In three parts.
by G.P.R. James.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.1 #3 (Apr 1842).
Part II.
The Muster.
"What now? what now?" cried the Constable of Chester Castle. "What is all this about? What has mad Roger Dutton been doing now?—My son-in-law? By the Lord, I believe, if ever he becomes my son-in-law, he'll set Chester a-fire, and make all the fiddlers in the country come to play to the flames!"
Such were the words that Roger Dutton heard as he approached the gate of the castle, but, nevertheless, he came on laughing; for he knew good old Hellfire de Lacy well, and that, notwithstanding the very fierce and savage nickname which he had acquired by some of the rash and daring, but chivalrous enterprises of his youth, he was a good-hearted but quick-spirited knight as any at the court of England. His hopes, his fears, his anger, his passions of every kind, in short, were in a blaze in a moment, but were extinguished as quickly; and there was one quality, at least, which was lasting and unchangeable—his devotion to those he loved.
"Ha, ha, ha! my noble Lord," cried Dutton, as he came up, "we have had a rare encounter with old Glanville. The villain has been so insolent that, had he not been in his court, where one must shew some respect for the law, I would have made the people take him and put him in the horse-pond, up to his chin, to quench the unholy fire that burns in the veins of the old satyr."
"No more brawling—no more brawling, Roger!" cried the good Lord de Lacy. "On my life, I never see thee go forth but I expect to hear that thou art stocked or put in the pillory; but thou hast done worse for thyself, I can tell thee, good Roger," he continued, "than if thou hadst been in the stocks for an hour."
"Why, what now?" cried Roger Dutton—"what have I done but protected a poor innocent girl from being shut up in a prison at the will and discretion of this corrupt judge till the fair be over—there is no great harm in that, my lord, I trow?"
"Faith, I know nothing about it," replied De Lacy, shrugging his shoulders; "but when my girl Mary saw thee with the wench in thy arms she turned as white as a Flemish sheet, the tears came up in her eyes, and away she went to her chamber like a startled rabbit to its burrow, without ever looking behind her. Hie thee away to her, Roger Dutton, and make thy peace. Body of Judas! what a hot house you two will make of it when you are married, if you go on thus with one flame or another during courtship. First it is love, then it is jealousy—then it is anger, then it comes round to love again. If one had but a turnspit dog ready, one could roast a haunch of venison at your fire any day of the week."
"She shall never have any cause for jealousy, my good lord," replied Roger Dutton, "either before or after marriage."
"Tut, tut! make no rash vow, Roger!" cried the old Lord. "If thou keepest that, thou art the first Dutton that ever lived of the kidney, and sieves will carry water ever after.—Well, hie thee to her, boy, and soothe her down! I will talk to these good folks thou hast brought, and hear the tale from them. Night is drawing on; and we must soon to the table."
"I beseech you, my good lord, deal with Allan and his young love kindly," said Roger Dutton. "I've seen him with Prince Henry's band, and, if I remember right, he was reputed a good soldier. As for the girl, too, though she be a truant, she's no light-o'-love, I will warrant her."
"Warrant her, Roger Dutton?" cried the old Knight, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks; "think of Roger warranting a maid's honesty! Get thee gone—get thee gone to thy jealous-pated lady-love, and make the pretty little linnet believe thee as innocent as an Easter lamb, if thou canst, Roger Dutton. Bring her down to supper at all events, and we will patch up your peace again somehow."
Roger Dutton waited not for more bidding, but entered the castle, and strode away to fair Mary de Lacy's chamber. As in duty and propriety bound, he knocked at the door three several times:—first, low and humbly, like a sparrow picking up seeds of grain—next, somewhat more loud and firm, and then sharp and impatiently; but neither way produced he any reply; and, as Roger Dutton's was certainly not a faint heart, but one well calculated to win a fair lady, he opened the door and walked straight in.
Mary de Lacy was sitting by the window, weeping, with one of her maids standing near, and giving that sort of consolation which makes people inclined to weep more; but Roger went up to his promised bride, at once asking, "What ails you, dearest Mary?"
