"Raymond, my beloved son," he exclaimed in a voice broken with emotion, "'tis hard that I should have to tell thee what I am about to utter, but, before Heaven, I must do it, both for mine own peace of mind and for thine own. Two score and three years ago this very day I slew a man. The quarrel was of his own seeking, 'tis true, but, nevertheless, the law was set against me, and I was made outlaw!"

The master-bowman paused to note the effect of this announcement, but, beyond a tightening of his lips, Redward betrayed no sign of dismay at this astounding confession.

"Then I fled from the country, and a.s.sumed a name to which I have no right," resumed Redward. "In this I did thee a great injustice, for the ban falls on the outlaw's children equally with himself; and on this account I ought never to have taken a wife or to have had a son."

"I care not for myself, father. But what if, even now, thou art recognised?"

"It matters not, my son. A secret kept for over two score years may well remain a secret; but I have a misgiving that I shall never see the sun set to-morrow."

"Father!"

"Nay, Raymond, 'tis but a small matter. I cannot live much longer, and to fall in battle is a worthy end. But the worst is to be told.

Thou wouldst marry the Lady Audrey!"

The young squire shuddered at the altered prospect.

"Alack a day!" he groaned.

"Ay, Raymond. I fear thou wilt curse the day thou camest into the world, for to my sorrow I must tell thee--the brother of that lady's father was the man I slew!"

For a moment the squire was incapable of speech, then, recovering himself with an effort, he exclaimed, "Nay, father, I blame you not.

It is rather the fate of circ.u.mstances and my own foolish pride that made me look so high. I cannot for one moment continue my suit for the hand of the Lady Audrey, neither can I ever hope to wear the spurs of knighthood; but I am still thy son."

"And wouldst thou know thy true name?"

"Not unless it please thee, father; 'Raymond Buckland' hath served me well these four-and-twenty years; but," he added with pardonable curiosity, "if I may I would desire to know."

"Dost call to mind Sir Edmund Revyngton?"

"Indifferently so; I wot he is a knight of Devon."

"He is also my brother, and, being without issue, his heir would be, but for the bar of outlawry, Redward Revyngton, now known to all men as Redward Buckland."

It was a long story, that narrative of life marred by an act committed in a moment of anger, but breathlessly Raymond listened till the master-bowman had finished.

"And if so be thou comest scatheless from the wars," he added, "the abbot of Netley will deliver into thy hands certain doc.u.ments pertaining to thy welfare, and, should Heaven grant that this decree of outlawry be rescinded (though I shall never live to see the day), I pray that thou wilt ever acquit thyself as an honourable gentleman of Devon."

Slowly father and son returned towards the camp, and as they pa.s.sed between the long lines of tents, Redward paused before a lodging in front of which was a shield displaying a mailed hand argent on a field azure.

Leaving Raymond standing in the gloom, the master-bowman went up and spoke to a man-at-arms who stood outside the tent.

"My master cannot hold converse with any one this night, especially an archer," exclaimed the man roughly.

"Convey my message to thy master and leave him to decide the point, sirrah!" replied Redward in a tone of authority, and, on seeing that a squire had joined him, the soldier obeyed.

Soon he reappeared, and holding open the flap of the tent, signed for the visitors to enter.

Following his father, Raymond saw a tall, well-built man, who in spite of his grey hairs and carefully-trimmed white beard, carried his years with ease. He had laid aside his armour, and, judging by the still lighted candles in front of a prie-dieu, he had but just risen from his orisons.

With a knightly courtesy he waited for the master-bowman to speak, thinking that one of his followers had come to ask a boon, when to his surprise Redward addressed him by name.

"Sir Maurice," he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know me? I am thy brother Redward!"

"Redward? Back from the dead after all these years? Nay, it cannot be! But yet----"

Drawing nearer he looked closely into the master-bowman's rugged and bronzed face, then, "Thank Heaven! I have found thee!" he exclaimed, and Raymond beheld the extraordinary sight of a belted knight and a surcoated archer falling on one another's necks in a transport of joy.

Then the squire had to be presented to his uncle. "A fine and gallant youth, and a credit to the old stock of Revyngtons," declared the knight. "But, tell me, Redward, why didst thou not seek me out ere now, knowing I was in the camp?"

"But for one thing, Maurice, I had as lief let it be thought that Redward Revyngton was no longer in this world. It is Raymond of whom I think, for I know that to-morrow's battle will count me amongst the slain. How think ye, Maurice? Is there hope that the King will set aside the outlawry, and free my son from its curse?"

The knight shook his head sorrowfully. "Sir Reginald Scarsdale is ever with the King, and his wrath against his brother's slayer dies not."

"And to make matters worse Raymond, ignorant of my past, seeks his daughter's hand in marriage."

Sir Maurice smiled grimly.

"I'll do my best, even if it be to beg a favour of Scarsdale himself!

But sit down, Redward, and let us talk at ease, for the hours of darkness fly quickly, and there is much to be said."

It was after midnight before the brothers bade each other farewell, and Redward and Raymond returned to their tents.

On gaining the lines of the Hampshire companies, father and son parted, the former to compose his mind for his antic.i.p.ated death, the latter to ponder over the astounding revelations he had just heard.

Sleep was banished from Raymond's eyes, and long he tossed uneasily on his hard pallet, till the dawn grew ruddy in the east and the trumpets heralded the advent of the eventful day.

CHAPTER XIX

CReCY

FOR a short s.p.a.ce after the trumpets had sounded all was bustle, men running hither and thither, each with a fixed purpose. Directly Raymond had donned his armour he emerged from his tent to find all the Hampshire companies busily engaged in breaking their fast, as were most of the troops, the King having ordered that every man should make a hearty meal, so as to be sustained throughout the day.

This over, the men formed into their accustomed ranks, and instantly there was a long procession of camp-followers and lackeys leading the horses to the enclosure behind the camp, for the order had gone forth that all combatants were to fight afoot.

Long was that parade remembered by the young squire. The white-surcoated archers, with their well-filled quivers and, in most cases, an additional sheaf of arrows in their belts, the heavily-armed men-at-arms with rusty headpieces and war-worn accoutrements, all standing fast in regular lines, made a picture that gladdened the hearts of their leaders as they gazed upon the stern, bronzed faces of their men.

Already the more remote columns were deploying, and soon the order came for the first division to march to the ground where the King had decided to make his stand. The battlefield was well chosen, being on the edge of the plateau overlooking the little valley that lay between the English and the direction from which the French attack was expected.

On arriving at the allotted station, Raymond found that the supreme command of his division was entrusted to the Prince of Wales, a mere youth of fifteen, who had already shown great promise of a notable military career. With him were the Earls of Warwick and Oxford and a host of n.o.ble lords, the brunt of the fight being expected to fall upon this division.

Raymond found that this division was drawn up in two lines, the two thousand bowmen being in front and the men-at-arms, numbering eight hundred, in the second rank, while right behind were the wild-looking Welsh and Irish auxiliaries, each man eagerly whetting his long knife for use when the time came for them to be let loose on their discomfited foes.

Away on the left was another large division of archers and men-at-arms drawn up in similar order, under the command of the Earl of Northampton; while, glancing backwards towards the windmill-crowned hill, Raymond saw the close ranks of the reserve division, composed of seven hundred men-at-arms and two thousand archers, under the direct command of the King.

Looking in the direction of Abbeville, Raymond could see no signs of the French host, and, after all, he wondered whether the attack would be made, seeing the strength of the natural defences occupied by the English.