The White Company. Артур Конан Дойл

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ camarades, at the Church of St. Denis in the harrying of Narbonne, and I took them away with me lest they fall into the hands of the wicked. Five—a cloak of fur turned up with minever, a gold goblet with stand and cover, and a box of rose-colored sugar. See that you lay them together. Six—a box of monies, three pounds of Limousine gold-work, a pair of boots, silver tagged, and, lastly, a store of naping linen. So, the tally is complete! Here is a groat apiece, and you may go.”

      “Go whither, worthy sir?” asked one of the carriers.

      “Whither? To the devil if ye will. What is it to me? Now, ma belle, to supper. A pair of cold capons, a mortress of brawn, or what you will, with a flask or two of the right Gascony. I have crowns in my pouch, my sweet, and I mean to spend them. Bring in wine while the food is dressing. Buvons my brave lads; you shall each empty a stoup with me.”

      Here was an offer which the company in an English inn at that or any other date are slow to refuse. The flagons were re-gathered and came back with the white foam dripping over their edges. Two of the woodmen and three of the laborers drank their portions off hurriedly and trooped off together, for their homes were distant and the hour late. The others, however, drew closer, leaving the place of honor to the right of the gleeman to the free-handed new-comer. He had thrown off his steel cap and his brigandine, and had placed them with his sword, his quiver and his painted long-bow, on the top of his varied heap of plunder in the corner. Now, with his thick and somewhat bowed legs stretched in front of the blaze, his green jerkin thrown open, and a great quart pot held in his corded fist, he looked the picture of comfort and of good-fellowship. His hard-set face had softened, and the thick crop of crisp brown curls which had been hidden by his helmet grew low upon his massive neck. He might have been forty years of age, though hard toil and harder pleasure had left their grim marks upon his features. Alleyne had ceased painting his pied merlin, and sat, brush in hand, staring with open eyes at a type of man so strange and so unlike any whom he had met. Men had been good or had been bad in his catalogue, but here was a man who was fierce one instant and gentle the next, with a curse on his lips and a smile in his eye. What was to be made of such a man as that?

      It chanced that the soldier looked up and saw the questioning glance which the young clerk threw upon him. He raised his flagon and drank to him, with a merry flash of his white teeth.

      “A toi, mon garcon,” he cried. “Hast surely never seen a man-at-arms, that thou shouldst stare so?”

      “I never have,” said Alleyne frankly, “though I have oft heard talk of their deeds.”

      “By my hilt!” cried the other, “if you were to cross the narrow sea you would find them as thick as bees at a tee-hole. Couldst not shoot a bolt down any street of Bordeaux, I warrant, but you would pink archer, squire, or knight. There are more breastplates than gaberdines to be seen, I promise you.”

      “And where got you all these pretty things?” asked Hordle John, pointing at the heap in the corner.

      “Where there is as much more waiting for any brave lad to pick it up. Where a good man can always earn a good wage, and where he need look upon no man as his paymaster, but just reach his hand out and help himself. Aye, it is a goodly and a proper life. And here I drink to mine old comrades, and the saints be with them! Arouse all together, mes enfants, under pain of my displeasure. To Sir Claude Latour and the White Company!”

      “Sir Claude Latour and the White Company!” shouted the travellers, draining off their goblets.

      “Well quaffed, mes braves! It is for me to fill your cups again, since you have drained them to my dear lads of the white jerkin. Hola! mon ange, bring wine and ale. How runs the old stave?—

      We'll drink all together

       To the gray goose feather

       And the land where the gray goose flew.”

      He roared out the catch in a harsh, unmusical voice, and ended with a shout of laughter. “I trust that I am a better bowman than a minstrel,” said he.

      “Methinks I have some remembrance of the lilt,” remarked the gleeman, running his fingers over the strings. “Hoping that it will give thee no offence, most holy sir”—with a vicious snap at Alleyne—“and with the kind permit of the company, I will even venture upon it.”

      Many a time in the after days Alleyne Edricson seemed to see that scene, for all that so many which were stranger and more stirring were soon to crowd upon him. The fat, red-faced gleeman, the listening group, the archer with upraised finger beating in time to the music, and the huge sprawling figure of Hordle John, all thrown into red light and black shadow by the flickering fire in the centre—memory was to come often lovingly back to it. At the time he was lost in admiration at the deft way in which the jongleur disguised the loss of his two missing strings, and the lusty, hearty fashion in which he trolled out his little ballad of the outland bowmen, which ran in some such fashion as this:

      What of the bow?

       The bow was made in England:

       Of true wood, of yew wood,

       The wood of English bows;

       So men who are free

       Love the old yew tree

       And the land where the yew tree grows.

       What of the cord?

       The cord was made in England:

       A rough cord, a tough cord,

       A cord that bowmen love;

       So we'll drain our jacks

       To the English flax

       And the land where the hemp was wove.

       What of the shaft?

       The shaft was cut in England:

       A long shaft, a strong shaft,

       Barbed and trim and true;

       So we'll drink all together

       To the gray goose feather

       And the land where the gray goose flew.

       What of the men?

       The men were bred in England:

       The bowman—the yeoman—

       The lads of dale and fell

       Here's to you—and to you;

       To the hearts that are true

       And the land where the true hearts dwell.

      “Well sung, by my hilt!” shouted the archer in high delight. “Many a night have I heard that song, both in the old war-time and after in the days of the White Company, when Black Simon of Norwich would lead the stave, and four hundred of the best bowmen that ever drew string would come roaring in upon the chorus. I have seen old John Hawkwood, the same who has led half the Company into Italy, stand laughing in his beard as he heard it, until his plates rattled again. But to get the full smack of it ye must yourselves be English bowmen, and be far off upon an outland soil.”

      Whilst the song had been singing Dame Eliza and the maid had placed a board across two trestles, and had laid upon it the knife, СКАЧАТЬ