After remaining, as if in doubt, for some time, she feebly made her way into the village. Here were many houses of entertainment, for travelers like herself often arrived too late to enter the gates, and had to abide5 outside for the night. Moreover, house rent was dear within the walls of the crowded city, and many, whose business brought them to town, found it cheaper to take up their abode6 in the quiet hostels7 of Southwark rather than to stay in the more expensive inns within the walls. The lights came out brightly from many of the casements8, with sounds of boisterous9 songs and laughter. The woman passed these without a pause. Presently she stopped before a cottage, from which a feeble light alone showed that it was tenanted.
She knocked at the door. It was opened by a pleasant-faced man of some thirty years old.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I am a wayfarer10,” the woman answered feebly. “Canst take me and my child in for the night?”
“You have made a mistake,” the man said; “this is no inn. Further up the road there are plenty of places where you can find such accommodation as you lack.”
“I have passed them,” the woman said, “but all seemed full of roisterers. I am wet and weary, and my strength is nigh spent. I can pay thee, good fellow, and I pray you as a Christian11 to let me come in and sleep before your fire for the night. When the gates are open in the morning I will go; for I have a friend within the city who will, methinks, receive me.”
The tone of voice, and the addressing of himself as good fellow, at once convinced the man that the woman before him was no common wayfarer.
“Come in,” he said; “Geoffrey Ward12 is not a man to shut his doors in a woman's face on a night like this, nor does he need payment for such small hospitality. Come hither, Madge!” he shouted; and at his voice a woman came down from the upper chamber13. “Sister,” he said; “this is a wayfarer who needs shelter for the night; she is wet and weary. Do you take her up to your room and lend her some dry clothing; then make her a cup of warm posset, which she needs sorely. I will fetch an armful of fresh rushes from the shed and strew14 them here: I will sleep in the smithy. Quick, girl,” he said sharply; “she is fainting with cold and fatigue15.” And as he spoke16 he caught the woman as she was about to fall, and laid her gently on the ground. “She is of better station than she seems,” he said to his sister; “like enough some poor lady whose husband has taken part in the troubles; but that is no business of ours. Quick, Madge, and get these wet things off her; she is soaked to the skin. I will go round to the Green Dragon and will fetch a cup of warm cordial, which I warrant me will put fresh life into her.”
So saying, he took down his flat cap from its peg17 on the wall and went out, while his sister at once proceeded to remove the drenched18 garments and to rub the cold hands of the guest until she recovered consciousness. When Geoffrey Ward returned, the woman was sitting in a settle by the fireside, dressed in a warm woolen19 garment belonging to his sister.
Madge had thrown fresh wood on the fire, which was blazing brightly now. The woman drank the steaming beverage20 which her host brought with him. The colour came faintly again into her cheeks.
“I thank you, indeed,” she said, “for your kindness. Had you not taken me in I think I would have died at your door, for indeed I could go no further; and though I hold not to life, yet would I fain live until I have delivered my boy into the hands of those who will be kind to him, and this will, I trust, be tomorrow.”
“Say nought21 about it,” Geoffrey answered; “Madge and I are right glad to have been of service to you. It would be a poor world indeed if one could not give a corner of one's fireside to a fellow-creature on such a night as this, especially when that fellow creature is a woman with a child. Poor little chap! He looks right well and sturdy, and seems to have taken no ill from his journey.”
“Truly, he is well and sturdy,” the mother said, looking at him proudly; “indeed I have been almost wishing today that he were lighter22 by a few pounds, for in truth I am not used to carry him far, and his weight has sorely tried me. His name is Walter, and I trust,” she added, looking at the powerful figure of her host, “that he will grow up as straight and as stalwart as yourself.” The child, who was about three years old, was indeed an exceedingly fine little fellow, as he sat, in one scanty23 garment, in his mother's lap, gazing with round eyes at the blazing fire; and the smith thought how pretty a picture the child and mother made. She was a fair, gentle-looking girl some two-and-twenty years old, and it was easy enough to see now from her delicate features and soft shapely hands that she had never been accustomed to toil24.
“And now,” the smith said, “I will e'en say good night. The hour is late, and I shall be having the watch coming along to know why I keep a fire so long after the curfew. Should you be a stranger in the city, I will gladly act as your guide in the morning to the friends whom you seek, that is, should they be known to me; but if not, we shall doubtless find them without difficulty.”
So saying, the smith retired25 to his bed of rushes in the smithy, and soon afterwards the tired visitor, with her baby, lay down on the rushes in front of the fire, for in those days none of the working or artisan class used beds, which were not indeed, for centuries afterwards, in usage by the common people.
In the morning Geoffrey Ward found that his guest desired to find one Giles Fletcher, a maker27 of bows.
