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The Winning of the Golden Spurs   By: (1876-1959)

The Winning of the Golden Spurs by Percy F. Westerman

First Page:

THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN SPURS

[Illustration: RAYMOND SAVES THE BLACK PRINCE]

THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN SPURS

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN AUTHOR OF "A LAD OF GRIT," "THE SEA MONARCH," "THE TREASURE OF THE SAN PHILIPO," ETC.

LONDON JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED 22 BERNERS STREET, W. 1911

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

CONTENTS

CHAP. PROLOGUE I. THE ARCHER, REDWARD BUCKLAND II. THE SHADOW OF WAR III. OF THE MIDNIGHT DESCENT OF THE FRENCH INVADERS IV. OF THE GALLANT STAND OF THE NINE ARCHERS V. THE MEN OF HAMPSHIRE AND THE GENOESE GALLEY VI. AT THE ABBEY VII. THE SACK OF SOUTHAMPTON VIII. OF THE ASSAULT ON ST. BARBARA'S TOWER IX. ON THE HEELS OF THE ENEMY X. FATHER AND SON SET OUT FOR HENNEBON XI. THE CHIRURGEON OF LÉGUÉ XII. THE JOURNEY PERILOUS XIII. THE RELIEF OF HENNEBON XIV. RAYMOND'S ERRAND XV. TRAPPED! XVI. THE TABLES TURNED XVII. THE FALL OF THE COUNT'S STRONGHOLD XVIII. REDWARD'S CONFESSION XIX. CRÉCY XX. HIS LIFE FOR HIS FOE XXI. THE REJECTED GUERDON XXII. SIR RAYMOND XXIII. THE ADVENTURE AT THE RUINED MILL XXIV. THE HOMECOMING

THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN SPURS

PROLOGUE

IT was early morning on the 5th day of August, 1303, the Royal City of Winchester. The sun had not yet risen, but a cold grey light filtered in through a narrow window and dimly illumined a small, scantily furnished room overlooking the city walls.

Seated on a rough wooden stool, his face buried in his hands, was a young fellow of about twenty years of age. His body swayed with uncontrollable grief, and, though dry eyed, deep sobs of mingled remorse and despair showed the anguish that rent his body and distracted his mind.

In a corner of the room a torch, burnt low in its iron socket, threw a yellow light that was fast being overmastered by the growing dawn, yet the glimmer was sufficient to play upon the naked blade of a sword, the steel of which was discoloured towards its point by a dull, rust coloured stain.

Suddenly the sound of a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs. The youth started to his feet and gazed wildly around, as if seeking a place of concealment or some means of escape. He was tall, well formed, and, in spite of his haggard looks, comely of face, and his clothes, though rent and covered with chalk and dust, showed that he was of no mean position.

Realising the impossibility of hiding himself, he stood erect and alert, awaiting the arrival of what he took to be his fate; but, instead of a thundering summons of the officers of the law, there came a gentle rap, and the door was slowly pushed ajar.

"Hist! Art there, Master Revyngton? 'Tis I, Nicholas Hobbes!"

"Enter, Nicholas! Certes I thought 'twas the watch."

The new arrival was a man some few years older than the fugitive. He was clad in a rough leather suit, frayed at elbows and knees, and to which shavings and feathers still clung a silent witness to his trade of fletcher.

"'Tis a sorry pass, Master Revyngton. How came it about?"

"Ay, that I will say right willingly; but first tell me how knowest thou that I am here?"

"Easily said! Dick Ford told me that thou wert a fugitive in his house, and asked me to use my scatterbrain wits to find a way to smuggle thee out of the city. That being so, 'twere best I saw thee, and to that purpose I am here. But, again, how came it to pass?"

"Faith! I can scarce say. 'Twas in the meads, yestereven. Young Stephen Scarsdale and Reginald, his brother, were on this side of the stream, I on the nether bank, with Wulf, my favourite hound. 'Ho there!' cried Stephen. 'What meanst thou by trespassing on the ground of my Lord Bishop?' 'I do not trespass,' I replied. 'The Mead hath ever been free to the men of this city, and no one hath yet said me nay.' 'I'll warrant thou art after my Lord Bishop's trout... Continue reading book >>




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