was speaking with his nephews. The name of his brother John only set him repeating that John loved the greenwood, and would be content to take poor Stevie’s place and dwell in the verdurer’s lodge; but that he himself ought to be abroad, he had seen brave Lord Talbot’s ships ready at Southampton, John might stay at home, but he would win fame and honour in Gascony.
And while he thus wandered, and the boys stood by perplexed and distressed, Brother Segrim came back, and said, “So, young sirs, have you seen enough of your doting kinsman? The sub-prior bids me say that we harbour no strange, idling, lubber lads nor strange dogs here. ’Tis enough for us to be saddled with dissolute old men-at-arms without all their idle kin making an excuse to come and pay their devoirs. These corrodies are a heavy charge and a weighty abuse, and if there be the visitation the king’s majesty speaks of, they will be one of the first matters to be amended.”
Wherewith Stephen and Ambrose found themselves walked out of the cloister of St. Grimbald, and the gates shut behind them.
CHAPTER III
KINSMEN AND STRANGERS
“The reul of St. Maure and of St. Beneit
Because that it was old and some deale streit
This ilke monk let old things pace;
He held ever of the new world the trace.”
“The churls!” exclaimed Stephen.
“Poor old man!” said Ambrose; “I hope they are good to him!”
“To think that thus ends all that once was gallant talk of fighting under Talbot’s banner,” sighed Stephen, thoughtful for a moment. “However, there’s a good deal to come first.”
“Yea, and what next?” said the elder brother.
“On to uncle Hal. I ever looked most to him. He will purvey me to a page’s place in some noble household, and get thee a clerk’s or scholar’s place in my Lord of York’s house. Mayhap there will be room for us both there, for my Lord of York hath a goodly following of armed men.”
“Which way lies the road to London?”
“We must back into the town and ask, as well as fill our stomachs and our wallets,” said Ambrose. “Talk of their rule! The entertaining of strangers is better understood at Silkstede than at Hyde.”
“Tush! A grudged crust sticks in the gullet,” returned Stephen. “Come on, Ambrose, I marked the sign of the White Hart by the market-place. There will be a welcome there for foresters.”
They returned on their steps past the dilapidated buildings of the old Jewry, and presently saw the market in full activity; but the sounds and sights of busy life where they were utter strangers, gave Ambrose a sense of loneliness and desertion, and his heart sank as the bolder Stephen threaded the way in the direction of a broad entry over which stood a slender-bodied hart with gold hoofs, horns, collar, and chain.
“How now, my sons?” said a full cheery voice, and to their joy, they found themselves pushed up against Father Shoveller.
“Returned already! Did you get scant welcome at Hyde? Here, come where we can get a free breath, and tell me.”
They passed through the open gateway of the White Hart, into the court, but before listening to them, the monk exchanged greetings with the hostess, who stood at the door in a broad hat and velvet bodice, and demanded what cheer there was for noon-meat.
“A jack, reverend sir, eels and a grampus fresh sent up from Hampton; also fresh-killed mutton for such lay folk as are not curious of the Wednesday fast. They are laying the board even now.”
“Lay platters for me and these two young gentlemen,” said the Augustinian. “Ye be my guests, ye wot,” he added, “since ye tarried not for meat at Hyde.”
“Nor did they ask us,” exclaimed Stephen; “lubbers and idlers were the best words they had for us.”
“Ho! ho! That’s the way with the brethren of St. Grimbald! And your uncle?”
“Alas, sir, he doteth with age,” said Ambrose. “He took Stephen for his own brother, dead under King Harry of Windsor.”
“So! I had heard somewhat of his age and sickness. Who was it who thrust you out?”
“A lean brother with a thin red beard, and a shrewd, puckered visage.”
“Ha! By that token ’twas Segrim the bursar. He wots how to drive a bargain. St. Austin! but he deemed you came to look after your kinsman’s corrody.”
“He said the king spake of a visitation to abolish corrodies from religious houses,” said Ambrose.
“He’ll abolish the long bow from them first,” said Father Shoveller. “Ay, and miniver from my Lord Abbot’s hood. I’d admonish you, my good brethren of S. Grimbald, to be in no hurry for a visitation which might scarce stop where you would fain have it. Well, my sons, are ye bound for the Forest again? An ye be, we’ll wend back together, and ye can lie at Silkstede to-night.”
“Alack, kind father, there’s no more home for us in the Forest,” said Ambrose.
“Methought ye had a brother?”
“Yea; but our brother hath a wife.”
“Ho! ho! And the wife will none of you?”
“She would have kept Ambrose to teach her boy his primer,” said Stephen; “but she would none of Spring nor of me.”
“We hoped to receive counsel from our uncle at Hyde,” added Ambrose.
“Have ye no purpose now?” inquired the Father, his jolly good-humoured face showing much concern.
“Yea,” manfully returned Stephen. “’Twas what I ever hoped to do, to fare on and seek our fortune in London.”
“Ha! To pick up gold and silver like Dick Whittington. Poor old Spring here will scarce do you the part of his cat,” and the monk’s hearty laugh angered Stephen into muttering, “We are no fools,” but Father Shoveller only laughed the more, saying, “Fair and softly, my son, ye’ll never pick up the gold if ye cannot brook a kindly quip. Have you friends or kindred in London?”
“Yea, that have we, sir,” cried Stephen; “our mother’s own brother, Master Randall, hath come to preferment there in my Lord Archbishop of York’s household, and hath sent us tokens from time to time, which we will show you.”
“Not while we be feasting,” said Father Shoveller, hastily checking Ambrose, who was feeling in his bosom. “See, the knaves be bringing their grampus across the court. Here, we’ll clean our hands, and be ready for the meal;” and he showed them, under a projecting gallery in the inn yard a stone trough, through which flowed a stream of water, in which he proceeded to wash his hands and face, and to wipe them in a coarse towel suspended nigh at hand. Certainly after handling sheep freely there was need, though such ablutions were a refinement not indulged in by all the company who assembled round the well-spread board of the White Hart for the meal after the market. They were a motley company. By the host’s side sat a knight on his way home from pilgrimage to Compostella, or perhaps a mission to Spain, with a couple of squires and other attendants,