“I know him well,” the smith said. “There are many who do a larger business, and hold their heads higher; but Giles Fletcher is well esteemed28 as a good workman, whose wares29 can be depended upon. It is often said of him that did he take less pains he would thrive more; but he handles each bow that he makes as if he loved it, and finishes and polishes each with his own hand. Therefore he doeth not so much trade as those who are less particular with their wares, for he hath to charge a high price to be able to live. But none who have ever bought his bows have regretted the silver which they cost. Many and many a gross of arrowheads have I sold him, and he is well-nigh as particular in their make as he is over the spring and temper of his own bows. Many a friendly wrangle30 have I had with him over their weight and finish, and it is not many who find fault with my handiwork, though I say it myself; and now, madam, I am at your service.”
During the night the wayfarer's clothes had been dried. The cloak was of rough quality, such as might have been used by a peasant woman; but the rest, though of sombre colour, were of good material and fashion. Seeing that her kind entertainers would be hurt by the offer of money, the lady contented31 herself with thanking Madge warmly, and saying that she hoped to come across the bridge one day with Dame32 Fletcher; then, under the guidance of Geoffrey, who insisted on carrying the boy, she set out from the smith's cottage. They passed under the outer gate and across the bridge, which later on was covered with a double line of houses and shops, but was now a narrow structure. Over the gateway across the river, upon pikes, were a number of heads and human limbs. The lady shuddered33 as she looked up.
“It is an ugly sight,” the smith said, “and I can see no warrant for such exposure of the dead. There are the heads of Wallace, of three of Robert Bruce's brothers, and of many other valiant34 Scotsmen who fought against the king's grandfather some twenty years back. But after all they fought for their country, just as Harold and our ancestors against the Normans under William, and I think it a foul35 shame that men who have done no other harm should be beheaded, still less that their heads and limbs should be stuck up there gibbering at all passers-by. There are over a score of them, and every fresh trouble adds to their number; but pardon me,” he said suddenly as a sob36 from the figure by his side called his attention from the heads on the top of the gateway, “I am rough and heedless in speech, as my sister Madge does often tell me, and it may well be that I have said something which wounded you.”
“You meant no ill,” the lady replied; “it was my own thoughts and troubles which drew tears from me; say not more about it, I pray you.”
They passed under the gateway, with its ghastly burden, and were soon in the crowded streets of London. High overhead the houses extended, each story advancing beyond that below it until the occupiers of the attics37 could well-nigh shake hands across. They soon left the more crowded streets, and turning to the right, after ten minutes walking, the smith stopped in front of a bowyer shop near Aldgate.
“This is the shop,” he said, “and there is Giles Fletcher himself trying the spring and pull of one of his bows. Here I will leave you, and will one of these days return to inquire if your health has taken ought of harm by the rough buffeting38 of the storm of yester-even.”
So saying he handed the child to its mother, and with a wave of the hand took his leave, not waiting to listen to the renewed thanks which his late guest endeavoured to give him.
The shop was open in front, a projecting penthouse sheltered it from the weather; two or three bows lay upon a wide shelf in front, and several large sheaves of arrows tied together stood by the wall. A powerful man of some forty years old was standing39 in the middle of the shop with a bent40 bow in his arm, taking aim at a spot in the wall. Through an open door three men could be seen in an inner workshop cutting and shaping the wood for bows. The bowyer looked round as his visitor entered the shop, and then, with a sudden exclamation41, lowered the bow.
“Hush, Giles!” the lady exclaimed; “it is I, but name no names; it were best that none knew me here.”
The craftsman42 closed the door of communication into the inner room. “My Lady Alice,” he exclaimed in a low tone, “you here, and in such a guise43?”
“Surely it is I,” the lady sighed, “although sometimes I am well-nigh inclined to ask myself whether it be truly I or not, or whether this be not all a dreadful dream.”
“I had heard but vaguely44 of your troubles,” Giles Fletcher said, “but hoped that the rumours45 were false. Ever since the Duke of Kent was executed the air has been full of rumours. Then came news of the killing46 of Mortimer and of the imprisonment47 of the king's mother, and it was said that many who were thought to be of her party had been attacked and slain48, and I heard—” and there he stopped.
“You heard rightly, good Giles, it is all true. A week after the slaying49 of Mortimer a band of knights50 and men-at-arms arrived at our castle and demanded admittance in the king's name. Sir Roland refused, for he had news that many were taking up arms, but it was useless. The castle was attacked, and after three days' fighting, was taken. Roland was killed, and I was cast out with my child. Afterwards they repented51 that they had let me go, and searched far and wide for me; but I was hidden in the cottage of a woodcutter. They were too busy in hunting down others whom they proclaimed to be enemies of the king, as they had wrongfully said of Roland, who had but done his duty faithfully to Queen Isabella, and was assuredly no enemy of her son, although he might well be opposed to the weak and indolent king, his father. However, when the search relaxed I borrowed the cloak of the good man's wife and set out for London, whither I have traveled on foot, believing that you and Bertha would take me in and shelter me in my great need.”
