whither Lord Willoughby's lances had already gone. The Constable of Portchester and the Bailiff of Southampton marshalled their followers, and marched through the devastated village towards their camp at Woolston.

All that was left to mark the raid were the charred remains of what had been a prosperous hamlet and the blazing timbers of the once-dreaded galley of Luigi Spinola.

CHAPTER VI

AT THE ABBEY

CALM and peaceful appeared the grey Abbey to the war-worn defenders, as, carried in litters or supported by the men of the Constable of Portchester's company, the nine archers pa.s.sed through the great gateway.

The vesper bell had just ceased its tuneful tolling, and in its place rose the deep, l.u.s.ty voices of the monks, who, having completed yet another day of hard manual labour, were uniting once more in prayer and thanksgiving.

For awhile, save for the porter, a lay brother of gigantic size and jovial mien, the secular portions of the Abbey were deserted, but the arrival of this host of rough soldiers and their wounded charges contrasted ill with the pious solitude of the place.

The Cistercian Abbey, founded as the Priory of Saints Mary and Edward in 1237, was at that time in the zenith of its prosperity. Favoured by royal charters, the natural zeal of the monks exerted itself to such an extent that within a few years of its birth the Abbey bade fair to outshine its parent foundation at Beaulieu, and a large triple-aisled church, a sumptuous Abbot's house, lofty dormitories, architecturally perfect cloisters, a number of extensive outbuildings, and two artificial fish-ponds testified to the work of these pioneers of civilisation.

Awed by the solemnity of their surroundings, the soldiers cl.u.s.tered in small, silent knots, looking around with open-mouthed astonishment at the unaccustomed beauty of the delicate architecture and listening to the distant chanting of the monks.

If an archer dared even to whisper his comrades silenced him by a look, while, when a man-at-arms dropped his short spear on the tiled floor, the culprit stooped, picked up the weapon guiltily, and crossed himself for very shame.

At length the singing ceased, the doors of the church were thrown wide open, and out came a long line of grey-gowned monks, walking two and two with bent heads and downcast eyes, while at the rear of the procession came the Sub-Prior and the Abbot. The former was a comfortable-looking, well-fed personage, with a benign countenance that neither fast nor penance could subdue, while the Abbot, a tall, gaunt man with wan features, redeemed by a pair of glittering eyes, looked a man whose natural sternness was increased by the strict rigidity of a celibate.

Immediately the soldiers drew themselves up into two lines, looking straight in front in military style, though as the Abbot pa.s.sed they bent their heads to receive his benison, even the wounded, save Walter Bevis, standing unaided to share in the blessing.

It was a stirring and picturesque sight. The grey stones of the arched cloisters, the green patch of gra.s.s in the cloister court, and the still evening quiet were fitting surroundings for a procession of monks as their sandals clattered on the tiled floor; but the white surcoats bearing the red cross, the armour and weapons of the soldiers, and the pallid features of the wounded bespeaking strife and suffering, presented a strange contrast to the peacefulness of the Abbey.

Attended by two novices, the Abbot presently returned, and, learning the cause of the unusual visit, gave orders for the wounded men to be taken care of in the Abbey infirmary. He had already learned of the sack and burning of Hamble, but the deed of Redward Buckland and his comrades moved him greatly, and he desired to speak with the master-bowman.

Redward, his head still bound with a blood-stained bandage, was led before the Abbot. He had removed his steel cap, and the dying sunlight played on his thickly-cropped head and heightened the reddish hue of his beard. The Abbot gave an involuntary start of recognition, but, composing himself, he asked:

"How art thou, my son? I see thou art sore hurt."

"Nay, Father, it is but a scratch."

"A brave man to speak so lightly of so great a matter. And thou didst keep the press of enemies back till help arrived?"

"'Twas also a little matter, seeing we were behind stout walls."

"And yet, by G.o.d's grace, thy valour saved us."

"Saved you, Father?"

"Yea, my son. Saved the priory of the blessed Saints Mary and Edward; for, had ye not been there to bar the way, the Frenchmen would of a certainty have ravaged our holy retreat."

"This knowledge is beyond my understanding, yet, the saints be praised, I was but an instrument to that end."

"The grat.i.tude of us all is due to you, my son, and if in any way we can render thee a service, do but ask it. Thou'rt weary; return to thy friends and rest well."

The master-bowman bent his head for the Abbot's blessing, then he turned and hobbled slowly back to join his comrades.

Great was the astonishment and delight of the monks, on washing the thick cake of dried blood, slime, and soot from the face of their youngest patient, to find that it was none other than their late novice, Raymond, whose wound--a deep cut in his left shoulder--had been skilfully dressed by the monks, to whom surgery was a special feature of their work. He was now sleeping peacefully, a draught of cooling medicine having completely taken away all symptoms of fever.

Walter Bevis, his leg swathed in bandages, was lying on a pallet, his eyes rolling and his hands tightly clenched as he strove to suppress a groan. Already he was in a state of semi-delirium, and in spite of the constant attention of two of the monks, he strove at intervals to rise from his couch and fly at some imaginary foe.

As for the rest, with the exception of Will Lightfoot, who was busily devouring a platter of soup, they all were sleeping off the effects of a terrible mental strain. Submitting himself to the hands of two of the brethren, Redward had his injuries dressed, and was cleansed from the effects of the fire and battle; then, staggering to a couch, he lay down and was soon lost in dreamless sleep.

The sun was high in the heavens ere Buckland awoke, feeling vastly refreshed and filled with renewed energy. His first inquiry was for his son and his comrades, then for the latest tidings of the raiders.

On this latter point he could not be enlightened, save that a mounted messenger had pa.s.sed the Abbey that morning without drawing rein.

Though giving no news by word of mouth, the man had shown by a gesture that the English had been successful, though at that time the fate of the Genoese galley had not yet been decided.

One by one the wounded archers began to awaken, till all, save Raymond and Bevis, were up and about. For some time Redward sat by his son's bedside, looking anxiously at his pale and pain-racked features.

The master-bowman was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one hand he wanted to be again on the scene of action to revenge himself on his enemies--for the destruction of his home, and also to take steps to safeguard his chattels that lay in the underground chamber. On the other hand, he felt it impossible to tear himself away from his son, in whose welfare he was so much absorbed, till he was satisfied that there was no cause for anxiety on his account.

While deep in this mental debate Redward was summoned by a novice to proceed to the private apartment of the Abbot.