Part 1
The little hut among the oak trees was dim in the October twilight on the evening of St.Callixtus' Day.It had been used by swineherds, for the earthen floor was puddled by the feet of generations of hogs, and in the corner lay piles of rotting acorns.Outside the mist had filled the forest, and the ways were muffled with fallen leaves, so that the four men who approached the place came as stealthily as shades.
They reconnoitred a moment at the entrance, for it was a country of war.
"Quarters for the night," said one, and put his shoulder to the door of oak-toppings hinged on strips of cowhide.
But he had not taken a step inside before he hastily withdrew.
"There is something there," he cried--"something that breathes.A light, Gil."One of the four lit a lantern from his flint and poked it within.It revealed the foul floor and the rotting acorns, and in the far corner, on a bed of withered boughs, something dark which might be a man.They stood still and listened.There was the sound of painful breathing, and then the gasp with which a sick man wakens.A figure disengaged itself from the shadows.Seeing it was but one man, the four pushed inside, and the last pulled the door to behind him.
"What have we here?" the leader cried.A man had dragged himself to his feet, a short, square fellow who held himself erect with a grip on a side-post.His eyes were vacant, dazzled by the light and also by pain.He seemed to have had hard usage that day, for his shaggy locks were matted with blood from a sword-cut above his forehead, one arm hung limp, and his tunic was torn and gashed.He had no weapons but a knife which he held blade upwards in the hollow of his big hand.
The four who confronted him were as ill-looking a quartet as Duke William's motley host could show.One, the leader, was an unfrocked priest of Rouen;one was a hedge-robber from the western marches who had followed Alan of Brittany; a third had the olive cheeks and the long nose of the south; and the fourth was a heavy German from beyond the Rhine.They were the kites that batten on the offal of war, and the great battle on the seashore having been won by better men, were creeping into the conquered land for the firstfruits of its plunder.
An English porker," cried the leader."We will have the tusks off him."Indeed, in the wild light the wounded man, with his flat face and forked beard, had the look of a boar cornered by hounds.
"'Ware his teeth," said the one they called Gil."He has a knife in his trotter."The evil faces of the four were growing merry.They were worthless soldiers, but adepts in murder.Loot was their first thought, but after that furtive slaying.There seemed nothing to rob here, but there was weak flesh to make sport of.
Gil warily crept on one side, where he held his spear ready.The ex-priest, who had picked up somewhere a round English buckler, gave the orders."Iwill run in on him, and take his stroke, so you be ready to close.There is nothing to be feared from the swine.See, he is blooded and faints."The lantern had been set on the ground by the door and revealed only the lower limbs of the four.Their heads were murky in shadow.Their speech was foreign to the wounded man, but he saw their purpose.He was clearly foredone with pain, but his vacant eyes kindled to slow anger, and he shook back his hair so that the bleeding broke out again on his forehead.He was as silent as an old tusker at bay.
The ex-priest gave the word and the four closed in on him.He defeated their plan by hurling himself on the leader's shield, so that his weight bore him backwards and he could not use his weapon.The spears on the flanks failed for the same reason, and the two men posted there had well-nigh been the death of each other.The fourth, the one from the south, whose business it had been to support the priest, tripped and fell sprawling beside the lantern.
The Englishman had one arm round the priest's neck and was squeezing the breath out of him.But the blood of the four was kindling, and they had vengeance instead of sport to seek.Mouthing curses, the three of them went to the rescue of the leader, and a weaponless and sore-wounded man cannot strive with such odds.They overpowered him, bending his arms viciously back and kicking his broken head.Their oaths filled the hut with an ugly clamour, but no sound came from their victim.
Suddenly a gust of air set the lantern flickering, and a new-comer stood in the doorway.He picked up the light and looked down on the struggle.He was a tall, very lean man, smooth faced, and black haired, helmetless and shieldless, but wearing the plated hauberk of the soldier.There was no scabbard on his left side, but his right hand held a long bright sword.
For a second he lifted the light high, while he took in the scene.His eyes were dark and dancing, like the ripples on a peat stream."So-ho!" he said softly."Murder! And by our own vermin!"He appeared to brood for a second, and then he acted.For he set the light very carefully in the crook of a joist so that it illumined the whole hut.
Then he reached out a hand, plucked the ex-priest from his quarry, and, swinging him in both arms, tossed him through the door into the darkness.
It would seem that he fell hard, for there was a groan and then silence.
"One less," he said softly.
The three had turned to face him, warned by Gil's exclamation, and found themselves looking at the ominous bar of light which was his sword.
Cornered like rats, they took small comfort from the odds.They were ready to surrender, still readier to run, and they stood on their defence with no fight in their faces, whining in their several patois.All but the man from the south.He was creeping round in the darkness by the walls, and had in his hands a knife.No mailed hauberk protected the interloper's back and there was a space there for steel to quiver between his shoulder blades.
