Following closely at the heels of his guide, Buckland was ushered into a room which, in the frigid plainness of its appearance, differed little from the cells of the ordinary brethren, only it was larger.

The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls were bare and unbroken, save for two narrow lancet windows and the low, Gothic-arched door by which the archer entered. In the centre of the room stood a plain oaken table, on which was a small ivory crucifix, which, together with a number of richly-bound books of illuminated vellum--the most highly-prized objects within the monastery walls--gave a fitting setting to the gaunt figure of the stern yet revered Abbot. Two heavy wooden stools completed the furniture of the apartment, one of which was for the head of the Abbey himself, the other for the use of any visitor of equal or higher rank; otherwise, all who were called into the presence of the Abbot were obliged to stand, with bent head, patiently waiting to be addressed, and not daring to speak save when spoken to.

"Well, my son," quoth the Abbot, after the customary benediction had been given. "I have a small matter of which I would speak. Raymond, thy son, was until recently with us as a novice."

"Yes, Father."

"But thou didst send for him?"

"I could not do without him."

"Yet he was ill spared by us a youth of much promise. Did he not ask to be allowed to take the vows of chast.i.ty and obedience?"

"Nay, Father."

"What, then, is in thy mind with regard to his up-bringing?"

"But two days agone he did ask to go with me to the wars."

"Alas! Alack!" groaned the Abbot, speaking half to his visitor, half to himself. "To think that one brought up in the sanct.i.ty of this place should have a mind for the horror of war! It but shows that men's minds are by nature inclined to strife, and that we must ever be subduing the desires of malice and hatred, which, though dormant for years, are too often ready to burst forth with renewed strength.

Ah me! And I did think Raymond was a brand plucked from the burning.

Thinkst thou that 'tis not too late to turn him from his purpose and bring him into the brotherhood?"

"Father," replied the master-bowman earnestly, "many a time have I pondered the matter over in my heart, for he is very dear to me. In my wanderings I knew him to be in safe keeping in this peaceful place, yet I look to my son as a tried companion of my old age, for I have no other kith or kin in the world. To the wars he would go, yet Heaven forfend that ill should happen to him."

"But if he wish to stay?"

"Then he may do so, though as a monk he will be as far from me as ever."

"Then he shall be asked, my son. Should he remain with us the Order profiteth; should he go Franceward, then the saints be with him and bring him safely home again. But, I ask," he added, fixing his dark eyes intently on the archer, "when Raymond left us didst thou fetch him away?"

"Nay, Father, I----"

"Then where have I met thee before?"

For a moment a pallor, quickly succeeded by a deep flush, overspread the tanned features of the master-bowman, and his mind travelled back for nigh two score years. Then in quick, short sentences he replied, telling the story of the tragedy which had darkened his life.

"Ah! I thought my memory played me not false," returned the Abbot.

"But of that enough! I knew it! And, for an archer, thou art certainly apt in speech. Canst read?"

"Yea, Father."

"And write?"

"Yea, Father. Many a time have I acted as scrivener to Sir John Hacket, the Constable of the Castle of Portchester."

"'Tis well; and rest a.s.sured, my son, that, by my holy calling, no word of thy past shall fall from my lips."

"And there is another small matter of which I would speak," said Redward.

The Abbot frowned, for the archer had taken the initiative, but, nevertheless, he signed for Redward to continue.

"When we are gone to the wars," quoth the archer, "'twill be necessary for me to leave my small belongings in safe keeping, and no better place can I think of than this Abbey."

"Think not to turn this holy place into a house of merchandise, my son!"

"Nay, Father, not merchandise, but treasure."

"Treasure?" interrupted the Abbot, his interest kindling. "How say you?"

"Ay, a trifle saved from the wreck of my past, together with a little I have ama.s.sed during some twenty years of wandering. Of a surety I would offer the Abbey a good percentum for the care thereof, together with the right to retain all profits from its use."

"My son, thou art generous to Holy Mother Church."

"Nay, but I go farther. Should aught amiss happen to Raymond or me, the whole of my worldly goods I leave to the Abbey, without condition."

"Then, my son, I accept, in the name of the Order, the charge confided to us. I will see to it this instant that Brother Aloysius, our scribe, will draft the agreement thereunto." And going to the door, the Abbot, his eyes shining at the thought of adding to the treasury, rang a bell that brought one of the lay servitors hastening to his presence.

"Bring Brother Aloysius. .h.i.ther."

With little loss of time the scrivener arrived, and the agreement was drawn up and signed. This done, the Abbot dismissed Redward, and, once more alone, leaned back in his chair with intense satisfaction.

Keep Raymond within the Abbey, let him take the oaths of the Order, and all would be well. The Abbey would benefit considerably, for, once a monk, Raymond would be heirless. On the other hand, should father and son go to the wars--well, there were chances that they might not return, and then----. The Abbot sighed, for, in spite of his pious greed, he chid himself for his momentary satisfaction at the thought of harm happening to the young man, of whose presence as a novice he had many pleasing recollections.

On Redward's return to his son's bedside he found, to his great delight, that Raymond was awake.

"How fares it with thee, Raymond?" he asked, taking the lad's limp hand in his great palm and gently patting it.

"I feel much better, father, and hope soon to be abroad again."

"I trust so; but I have something to tell thee. Even now the Abbot has asked me to let thee stay with him. He himself will ask thee anon."

"But I do not wish to, father. My one desire is to follow the banner of the Constable."

"I like thy pluck, Raymond, seeing what thou hast been through. 'Twas an ill start for a soldier's life."

"Yet we came out with honour," replied the boy, his eyes glistening at the thought of the unequal encounter. "When thinkest thou that we shall be able to leave this place?"

"A matter of a few days. For my part, I must hasten back to Hamble to gather together the remains of my goods and chattels, and also to ease the dead Frenchman of his harness, for 'tis, a goodly suit of armour. Also, there is a fair portion of plate and money which I am leaving in the care of the Abbot. Some day 'twill be thine, Raymond, but of that matter I'll speak more anon."

Towards eventide the peacefulness of the Abbey was disturbed by the tramp of armed men--the victorious troops returning to their camp at Southampton; and by the Abbot's leave most of the wounded men, with their escort of archers, pa.s.sed out of the gate and lined the dusty road to welcome their rescuers and comrades. Even the monks, carried away by their feelings, crowded round the gateway to catch a glimpse of the gallant companies. News of the capture of one galley and the destruction of the other had already reached them, and enthusiasm ran high as the bronzed and dust-covered soldiers tramped homewards.

Redward Buckland knew most of the banners of the various companies, and imparted his knowledge to his companions, while the archers who formed their escort cheered l.u.s.tily as their fellow-soldiers turned to throw out words of pleasant banter.

At length the master-bowman gave a loud shout. "Look, comrades, the company of the Constable of Portchester! See the crescent _or_ on a field _azure!_"

Marching four abreast, their white surcoats soiled with mud, water, and dust, came the Portchester garrison. For, save a few who remained to hold the castle and the adjacent town of Portsmouth, the whole of Sir John Hacket's men were with the army now encamped at Woolston, on the outskirts of Southampton.

At their head rode the fiery knight, attended by his squires, while at his bridle-arm, mounted on a white jennet, was Walter de Brakkeleye, the Bailiff of Southampton, whose men had already pa.s.sed by. The two leaders were engaged in animated conversation, all traces of their bickering on the question of precedence having completely vanished.