"Ails me?" she cried, looking up at him, with her pretty eyes full of reproaches; "do you ask me that question, when I've seen you with my own eyes holding an idle dancing girl clasped in your arms?"
"Good faith, sweet love!" replied Roger, "'tis well that I have arms left to clasp any one in; for sour old Glanville would fain have struck off a part of one, and that the most useful part too, for but defending this poor girl and her lover from his minions and himself;—but come, Mary dear, wipe away those needless tears, and go dewn with me, to promise comfort and protection to this wandering maiden. She needs it much; and Mary's heart's a kind one, though, as the fool said to-day, a little jealous."
"Marry come up!" cried the maid, in a loud aside.
"Ay, that fool you talk of, Roger Dutton," replied the fair lady, rising, and turning towards the window, "was a good prophet.—Fight a duel for a dancing girl, indeed! Who would have thought it?—and yet it has come true, it seems."
"Ay, and he told me, too," said Dutton, "that, though she be somewhat jealous, I shall have my fair lady's hand."
"In that I will take care he be mistaken," said the lady, who, though naturally as kindly as a warm day in spring, was, to say sooth, somewhat of a spoiled child. "Am I to have it said," she continued—"am I to have it said that I wedded the man who was famous for fighting in behalf of the dancing girls and tomblesteres of the fair? and that, as a fitting sight for his bride, he brought up one of them in his arms to Chester Castle? No, no, Roger Dutton. I have sent away to my cousin Edith, at Rothelan, to say that I will join her to-morrow early, rather than stay two sunsets in a castle where we have such guests."
"You have not sent yet?" said Roger Dutton. "Let me go and stop the messenger."
"Nay, but I have," replied the lady. "Stop him if you can, Roger Dutton—there he goes!"
Roger Dutton started to the window, and, sure enough, there he saw a man on horseback riding away from the gates at full speed.
"This is unkind, Mary," he said—"this is most unkind, when I came hither on purpose from Dutton, to spend but three short days with you, to turn it all to bitterness in this manner."
"Nay, it is you that are unkind, Roger," said the lady, who, to say sooth, now that the act was done, was somewhat sorry for her rashness—"'tis you that are unkind. Why did you do this, then?"
"Why did I do it?" said Roger, reproachfully. "Because I am a gentleman and a knight, lady—because I am bound by my knightly oath to aid a woman when I see her injured and oppressed—that's why I did it. Where is the gentleman who would not do the same? I found a poor girl dragged along by those two ruffian tipstaves of the Pied-poudré Court; I learned that she was not a dancing girl, but an innocent maiden, upon whom wanton John Glanville had cast his foul eyes; I saw that her lover was a good young soldier, whom I had known in—"
"Her lover?" said the lady, in a changed tone. "Had she a lover with her?"
"Ay, lady," replied Roger Dutton, "a lover as true as your own."
"No great reputation, Roger," replied Mary de Lacy, half laughing, half crying; "but I knew not she had a lover at all."
"And, if she had not," answered Roger Dutton, who was in truth somewhat angry, "I would have done just the same. Do you think, Mary, that I would see a woman, an innocent, inoffensive woman, dragged on by the arm, through a crowd of people, with pain, and shame, and ignominy, to be delivered up in the end to a wanton judge like that, and then cast in the common prison, to be treated at his will, and not step forward, to defend and protect her?"
Mary cast down her eyes, and Roger Dutton continued. "Do you think that I would see her condemned, against all justice and honesty? Do you think that I would leave her in the power of that wicked man? Do you think I would myself remain insulted and ill-treated—my bail refused—my honesty assailed—myself committed to a prison, and not make way for her and myself too with my right hand?"
"God forbid! Roger," cried Mary, frankly, while the tears poured from her eyes. "I have been wrong, I have been hasty—but you should have told me—that is to say, I did not know all this?"