“Aye, that will we willingly,” Giles said. “Was not Bertha your nurse? and to whom should you come if not to her? But will it please you to mount the stairs, for Bertha will not forgive me if I keep you talking down here. What a joy it will be to her to see you again!”
So saying, Giles led the way to the apartment above. There was a scream of surprise and joy from his wife, and then Giles quietly withdrew downstairs again, leaving the women to cry in each other's arms.
A few days later Geoffrey Ward entered the shop of Giles Fletcher.
“I have brought you twenty score of arrowheads, Master Giles,” he said. “They have been longer in hand than is usual with me, but I have been pressed. And how goes it with the lady whom I brought to your door last week?”
“But sadly, Master Ward, very sadly, as I told you when I came across to thank you again in her name and my own for your kindness to her. She was but in poor plight52 after her journey; poor thing, she was little accustomed to such wet and hardship, and doubtless they took all the more effect because she was low in spirit and weakened with much grieving. That night she was taken with a sort of fever, hot and cold by turns, and at times off her head. Since then she has lain in a high fever and does not know even my wife; her thoughts ever go back to the storming of the castle, and she cries aloud and begs them to spare her lord's life. It is pitiful to hear her. The leech53 gives but small hope for her life, and in troth, Master Ward, methinks that God would deal most gently with her were He to take her. Her heart is already in her husband's grave, for she was ever of a most loving and faithful nature. Here there would be little comfort for her—she would fret54 that her boy would never inherit the lands of his father; and although she knows well enough that she would be always welcome here, and that Bertha would serve her as gladly and faithfully as ever she did when she was her nurse, yet she could not but greatly feel the change. She was tenderly brought up, being, as I told you last week, the only daughter of Sir Harold Broome. Her brother, who but a year ago became lord of Broomecastle at the death of his father, was one of the queen's men, and it was he, I believe, who brought Sir Roland Somers to that side. He was slain on the same night as Mortimer, and his lands, like those of Sir Roland, have been seized by the crown. The child upstairs is by right heir to both estates, seeing that his uncle died unmarried. They will doubtless be conferred upon those who have aided the young king in freeing himself from his mother's domination, for which, indeed, although I lament55 that Lady Alice should have suffered so sorely in the doing of it, I blame him not at all. He is a noble prince and will make us a great king, and the doings of his mother have been a shame to us all. However, I meddle56 not in politics. If the poor lady dies, as methinks is well-nigh certain, Bertha and I will bring up the boy as our own. I have talked it over with my wife, and so far she and I are not of one mind. I think it will be best to keep him in ignorance of his birth and lineage, since the knowledge cannot benefit him, and will but render him discontented with his lot and make him disinclined to take to my calling, in which he might otherwise earn a living and rise to be a respected citizen. But Bertha hath notions. You have not taken a wife to yourself, Master Geoffrey, or you would know that women oft have fancies which wander widely from hard facts, and she says she would have him brought up as a man-at-arms, so that he may do valiant deeds, and win back some day the title and honour of his family.”
Geoffrey Ward laughed. “Trust a woman for being romantic,” he said. “However, Master Fletcher, you need not for the present trouble about the child's calling, even should its mother die. At any rate, whether he follows your trade, or whether the blood in his veins57 leads him to take to martial58 deeds, the knowledge of arms may well be of use to him, and I promise you that such skill as I have I will teach him when he grows old enough to wield59 sword and battle-axe. As you know I may, without boasting, say that he could scarce have a better master, seeing that I have for three years carried away the prize for the best sword-player at the sports. Methinks the boy will grow up into a strong and stalwart man, for he is truly a splendid lad. As to archery, he need not go far to learn it, since your apprentice60, Will Parker, last year won the prize as the best marksman in the city bounds. Trust me, if his tastes lie that way we will between us turn him out a rare man-at-arms. But I must stand gossiping no longer; the rumours that we are likely ere long to have war with France, have rarely bettered my trade. Since the wars in Scotland men's arms have rusted61 somewhat, and my two men are hard at work mending armour62 and fitting swords to hilts, and forging pike-heads. You see I am a citizen though I dwell outside the bounds, because house rent is cheaper and I get my charcoal63 without paying the city dues. So I can work somewhat lower than those in the walls, and I have good custom from many in Kent, who know that my arms are of as good temper as those turned out by any craftsman in the city.”
Giles Fletcher's anticipations64 as to the result of his guest's illness turned out to be well founded. The fever abated65, but left her prostrate66 in strength. For a few weeks she lingered; but she seemed to have little hold of life, and to care not whether she lived or died. So, gradually she faded away.
