“So the shaft fly straight, I care not of the feather,” said the bowman, a tall young Yorkshireman, counting out pennies on the palm of his horny hand.
“Gray goose-feathers are but a farthing. These on the left are a halfpenny, for they are of the wild-goose, and the second feather of a fenny goose is worth more than the pinion of a tame one. These in the brass tray are dropped feathers, and a dropped feather is better than a plucked one. Buy a score of these, lad, and cut them saddle-backed or swine-backed, the one for a dead shaft and the other for a smooth flyer, and no man in the company will swing a better-fletched quiver over his shoulder.”
It chanced that the opinion of the bowyer on this and other points differed from that of Long Ned of Widdington, a surly straw-bearded Yorkshireman, who had listened with a sneering face to his counsel. Now he broke in suddenly upon the bowyer’s talk.
“You would do better to sell bows than to try to teach others how to use them,” said he; “for indeed, Bartholomew, that head of thine has no more sense within it than it has hairs without. If you had drawn string for as many months as I have years you would know that a straight-cut feather flies smoother than a swine-backed, and pity it is that these young bowmen have none to teach them better!”
This attack upon his professional knowledge touched the old bowyer on the raw. His fat face became suffused with blood and his eyes glared with fury as he turned upon the archer.
“You seven-foot barrel of lies!” he cried. “All-hallows be my aid, and I will teach you to open your slabbing mouth against me! Pluck forth your sword and stand out on yonder deck, that we may see who is the man of us twain. May I never twirl a shaft over my thumbnail if I do not put Bartholomew’s mark upon your thick head!”
A score of rough voices joined at once in the quarrel, some upholding the bowyer and others taking the part of the North Countryman. A redheaded Dalesman snatched up a sword, but was felled by a blow from the fist of his neighbour. Instantly, with a buzz like a swarm of angry hornets, the bowmen were out on the deck; but ere a blow was struck Knolles was amongst them with granite face and eyes of fire.
“Stand apart, I say! I will warrant you enough fighting to cool your blood ere you see England once more. Loring, Hawthorn, cut any man down who raises his hand. Have you aught to say, you fox-haired rascal?” He thrust his face within two inches of that of the red man who had first seized his sword. The fellow shrank back, cowed, from his fierce eyes. “Now stint your noise, all of you, and stretch your long ears. Trumpeter, blow once more!”
A bugle call had been sounded every quarter of an hour, so as to keep in touch with the other two vessels, who were invisible in the fog. Now the high clear note rang out once more, the call of a fierce sea-creature to its mates, but no answer came back from the thick wall which pent them in. Again and again they called, and again and again with bated breath they waited for an answer.
“Where is the shipman?” asked Knolles. “What is your name, fellow? Do you dare call yourself master-mariner?”
“My name is Nat Dennis, fair sir,” said the gray-bearded old seaman. “It is thirty years since first I showed my cartel and blew trumpet for a crew at the water-gate of Southampton. If any man may call himself master-mariner, it is surely I.”
“Where are our two ships?”
“Nay, sir, who can say in this fog?”
“Fellow, it was your place to hold them together.”
“I have but the eyes God gave me, fair sir, and they cannot see through a cloud.”
“Had it been fair, I, who am a soldier, could have kept them in company. Since it was foul, we looked to you, who are called a mariner, to do so. You have not done it. You have lost two of my ships ere the venture is begun.”
“Nay, fair sir, I pray you to consider—”
“Enough words!” said Knolles sternly. “Words will not give me back my two hundred men. Unless I find them before I come to Saint-Malo, I swear by Saint Wilfrid of Ripon that it will be an evil day for you! Enough! Go forth and do what you may!”
For five hours, with a light breeze behind them, they lurched through the heavy fog, the cold rain still matting their beards and shining on their faces. Sometimes they could see a circle of tossing water for a bowshot or so in each direction, and then the wreaths would crawl in upon them once more and bank them thickly round. They had long ceased to blow the trumpet for their missing comrades, but had hopes when clear weather came to find them still in sight. By the shipman’s reckoning they were now about midway between the two shores.
Nigel was leaning against the bulwarks, his thoughts away in the dingle at Cosford and out on the heather-clad slopes of Hindhead, when something struck his ear. It was a thin clear clang of metal, pealing out high above