"That is my own Mary, now," said Roger Dutton, casting his arms round her—"always frank and generous, though somewhat rash and jealous."
"But where is this lover?" said Mary de Lacy, with a little drop of the poison still lingering in her cup.
"He is here in the castle," replied Dutton; "come and see them both, dear girl—you must befriend them. 'Twas but that they were separated by the people of the court, and then hard pressed, that caused me to catch her up and bear her hither. We had no time for much arrangement, sweet one! But thou art a naughty girl, Mary.—What's to be done about this messenger to Rothelan?—You have punished me for nothing, Mary."
"I have punished myself too, Roger," said the lady, looking in his face, with her bright blue eyes still tearful. "Margaret, you are a wicked woman to name such a scheme!"
"Lord, lady!" replied the waiting-woman, "'tis easily amended. Mother of the angels! 'tis much ado about nothing! Why not send another messenger to-morrow, and say you cannot come?"
"Edith will think me mad," replied her lady, "and my good uncle Ranulph will say there is no end to my caprices. Well, be it so!—it matters not. They shall say what they will, and that shall be my punishment. I'll send, and tell Edith the truth, Roger. I'll say that 'twas a fit of rash and needless jealousy. My good father will be pleased to see me humbled; for he said I would repent, when I asked him to send the messenger so quickly."
"Well, come, dear Mary," said Roger Dutton—"come! you shall be kind to this poor girl; and you will soon see she has a lover who need not even fear a Dutton, though we are an all-captivating race, dear Mary."
He spoke laughing, and took her hand, to lead her down, while she replied, with all her smiles restored, "You are a conceited race, at all events, and we women help to spoil you."
Thus saying, she suffered him to draw her arm through his; and they left the chamber, loitering, perhaps, for a moment on the stairs to say sweet words, with which the reader shall have nought to do. In the hall below they found the stout Lord Constable, with one or two of his good men-at-arms, talking frankly with the young minstrel Allan and his bride, and listening to all that Roger Dutton had done—now calling him a rash, foolish boy—now swearing that he would crop John of Glanville's ears, for offering such indignity to the Steward of Chester.
"Ha! Mary, ha! have you come?" he said, as he saw his daughter enter. "What, how now! Your eyes are red! So the storm passed off in rain, eh, pretty mistress? Here's the fair cause of all the mischief!"
"I grieve to be so much, lady," said the poor girl whom Roger had rescued. "I was sure you would be terrified for this noble lord."
"'Twas not that—'twas not that," said Mary de Lacy, with her cheek glowing like a rose. I have been a very silly girl, but I will make up for it in kindness to you. Come with me; you shall first tell me all your story, and I will give you into the hands of those who will treat you well. You do not look like one that would do a bad act."
"Not for the world, I will answer for her, lady," replied the minstrel, stepping forward. "I have given her my whole happiness to keep, and I am sure she will guard the treasure and increase it, too. But I must back to the fair, my noble lord. There is an old faithful servant of Marian's mother, who would come with us when we ran away—she's lett behind, my lord."
"No, no, she's here without," said one of De Lacy's gentlemen who had just come in. "I found her miauling like a cat after her nine kittens, and made her come into the court."
"Send for her—send for her," said Mary de Lacy, "they shall sleep together in the little room out of my bower, dear father. I will be back again ere supper is served."
She was turning to go away, when her father stopped her for a moment, with a grave smile, saying, "You know the messenger is gone to Rothelan, my hasty daughter?"
"Ay, I know," replied Mary, laughing and blushing at the same time—"but Roger has explained."
"Better have heard his explanation ere you sent the messenger," said De Lacy; "I told you you would repent."
"Nay, nay, but we will send again to-morrow," said his daughter; "we will send to Edith, and say —"
"No, on my life!" cried the Lord Constable. "No, Mary—what's done shall not be undone. First, I have no men to spare upon such errands—those I despatched the other day will not return this week, and I have but enough to guard the castle properly; next, my dear child, you must learn a lesson. Such hasty passion brings its own punishment; and to prevent its bringing a heavier one hereafter, when no one can remedy it, [ will make this little act irrevocable too. You go to Rothelan to-morrow, or my name's not De Lacy."
