But true was the eye and firm the hand which guided. A dull scraping came from beneath, the vessel quivered and shook, at the waist, at the quarter, and behind sounded that grim roaring of the waters, and with a plunge the yellow cog was over the bar and speeding swiftly up the broad and tranquil estuary of the Gironde.
Chapter XVIII.
HOW SIR NIGEL LORING PUT A PATCH UPON HIS EYE.
IT was on the morning of Friday, the eight-and twentieth day of November, two days before the feast of St. Andrew, that the cog and her two prisoners, after a weary tacking up the Girondo and the Garonne, dropped anchor at last in front of the noble city of Bordeaux.
With wonder and admiration, Alleyne, leaning over the bulwarks, gazed at the forest of masts, the swarm of boats darting hither and thither on the bosom of the broad curving stream, and the gray crescent-shaped city which stretched with many a tower and minaret along the western shore.
Never had he in his quiet life seen so great a town, nor was there in the whole of England, save London alone, one which might match it in size or in wealth.
Here came the merchandise of all the fair countries which are watered by the Garonne and the Dordogne--the cloths of the south, the skins of Guienne, the wines of the Medoc--to be borne away to Hull, Exeter, Dartmouth, Bristol or Chester, in exchange for the wools and woolfels of England.
Here too dwelt those famous smelters and welders who had made the Bordeaux steel the most trusty upon earth, and could give a temper to lance or to sword which might mean dear life to its owner.
Alleyne could see the smoke of their forges reeking up in the clear morning air.
The storm had died down now to a gentle breeze, which wafted to his ears the long-drawn stirring bugle-calls which sounded from the ancient ramparts.
"Hola, mon petit!" said Aylward, coming up to where he stood.
"Thou art a squire now, and like enough to win the golden spurs, while I am still the master-bowman, and master-bowman I shall bide.
I dare scarce wag my tongue so freely with you as when we tramped together past Wilverley Chase, else I might be your guide now, for indeed I know every house in Bordeaux as a friar knows the beads on his rosary."
"Nay, Aylward," said Alleyne, laying his hand upon the sleeve of his companion's frayed jerkin, "you cannot think me so thrall as to throw aside an old friend because I have had some small share of good fortune.
I take it unkind that you should have thought such evil of me."
"Nay, mon gar. 'Twas but a flight shot to see if the wind blew steady, though I were a rogue to doubt it."
"Why, had I not met you, Aylward, at the Lynhurst inn, who can say where I had now been!
Certes, I had not gone to Twynham Castle, nor become squire to Sir Nigel, nor met----" He paused abruptly and flushed to his hair, but the bowman was too busy with his own thoughts to notice his young companion's embarrassment.
"It was a good hostel, that of the
'Pied Merlin,' " he remarked.
"By my ten finger bones! when I hang bow on nail and change my brigandine for a tunic, I might do worse than take over the dame and her business."
"I thought," said Alleyne, "that you were betrothed to some one at Christchurch."
"To three," Aylward answered moodily, "to three.
I fear I may not go back to Christchurch.
I might chance to see hotter service in Hampshire than I have ever done in Gascony.
But mark you now yonder lofty turret in the centre, which stands back from the river and hath a broad banner upon the summit.
See the rising sun flashes full upon it and sparkles on the golden lions.
'Tis the royal banner of England, crossed by the prince's label.
There he dwells in the Abbey of St. Andrew, where he hath kept his court these years back.
Beside it is the minster of the same saint, who hath the town under his very special care."
"And how of yon gray turret on the left?"
" 'Tis the fane of St. Michael, as that upon the right is of St. Remi.
There, too, above the poop of yonder nief, you see the towers of Saint Croix and of Pey Berland.
Mark also the mighty ramparts which are pierced by the three water-gates, and sixteen others to the landward side."
"And how is it, good Aylward, that there comes so much music from the town?
I seem to hear a hundred trumpets, all calling in chorus."
"It would be strange else, seeing that all the great lords of England and of Gascony are within the walls, and each would have his trumpeter blow as loud as his neighbor, lest it might be thought that his dignity had been abated.
Ma foi! they make as much louster as a Scotch army, where every man fills himself with girdle-cakes, and sits up all night to blow upon the toodle-pipe.
See all along the banks how the pages water the horses, and there beyond the town how they gallop them over the plain!
For every horse you see a belted knight hath herbergage in the town, for, as I learn, the men-at-arms and archers have already gone forward to Dax."
"I trust, Aylward," said Sir Nigel, coming upon deck, "that the men are ready for the land.
Go tell them that the boats will be for them within the hour."
The archer raised his hand in salute, and hastened forward.
In the meantime Sir Oliver had followed his brother knight, and the two paced the poop together, Sir Nigel in his plum-colored velvet suit with flat cap of the same, adorned in front with the Lady Loring's glove and girt round with a curling ostrich feather. The lusty knight, on the other hand, was clad in the very latest mode, with cote-hardie, doublet, pourpoint, courtpie, and paltock of olive-green, picked out with pink and jagged at the edges.
A red chaperon or cap, with long hanging cornette, sat daintily on the back of his black-curled head, while his gold-hued shoes were twisted up a la poulaine, as though the toes were shooting forth a tendril which might hope in time to entwine itself around his massive leg.
"Once more, Sir Oliver," said Sir Nigel, looking shorewards with sparkling eyes, "do we find ourselves at the gate of honor, the door which hath so often led us to all that is knightly and worthy.
There flies the prince's banner, and it would be well that we haste ashore and pay our obeisance to him.
The boats already swarm from the bank."
"There is a goodly hostel near the west gate, which is famed for the stewing of spiced pullets," remarked Sir Oliver.
"We might take the edge of our hunger off ere we seek the prince, for though his tables are gay with damask and silver he is no trencherman himself, and hath no sympathy for those who are his betters."