The White Company & Sir Nigel (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Conan Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ pieces to one upon my bird.”

      “Done with you, Bishop!” cried the King, his brow dark with vexation. “By the rood! if you were as learned in the fathers as you are in hawks you would win to the throne of Saint Peter! Cast off your peregrine and make your boasting good.”

      Smaller than the royal gerfalcon, the Bishop’s bird was none the less a swift and beautiful creature. From her perch upon his wrist she had watched with fierce, keen eyes the birds in the heaven, mantling herself from time to time in her eagerness. Now when the button was undone and the leash uncast the peregrine dashed off with a whir of her sharp-pointed wings, whizzing round in a great ascending circle which mounted swiftly upward, growing ever smaller as she approached that lofty point where, a mere speck in the sky, the heron sought escape from its enemies. Still higher and higher the two birds mounted, while the horsemen, their faces upturned, strained their eyes in their efforts to follow them.

      “She rings! She still rings!” cried the Bishop. “She is above him! She has gained her pitch.”

      “Nay, nay, she is far below,” said the King.

      “By my soul, my Lord Bishop is right!” cried the Prince. “I believe she is above. See! See! She swoops!”

      “She binds! She binds!” cried a dozen voices as the two dots blended suddenly into one.

      There could be no doubt that they were falling rapidly. Already they grew larger to the eye. Presently the heron disengaged himself and flapped heavily away, the worse for that deadly embrace, while the peregrine, shaking her plumage, ringed once more so as to get high above the quarry and deal it a second and more fatal blow. The Bishop smiled, for nothing, as it seemed, could hinder his victory.

      “Thy gold pieces shall be well spent, sire,” said he. “What is lost to the Church is gained by the loser.”

      But a most unlooked-for chance deprived the Bishop’s altar cloth of its costly mending. The King’s gerfalcon having struck down a rook, and finding the sport but tame, bethought herself suddenly of that noble heron, which she still perceived fluttering over Crooksbury Heath. How could she have been so weak as to allow these silly, chattering rooks to entice her away from that lordly bird? Even now it was not too late to atone for her mistake. In a great spiral she shot upward until she was over the heron. But what was this? Every fiber of her, from her crest to her deck feathers, quivered with jealousy and rage at the sight of this creature, a mere peregrine, who had dared to come between a royal gerfalcon and her quarry. With one sweep of her great wings she shot up until she was above her rival. The next instant—

      “They crab! They crab!” cried the King, with a roar of laughter, following them with his eyes as they bustled down through the air. “Mend thy own altar-cloths, Bishop. Not a groat shall you have from me this journey. Pull them apart, falconer, lest they do each other an injury. And now, masters, let us on, for the sun sinks toward the west.”

      The two hawks, which had come to the ground interlocked with clutching talons and ruffled plumes, were torn apart and brought back bleeding and panting to their perches, while the heron after its perilous adventure flapped its way heavily onward to settle safely in the heronry of Waverley. The cortege, who had scattered in the excitement of the chase, came together again, and the journey was once more resumed.

      A horseman who had been riding toward them across the moor now quickened his pace and closed swiftly upon them. As he came nearer, the King and the Prince cried out joyously and waved their hands in greeting.

      “It is good John Chandos!!” cried the King. “By the rood, John, I have missed your merry songs this week or more! Glad I am to see that you have your citole slung to your back. Whence come you then?”

      “I come from Tilford, sire, in the hope that I should meet your majesty.”

      “It was well thought of. Come, ride here between the Prince and me, and we will believe that we are back in France with our war harness on our backs once more. What is your news, Master John?”

      Chandos’ quaint face quivered with suppressed amusement and his one eye twinkled like a star. “Have you had sport, my liege?”

      “Poor sport, John. We flew two hawks on the same heron. They crabbed, and the bird got free. But why do you smile so?”

      “Because I hope to show you better sport ere you come to Tilford.”

      “For the hawk? For the hound?”

      “A nobler sport than either.”

      “Is this a riddle, John? What mean you?”

      “Nay, to tell all would be to spoil all. I say again that there is rare sport betwixt here and Tilford, and I beg you, dear lord, to mend your pace that we make the most of the daylight.”

      Thus adjured, the King set spurs to his horse, and the whole cavalcade cantered over the heath in the direction which Chandos showed. Presently as they came over a slope they saw beneath them a winding river with an old high-backed bridge across it. On the farther side was a village green with a fringe of cottages and one dark manor house upon the side of the hill.

      “This is Tilford,” said Chandos. “Yonder is the house of the Lorings.”

      The King’s expectations had been aroused and his face showed his disappointment.

      “Is this the sport that you have promised us, Sir John? How can you make good your words?”

      “I will make them good, my liege.”

      “Where then is the sport?”

      On the high crown of the bridge a rider in armor was seated, lance in hand, upon a great yellow steed. Chandos touched the King’s arm and pointed. “That is the sport,” said he.

      IX. How Nigel Held the Bridge at Tilford

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      The King looked at the motionless figure, at the little crowd of hushed expectant rustics beyond the bridge, and finally at the face of Chandos, which shone with amusement.

      “What is this, John?” he asked.

      “You remember Sir Eustace Loring, sire?”

      “Indeed I could never forget him nor the manner of his death.”

      “He was a knight errant in his day.”

      “That indeed he was—none better have I known.”

      “So is his son Nigel, as fierce a young war-hawk as ever yearned to use beak and claws; but held fast in the mews up to now. This is his trial fight. There he stands at the bridge-head, as was the wont in our fathers’ time, ready to measure himself against all comers.”

      Of all Englishmen there was no greater knight errant than the King himself, and none so steeped in every quaint usage of chivalry; so that the situation was after his own heart.

      “He is not yet a knight?”

      “No, sire, only a Squire.”

      “Then СКАЧАТЬ