"Nay, nay, my dear lord," cried Roger Dutton; "remember, you punish me too."
"Not a word, Roger—not a word!" said the old soldier. "I will adhere to my story. As for punishing you, when is the day you do not need it, you quarrelsome rogue? So you shall do penance, by your lady's absence; and if it be any punishment for her to be away from you, 'tis her own act—she has none to thank for it but herself."
Mary de Lacy burst into tears, and, taking the girl Marian's hand, led her quickly away out of the hall.
"Well, I will go with her, then," said Dutton; "the Earl will give me welcome, I will warrant."
"Not so, Sir Roger," cried the old man; "I want you here. You shall accompany her to the boundary of the county, if you please. I must send men to guard her, but, on the border of Flintshire, Ranulph of Chester sends men to meet her; for I must have my own men back again, and you must come with them."
Roger Dutton looked as if he had not the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind; but the old Lord laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "Hark ye, my dear boy, this must be as I will—the day will come when you will thank me for it. My poor good lady, who is gone—and I, too, for I will not shirk my share—have done what we could to spoil as sweet and kind a girl as ever lived, and she must have some little check, not only to teach her she is rash, for that she knows already, but to make her own high spirit gall her. I will have it so, Roger—I will have it so; and you must promise to come back from the border, or I will not let you go with her."
"Well, my good lord," answered Roger Dutton, "if it must be so, it must; but I grieve to see Mary pained."
"All the more reason I should pain her, then," answered her father; "for if her husband spoils her as a wife after her parents have spoiled her as a girl—body of St. Barnabas! what a shrew the old woman will be!"
Roger Dutton could scarcely refrain from a smile, and, to say truth, in his heart, he was not quite sure that the old Lord Constable was in the wrong.
"Well, I must go and soothe her," he said, "my lord; but I must say it is somewhat hard upon me, when I am here but for a few days."
"Pooh!" cried De Lacy, bluffly. "You'll soon have enough of her—perhaps too much—though that's a lie, too, for she's a dear, kind girl, and I know not what the castle hall will look without her when she is your wife, Dutton. But go to her—go to her, and try to stop her from crying; I do not love to see her tears; but yet, in this matter, I will have my way."
Roger Dutton left him without reply. The supper was served and the good Lord de Lacy impatient before the two lovers made their appearance again, for as they found they were to have so little of each other's society they thought they might as well have it undiluted, and therefore sat in Mary's chamber till the last moment, with good Mrs. Margaret talking to the miller's daughter and her poor follower at a very respectful distance. What Roger Dutton had said to Mary de Lacy, or what Mary de Lacy had said to Roger Dutton, does not appear upon the face of the authentic records of the house of De Lacy, but there is good reason to suspect that he promised her to find an excuse for visiting Chester Castle again ere ten days were over, and that she promised him to receive him without any jealousy when he did come. They both agreed, too, as there were so many unpleasant things daily happening in courtship that it would be better to get that probationary season over as soon as possible, and be married whenever the good old Lord would let them. Thus, when they appeared at the supper-table, both were much more calm and tranquil than when they had left the hall—a little grave, perhaps, but Mary soon recovered all her cheerfulness; Roger Dutton was never long without his full share of that sunshiny quality; and Allan, the harper, played them many an inspiring air upon his instrument, while Marian varied the hours with a sweet wild song of Lancashire, from which county the poor girl came. Thus the time flew almost quicker than either Roger Dutton or Mary de Lacy liked, and good night was said before either of them thought they had been half happy enough to make up for the passing sorrow which had come and gone.
