"I am not altogether without influence at the king's court, and I may even have power to set matters right."
"Enter my house, then, if you deem me not unworthy of such an honour," said my grandsire, as we reached the door.
"Right gladly," replied the stranger, dismounting; and, resigning his steed to my care, he followed my grandsire.
Evidently with curiosity, the cavalier, on entering the little hall, examined several pieces of armour and weapons that had been in fashion late in the thirteenth century, especially a huge iron club that was suspended on the wall. But when, having stabled the stranger's steed, I appeared in the hall, I found him seated at the board with my grandsire, partaking of such good cheer as the tenement afforded, and quaffing horns of ale, with apparent relish. Ere the meal was at an end my grandsire had uttered all his complaints against the royal purveyors, and was evidently delighted with his guest; and, as his heart opened, he did not fail to express his satisfaction.
"Courtier," exclaimed the old man, almost with enthusiasm, "I begin to believe that thou art an honest fellow."
"I would fain hope, my friend," replied the stranger, "that men who know me best would so report me."
"I believe it," said my grandsire; "and," added he more soberly, "I should know men when I see them; for in my life I have held discourse with men of all ranks, and with some whose names will live for ever in chronicle and song."
"Indeed?" quoth the cavalier, struck by a remark which gave him a higher idea of his new acquaintance. "I perceive, then, that you have not passed your life in this quiet homestead."
My grandsire laughed, as if in scorn of the thought.
"No," replied he, recovering his serenity, "not at this homestead did I pass my early years, but where banners were flying, and bridles ringing, and swords flashing. My father, who was well known in his day as the Farrier of the Strand, fought with his iron club, which hangs on my wall, for the king at Evesham, under the banner of Lord Merley; and when my father departed this life, I was taken to the North, by the Lord Merley, and there trained to arms. I then went into the service of the good King Edward, and by him was much trusted. I was with the king when he was in danger at Ghent; I was with him when he conquered at Falkirk; I was with him when he died at Burgh-on-the-Sands."
"And how came your services to pass unrewarded and unrecognized?"
"Listen, courtier, and learn. When the old king was laid in his grave, I served his son as I had served himself; and how I fought at Burton and at Borough Bridge it would ill become my tongue to tell. But this cannot be gainsaid; it was my hand that struck down the rebel Clifford; and it was my hand that seized the rebel Lancaster. However, evil days came on apace; fate went against my king; and leal service could avail naught. At length, when all was over, and when, at Berkeley Castle, he was cruelly murdered, I crept hither to pass my days in peace; and I have since lived on, persuading myself that I cannot be altogether useless on earth, since it is God's pleasure that I survive the evil times I have seen."
"Evil days they were," said the cavalier, as he rose and paced the floor, evidently much agitated by memories which my grandsire's story had recalled.
I gazed with some surprise on the effect which had been produced; and my grandsire was in such perplexity, that he seemed quite relieved when the cavalier turned towards me and eyed me keenly.
"And this," said he, "is your grandson?"
"Yes," answered the old man; "my grandson, Arthur, whom I have taught to serve God and honour the king, and whom it lately pleased my lord the prince to commend, at Smithfield, for his brave looks and gallant bearing."
"A goodly youth, on my faith," said the cavalier; "and one who it seems to me, might acquit himself with honour in a higher sphere."
"His father was not of our rank," replied my grandsire. "But that is a long story, which it would pain me to tell, and you and him to hear."
"Another time, mayhap, I may hear it," said the cavalier, not without exhibiting some interest in what my grandsire had told him; "meanwhile," continued he, "it is time for me to ride towards Windsor, which I will do, if you will put me in the way. But, my friend," added he kindly, "fail not to visit me at the castle, and bring thither your grandson, and I will so requite your hospitality as to convince you that I am no churl."
"Come to Windsor," exclaimed my grandsire, "to be driven from the gate like a mangy cur! No, courtier; men shall never have it in their power to say that such was my fate."
"Fear not such a repulse," said the stranger. "Ask for me; and, if you so do, trust me you will be admitted with all courtesy."
"And, pray thee, by what name are you known?" added my grandsire.
The cavalier looked puzzled, but took from his hand a ring.
"Ask for Jack Fletcher," he said; "and if that suffices not," added he, presenting the ring, "show this, and, at the sight of it, gates and doors will open to admit you."
My grandsire bowed low as he received the ring; and the stranger rising to depart, took leave of me kindly, sallied forth, mounted his horse, and with my grandsire showing the way through the forest, and talking of deer and wild cattle, rode towards Windsor, as he had come, with his hawk on his wrist, his bugle at his girdle, and his hounds running at his side.
"Now," soliloquised I, as I watched his departure, "I will wager that the visit of this stranger is to exercise some important influence on my destiny."
CHAPTER VI
WAR WITH FRANCE
At the time when the cavalier who called himself Jack Fletcher lost his way in Windsor Forest, and accepted such hospitality as my grandsire's tenement could afford, King Edward, as Thomelin of Winchester had predicted, was preparing to renew that war which made Englishmen for a time almost masters of France. In order to render my narrative the more intelligible, it is necessary to refer to the origin of that war, to the events by which it had been distinguished, and to the stage at which it had arrived.
It was on the 1st of February, 1328 – the year in the course of which I drew my first breath – that Charles, King of France, the youngest of the three sons of Philip the Fair, and brother of Isabel, wife of our second Edward, died without male heirs. For the vacant throne – from which, centuries earlier, Hugh Capet pushed the descendant of Charlemagne, and to which subsequently St. Louis gave dignity – several candidates appeared, the chief of whom were Philip of Valois and Edward of England. Philip, relying on the fact that the Salic law excluded females from reigning, claimed the crown of France as heir male of the old king. Edward, without denying the validity of the Salic law, pleaded that, so far as succession was concerned, it did not bar the sons of a king's daughter. The Parliament of Paris, however, was appealed to; and, being much under the influence of Robert, Lord of Artois, who was Philip's brother-in-law, the Parliament decided in favour of Philip; and Edward, then young and governed by his mother, Queen Isabel, and Roger de Mortimer, so far bent his pride as to visit France, and do homage at Amiens for Guienne and Ponthieu. But he privately protested beforehand against the homage he was about to perform; and perhaps he felt little regret when Philip's interference in Scottish affairs gave him a fair excuse for a rupture, and for not only renewing his claim, but submitting it to the arbitrament of the sword.
Meanwhile, Philip of Valois had involved himself in a scandalous quarrel with Robert, Lord of Artois, to whom he owed his crown; and Robert, threatened with vengeance and destruction, reached England, disguised as a merchant, and exerted all his eloquence to rouse Edward's ambition. Circumstances favoured his exertions in this respect. Enraged at his exclusion from a
