More Bywords Part 10

"A mere English villein, little better than a valet of the camp!"

were the exclamations around. "A n.o.ble damsel take note of him!

Fie for shame!"

"He has been true and brave," said the King. "Dost ask a guerdon for him, young sir?" he added to Walter.

"What wouldst have, old Sigbert?" asked Walter, in a patronising voice.

"I ask nothing, sir," returned the old squire. "To have seen my lord's children in safety is all I wish. I have but done my duty."

King Fulk, who saw through the whole more clearly than some of those around, yet still had the true Angevin and Norman contempt for a Saxon, here said: "Old man, thou art trusty and shrewd, and mayst be useful. Wilt thou take service as one of my men-at-arms?"

"Thou mayst," said Walter; "thou art not bound to me. England hath enough of Saxon churls without thee, and I shall purvey myself an esquire of youthful grace and n.o.ble blood."

Mabel looked at her betrothed and began to speak.

"No, no, sweet lady, I will have none of that rough, old masterful sort about me."

"Sir King," said Sigbert, "I thank thee heartily. I would still serve the Cross; but my vow has been, when my young lord and lady should need me no more, to take the Cross of St. John with the Hospitaliers."

"As a lay brother? Bethink thee," said Fulk of Anjou. "n.o.ble blood is needed for a Knight of the Order."

Sigbert smiled slightly, in spite of all the sadness of his face, and the Knight Commander who had ridden with them, a Fleming by birth, said--

"For that matter, Sir King, we are satisfied. Sigbert, the son of Sigfrid, hath proved his descent from the old English kings of the East Saxons, and the Order will rejoice to enrol in the novitiate so experienced a warrior."

"Is this indeed so?" asked Fulk. "A good lineage, even if Englis.h.!.+"

"But rebel," muttered Courtwood.

"It is so, Sir King," said Sigbert. "My father was disseised of the lands of Hundberg, and died in the fens fighting under Hereward le Wake. My mother dwelt under the protection of the Abbey of Colchester, and, by and by, I served under our Atheling, and, when King Henry's wars in Normandy were over, I followed the Lord of Hundberg's banner, because the men-at-arms were mine own neighbours, and his lady my kinswoman. Roger can testify to my birth and lineage."

"So, thou art true heir of Hundberg, if that be the name of thine English castle?"

"Ay, sir, save for the Norman! But I would not, if I could, meddle with thee, my young lord, though thou dost look at me askance, spite of having learnt of me to ride and use thy lance. I am the last of the English line of old Sigfrid the Wormbane, and a childless man, and I trust the land and the serfs will be well with thee, who art English born, and son to Wulfrida of Lexden. And I trust that thou, my sweet Lady Mabel, will be a happy bride and wife. All I look for is to end my days under the Cross, in the cause of the Holy Sepulchre, whether as warrior or lay brother. Yes, dear lady, that is enough for old Sigbert."

And Mabel had to acquiesce and believe that her old friend found peace and gladness beneath the eight-pointed Cross, when she and her brother sailed for England, where she would behold the green fields and purple heather of which he had told her amid the rocks of Palestine.

Moreover, she thought of him when on her way through France, she heard the young monk Bernard, then rising into fame, preach on the beleaguered city, saved by the poor wise man; and tell how, when the city was safe, none remembered the poor man. True, the preacher gave it a mystic meaning, and interpreted it as meaning the emphatically Poor Man by Whom Salvation came, and Whom too few bear in mind. Yet such a higher meaning did not exclude the thought of one whose deserts surpa.s.sed his honours here on earth.

THE BEGGAR'S LEGACY

An Alderman bold, Henry Smith was enrolled, Of the Silversmiths' Company; Highly praised was his name, his skill had high fame, And a prosperous man was he.

Knights drank to his health, and lauded his wealth; Sailors came from the Western Main, Their prizes they sold, of ingots of gold, Or plate from the galleys of Spain.

Then beakers full fine, to hold the red wine, Were cast in his furnace's mould, Or tankards rich chased, in intricate taste, Gimmal rings of the purest gold.

On each New Year's morn, no man thought it scorn-- Whether statesman, or warrior brave-- The choicest device, of costliest price, For a royal off'ring to crave.

"Bring here such a toy as the most may joy The eyes of our gracious Queen, Rows of orient pearls, gold pins for her curls, Silver network, all glistening sheen."

Each buyer who came--lord, squire, or dame-- Behaved in most courteous guise, Showing honour due, as to one they knew To be at once wealthy and wise.

In London Guild Hall, the citizens all, Esteemed him their future Lord Mayor; Not one did he meet, in market or street, But made him a reverence fair.

"Ho," said Master Smith, "I will try the pith Of this smooth-faced courtesy; Do they prize myself, do they prize my pelf, Do they value what's mine or me?"

His gold chain of pride he hath laid aside, And furred gown of the scarlet red; He set on his back a fardel and pack, And a hood on his grizzled head.

His 'prentices all he hath left in stall, But running right close by his side, In spite of his rags, guarding well his bags, His small Messan dog would abide.

So thus, up and down, through village and town, In rain or in sunny weather, Through Surrey's fair land, his staff in his hand, Went he and the dog together.

"Good folk, hear my prayer, of your bounty spare, Help a wanderer in his need; Better days I have seen, a rich man I have been, Esteemed both in word and deed."

In the first long street, certain forms he did meet, But scarce might behold their faces; From matted elf-locks eyes stared like an ox, And shambling were their paces!

Not one gave him cheer, nor would one come near, As he turned him away to go, Then a heavy stone at the dog was thrown, To deal a right cowardly blow.

In Mitcham's fair vale, the men 'gan to rail, "Not a vagabond may come near;"

Each mother's son ran, each boy and each man, To summon the constable here.

The cart's tail behind, the beggar they bind, They flogged him full long and full sore; They hunted him out, did that rabble rout, And bade him come thither no more!

All weary and bruised, and scurvily used, He went trudging along his track; The lesson was stern he had come to learn, And yet he disdained to turn back.

Where Walton-on-Thames gleams fair through the stems Of its tufted willow palms, There were loitering folk who most vilely spoke, Nor would give him one groat in alms.

"Dog Smith," was the cry, "behold him go by, The fool who hath lost all he had!"

For only to tease can delight and can please The ill-nurtured village lad.

Behold, in Betchworth was a blazing hearth With a hospitable door.

"Thou art tired and lame," quoth a kindly dame, "Come taste of our humble store.

"Though scant be our fare, thou art welcome to share; We rejoice to give thee our best; Come sit by our fire, thou weary old sire, Come in, little doggie, and rest."

And where Mole the slow doth by Cobham go, He beheld a small village maiden; Of loose flocks of wool her lap was quite full, With a bundle her arms were laden.

"What seekest thou, child, 'mid the bushes wild, Thy face and thine arms that thus tear?"

"The wool the sheep leave, to spin and to weave; It makes us our clothes to wear."

Then she led him in, where her mother did spin, And make barley bannocks to eat; They gave him enough, though the food was rough-- The kindliness made it most sweet.

Many years had past, report ran at last, The rich Alderman Smith was dead.

Then each knight and dame, and each merchant came, To hear his last testament read.