Early in the morning the horses were saddled in the court-yard—for although ladies were not in those days quite such fragile creatures as at present, yet they were still subject to fatigue and other ills of the kind; and the journey, on horseback, from Chester to Rothelan was, as the reader knows, a long one. Roger Dutton lifted his lady-love into the saddle, after she had been duly embraced and admonished by her father, and sprang upon his own horse's back, but not before the Lord Constable had made him repeat a promise to leave Mary on the border of Flint, as soon as she was safe under the escort of the men of her uncle Ranulph, and to return to Chester Castle.
The journey passed away happily—the summer clouds chased each other lightly over their heads—the varying thoughts of love floated not unlike them through their bosoms—their conversation swept, like the shadows of those vapours, over all the things on earth, brightening everything with changing light and shade—and, in short, the sweet young season of the heart was upon them, above them, around them, metamorphosing everything by its magic power into its own image. The moments will fly, however, dear reader, and the brighter ones have still the swallows' wings, flitting near us, and passing away from us with equal rapidity. The borders of Flintshire were reached at length: some half-dozen spearmen were waiting for Mary's escort; and, though Mistress Margaret vowed that she was tired, and her mistress like to drop, they would not consent to pause above a quarter of an hour for the lady's repose, alleging that their lord had ordered their instant return, for reasons best known to himself.
There was no help for it, and they parted: Roger Dutton taking his way back, gloomy enough, to Chester Castle, and Mary wending on, still more sadly, to Rothelan, thinking what a silly girl she had been, and sometimes asking herself how long Marian, the miller's daughter, would remain at Chester. It was evening, though not dark, when they came in sight of Rothelan, and Mary remarked that the soldiers of her escort urged on the horses more quickly towards the end of the journey, which she thought strange, considering that both beasts and riders were by that time tired. Often, too, did they look up to the neighbouring hills, and Mary asked whether they expected a storm? The reply was briefly, "No, lady, the sky looks fair;' but still they gazed up, and once or twice spoke together in a low tone.
At Rothelan, however, a warm welcome waited her from her mother's brother and her fair cousin, Edith, and so glad were they to see her, so much did they thank her for coming, that she could not help reproaching herself for feeling so little pleasure in being with those who loved her much. There let us leave her, however, and return to the good town of Chester and its old castle.
Roger Button reached the gates an hour before sunset, and found the good De Lacy playing at quoits with some of the house hold in the castle-yard. Allan, the harper, was with the rest, and much did his strength and skill seem to surprise the old Lord. Allan had just delivered a quoit, when gay Roger Dutton rode through the gate, and at that moment De Lacy was exclaiming—"Do that three times, and thou shalt wed her to-morrow in the castle chapel, let who will say nay. By the bones of St. Luke! thou shalt have a farm in soccage with her that shall make thy father leap to see her.—Do that three times I say!"
"Your word is pledged, my lord!" cried Allan. "Wish me good luck, Marian!—Now, then, to win!" and, stretching forth his arm, poising well the iron round, while Marian blushed like a rose, he pitched it, with strong and unerring aim, to the desired spot, amidst a shout of gratulation from the frank soldiery. Again, and again, he did it without the variation of a dagger's breadth; and the old Lord, full of his bluff enthusiasm, took him in his arms, and hugged him, exclaiming—"Thou shalt have her! thou shalt have her, and the farm too! A bridal! a bridal, Roger Dutton!"
"Would it were mine!" said Dutton, with a sigh.
"Well, boy," cried the Constable, "thine shall be soon enough. What is it stops thee? I make no objection. She may be thine this day week, if thou and she can agree about it."
Let not the reader think that this is an exaggerated picture of those times. Many more serious things than a wedding have been concluded even more quickly in the days we speak of, and countries have been plunged in war for half a century for less matters than a game at quoits. Well satisfied, however, was Roger Dutton—well satisfied, too, were Allan and his bride; and, when noon of the next day approached, the old Lord Constable appeared at the altar in the chapel as father to fair Marian, while Roger Dutton stood beside the young harper, and a priest with a book between them.
The irrevocable words were spoken, the ring was on the finger, and Allan and Marian were man and wife, with no fear of courts of chancery before their eyes—no chances of nullification for want of due formalities. The will of the Constable of Chester was quite sufficient licence for the priest; and the Roman-catholic faith had, at all events, the advantage of rendering all things that it meddled with more stable than most matters are in times of constant change. Allan looked at his bride with eyes of love, the good Lord de Lacy took toll of her lips, Roger Dutton kissed her cheek, as Mary was not by, and many a jesting congratulation saluted the fair couple from the little congregation of the castle chapel. But, alas! if rites and ceremonies were stable in those days, and the law rendered inviolable the church's doings, human fate was then as changeable as it is now, and no arm was strong enough, any more than at present, to shelter joy from fortune's will, even for an hour. The bridal party were walking down the aisle towards the door—the dinner was already smoking in the hall--laughter and merriment shook the old oaken roof of the chapel, when, suddenly, the blast of a
trumpet was heard at the castle gate, and the moment after, as De Lacy and the rest issued forth into the court, a heated, dussty horseman, rode in and sprang to the ground, with letters in his hand.
"What news, Walter? What news from Rothelan?' demanded De Lacy eagerly, for there was that in the man's look which bespoke danger as well as haste.
"What news?" asked Roger Dutton, not less anxiously.
"Cold tidings, my good lords," replied the messenger. "My comrade has not reached you then?—He's gone, poor fellow! Me they chased four miles."
"Who? who?" exclaimed the Constable. "Light of my eyes! the man thinks we are conjurers, to read his meaning without words. Who, I say?—Give me the letters!"
"There, my lord," replied the messenger, giving the packet that he carried, "Rothelan is invested by the Welshmen—full ten thousand."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed De Lacy. "There's not ten thousand Welshmen in the world! Read, Roger! read! I never could make much of it, and now my eyes are somewhat blind with age. What says our good brother-in-law?"
"Sad tidings, noble lord," replied Roger Dutton. "He is, indeed, besieged in Rothelan by a large force of Welsh. Scanty provision has he, and small store of arms. He does beseech you, send him instant help—they pour against his battlements like hail; and he has scarce force enough to guard the walls by day, with few to spare for needful rest."
"Mary, Mother! this is an evil chance!" cried the old Lord; "and I have not a score of men to spare. How many are there, Roger?"
"He does not say, my lord," replied Dutton, "Yes, stay—he does! Some six or seven thousand angry Welshmen he calls them—six or seven thousand!"
"This for our sins!" cried De Lacy.
"Shall I say a mass, my lord?" asked the Priest.
"Masses to hell!" cried the Constable. "'Tis men we want! What can be done? Where can we turn? You must ride out to all the neighbouring lands, and see what you can raise ere night. I may not quit the casstle, for my oath, till this cursed fair be over. To horse, Roger!—to horse! You can gather a hundred men ere night."
"Night! my lord," cried Roger Dutton—"'twill be too late. A hundred men!—what can they do?"
"Hark, my good lords!" exclaimed Allan, the harper. "I have a plan. Down in the fair there is many a thousand sturdy fellows, made for strong blows—active, though idle—brave, though wild enough. Methinks, at Roger Dutton's name alone, one half, at least, would follow to the gates of death. Let us go down, and see. Here, in the castle, you must have arms to spare."
"Plenty, plenty of their kind!" exclaimed the old Lord.
"'Tis our best chance," cried Roger Dutton. "Now, Mary, you shall see what comes of winning minstrels, love! Methinks they'll follow me."
"Ay will they, my good lord," answered Allan—"and I the first!"
"If they will," cried Dutton, "not all the naked Welshmen in the world shall stop me from delivering her I love and my good lord, the Karl.—Come, Allan, come! Give us some half-dozen stout companions, noble Lacy, to guard us against Glanville and his crew. Let us have a trumpet, too, to call the men about us."
"The man's a magician—a diviner!" exclaimed Lacy. "I declare I shall soon believe in geomancy, chiromancy, and all the ancies!"
Young Allan, the harper, looked at De Lacy, and began to think that something had turned the old Knight's brain.
"'Pon my life!" cried Roger Dutton, "'tis somewhat singular. I have fought the duel that he talked of for one miscalled a dancing girl; I have found my fair lady somewhat jealous; and now nothing remains but to defeat an army with rags and tatters, which we propose to do directly; and then, that 'Every Dutton may have his mutton.'"
"Rags and tatters you will find enough in the fair, my lord," cried Allan; "but stout arms under them."
"'Tis that we want—'tis that we want!" cried Roger Dutton. "By Heaven! I am grown superstitious; and with that man's prophecy to back us, I would rather have my men in rags and tatters than hauberks and gambesons. Come, Allan, come! Now my lord, call out ten men-at-arms and a trumpet—'tis all we'll take of thee. We scorn your steel-clad fellows, whom no blow can reach. By my life! I'll ride in my cloak and jerkin. Ho! bring me out a horse there!"
"You shall have them—you shall have them," cried De Lacy. "God speed you, gay Roger! Thou art just the man to run through life with a lance in his hand, and conquer with small means. Call me out the first ten ready there, who wish to go with Roger Dutton!"
Every man in the court started forward; and as it was needful to make a choice, Roger Dutton fixed upon every second man, and then exclaimed, "Now let us forward! the horses and arms can come after to the edge of the fair. Heaven's benison on thee, pretty Marian! I take thy husband from thee even in the bridal hour; but we'll bring him back with honour, never fear!"
Marian, it must be owned, looked somewhat rueful, but old De Lacy chucked her under the chin, crying, "Come girl, come—don't be sad, I'll console thee."
Allan gave her one warm embrace and one hearty kiss; and the whole castle seeming to be infected with the light, daring spirit of gay Roger Dutton, assembled round the gate as he and his companions passed out, and gave them a loud long cheer that echoed down into the fair.
It was just the hour of dinner when Dutton and his companions approached the outer booths, and most of the merry folks there collected were revelling and singing within. A number of boys, however, were on the outside, to watch the stalls, and see that no one s stole the merchandise, and when their eyes fell upon the young nobleman, they instantly began to shout with the true eagerness and strong lungs of youth, "Roger Dutton! Roger Dutton! Long live gay Roger Dutton, the minstrel's friend!"
The sound reached the interior of the various booths and wooden houses where some were enjoying their solitary meal and their hour of repose; and some were drinking, talking, and singing, in company. Several people heard the sounds distinctly, and made out what they were; but others only heard a shout, and fancied that some accident had happened. All ran out, however, who were within earshot, and a long line of curious faces, in every sort of strange head-dress that it is possible to conceive, from the Armenian high cap to the Flemish skimming-dish, were protruded along the line of the street up which Roger Dutton was gazing.
The first man who came near him was a cobbler, and he approached with the usual benediction of "God bless thee, gay Roger Dutton! What moves thy light heart now?"
"Hark ye, my merry men—hark ye!" cried Roger Dutton, raising his voice to a loud tone; "Ranulph, good Earl of Chester is besieged in Rothelan Castle by a rabble of Welshmen, the scum of the mountains, and Roger Dutton is a-foot in his hose and jerkin, to help the good Earl, and to beat back the Welsh. Who will come with Roger Dutton at his need?"
"I will!" cried the cobbler, putting back into his shop the wooden platter which he had brought out in his hand; "I have got a sheaf of arrows and a bow."
"What's the matter? what's the matter?" cried the fiddler, Roger Dutton's first friend in the fair, who now came running down at full speed; "I heard Roger Dutton's name."
"Here he is! here he is!" shouted the boys. "Here's gay Roger Dutton! Long live Roger Dutton!"
"Come, fiddler," cried Roger; "thou shalt fight for us, likewise."
"Fight for thee?" cried the fiddler—"that I will, and fiddle for thee, too. All the fiddlers will fight for thee. I am ready! who shall we fight against?—John Glanville?"
"No, no," cried Allan, the harper; "the Dutton is going out to fight the Welsh in his jerkin and hose, and to deliver the good Karl Ranulph, besieged in Rothelan. Let such men come with us as will—we want none but the willing."
"We'll all come!—we'll all come!" shouted the fiddler. "Boy, lug me the drummer out of yon hovel by the ear. Bring his drum with him—you, Allan, get up a song. We'll march through the town and beat the drum, and I'll play the fiddle, and you shall sing;—and, my life for it, we have thousands ere an hour be over! The good Earl besieged in Rothelan?—Roger Dutton to lead us?—We'll beat the devil and all his legions!"
"I've got a sword!" cried one.
"My knife will do as well as another," exclaimed a second.
"I'll borrow Matthew Gamble's pike," said a third.
"Pikes and swords are coming from the castle," said Roger Dutton; "all men shall have arms that will use them."
"What shall be the measure, Allan?" said the fiddler.
"Joan ap Rice?" asked Allan.
"Fie! no, that's a Welsh howl."
"Lancaster town," or "Hop Winikin?"
"The first—the first!" said the fiddler. "Now Grummer, wilt thou beat thy drum for Roger Dutton going to fight the Welsh?"
"Will I?" cried the drummer—and swinging his instrument of noise round before him, he beat a row dow dow that made the whole place echo.
"That will do, that will do!" cried the fiddler; "beat so whenever we stop.—Now, my lord, we will begin our march. Let all the recruits fall in behind, and swell the train of Roger Dutton—gay Roger Dutton!—Here we go to the tune of "Lancaster town"—Allan, are you ready?"
Allan nodded his head; the drummer went first, the fiddler and the harper came next, Dutton and his soldiers followed with a train of men and boys who were now gathering thick in the rear, and who seized upon every pause for a loud shout, which ensured that nobody should be ignorant that something exciting was going on in the fair. But in the meanwhile the fiddler played upon his viol a light and inspiriting air, and Allan, the harper, in a fine, bold, manly voice, sang as they went the following verses, which he had struck off on the spur of the occasion:—
BATTLE SONG OF ROGER DUTTON.
"Roger Dutton's going to fight
In his doublet and his hose—
Who is wrong and who is right,
No one cares, and no one knows.
"Follow us, my merry men all!
We are going to do great things;
If we meet the devil and all,
We will make him find his wings.
"Roger Dutton's going to fight
In his doublet and his hose—
Who is wrong and who is right,
No one cares, and no one knows."
Thus saying, on they went, every street and alley of the fair pouring forth multitudes upon them, every voice taking up the cry "Roger Dutton's going to fight the Welsh! Roger Dutton's going to fight the Welsh! All the men are going with him! Come along! Come along!"
"Get me my sword!"
"Fetch me my staff!"
"Where's my buckler?"
"Have you seen my steel cap, boy?"
"Reach me down that guisarme."
"The tent-pole for me!"
"Roger Dutton's going to fight
In his doublet and his hose—
Who is wrong and who is right,
No one cares, and no one knows."
"Row de dow, dow! Row de dow, dow! Row de dow, dow!"
"Roger Dutton—gay Roger Dutton! Long live Roger Dutton!"
Such were the sounds, or at least a few of them that soon accompanied the young nobleman on his march through the fair. Never was such a hullabaloo heard—never was such a scene of confusion—never were so many heads thrust out of the windows—never did so many men run out of the doors; the wild enthusiasm seized upon everybody—it was like the frenzy of the Bacchantes; everybody was ready to go, and to tear to pieces any one who hesitated; so that at length by the time that he had made the complete round of the fair, and reached the place to which the horses and arms from the castle had been brought, full seventeen hundred men were ready to follow him to death, and Allan, the harper, changing his verse, sang in a louder and a gayer voice than ever—
"Roger Dutton leads to fight
The bold fiddlers and their crew;
If he meets the Welsh to-night,
He will give the devil his due!"