“I know you will take care of my boy as if he were your own, Bertha,” she said one day; “and you and your husband will be far better protectors for him than I should have been had I lived. Teach him to be honest and true. It were better, methinks, that he grew up thinking you his father and mother, for otherwise he may grow discontented with his lot; but this I leave with you, and you must speak or keep silent according as you see his disposition67 and mind. If he is content to settle down to a peaceful life here, say nought to him which would unsettle his mind; but if Walter turn out to have an adventurous68 disposition, then tell him as much as you think fit of his history, not encouraging him to hope to recover his father's lands and mine, for that can never be, seeing that before that time can come they would have been enjoyed for many years by others; but that he may learn to bear himself bravely and gently as becomes one of good blood.”
A few days later Lady Alice breathed her last, and at her own request was buried quietly and without pomp, as if she had been a child of the bowman, a plain stone, with the name “Dame Alice Somers”, marking the grave.
The boy grew and throve until at fourteen years old there was no stronger or sturdier lad of his age within the city bounds. Giles had caused him to be taught to read and write, accomplishments69 which were common among the citizens, although they were until long afterwards rare among the warlike barons70. The greater part of his time, however, was spent in sports with lads of his own age in Moorfields beyond the walls. The war with France was now raging, and, as was natural, the boys in their games imitated the doings of their elders, and mimic71 battles, ofttimes growing into earnest, were fought between the lads of the different wards26. Walter Fletcher, as he was known among his play-fellows, had by his strength and courage won for himself the proud position of captain of the boys of the ward of Aldgate.
Geoffrey Ward had kept his word, and had already begun to give the lad lessons in the use of arms. When not engaged otherwise Walter would, almost every afternoon, cross London Bridge and would spend hours in the armourer's forge. Geoffrey's business had grown, for the war had caused a great demand for arms, and he had now six men working in the forge. As soon as the boy could handle a light tool Geoffrey allowed him to work, and although not able to wield the heavy sledge72 Walter was able to do much of the finer work. Geoffrey encouraged him in this, as, in the first place, the use of the tools greatly strengthened the boy's muscles, and gave him an acquaintance with arms. Moreover, Geoffrey was still a bachelor, and he thought that the boy, whom he as well as Giles had come to love as a son, might, should he not take up the trade of war, prefer the occupation of an armourer to that of a bowmaker, in which case he would take him some day as his partner in the forge. After work was over and the men had gone away, Geoffrey would give the lad instructions in the use of the arms at which he had been at work, and so quick and strong was he that he rapidly acquired their use, and Geoffrey foresaw that he would one day, should his thoughts turn that way, prove a mighty73 man-at-arms.
It was the knowledge which he acquired from Geoffrey which had much to do with Walter's position among his comrades. The skill and strength which he had acquired in wielding74 the hammer, and by practice with the sword rendered him a formidable opponent with the sticks, which formed the weapons in the mimic battles, and indeed not a few were the complaints which were brought before Giles Fletcher of bruises75 and hurts caused by him.
“You are too turbulent, Walter,” the bowyer said one day when a haberdasher from the ward of Aldersgate came to complain that his son's head had been badly cut by a blow with a club from Walter Fletcher. “You are always getting into trouble, and are becoming the terror of other boys. Why do you not play more quietly? The feuds76 between the boys of different wards are becoming a serious nuisance, and many injuries have been inflicted77. I hear that the matter has been mentioned in the Common Council, and that there is a talk of issuing an order that no boy not yet apprenticed78 to a trade shall be allowed to carry a club, and that any found doing so shall be publicly whipped.”
“I don't want to be turbulent,” Walter said; “but if the Aldersgate boys will defy us, what are we to do? I don't hit harder than I can help, and if Jonah Harris would leave his head unguarded I could not help hitting it.”
“I tell you it won't do, Walter,” Giles said. “You will be getting yourself into sore trouble. You are growing too masterful altogether, and have none of the quiet demeanour and peaceful air which becomes an honest citizen. In another six months you will be apprenticed, and then I hope we shall hear no more of these doings.”
“My father is talking of apprenticing79 me, Master Geoffrey,” Walter said that evening. “I hope that you will, as you were good enough to promise, talk with him about apprenticing me to your craft rather than to his. I should never take to the making of bows, though, indeed, I like well to use them; and Will Parker, who is teaching me says that I show rare promise; but it would never be to my taste to stand all day sawing, and smoothing, and polishing. One bow is to me much like another, though my father holds that there are rare differences between them; but it is a nobler craft to work on iron, and next to using arms the most pleasant thing surely is to make them. One can fancy what good blows the sword will give and what hard knocks the armour will turn aside; but some day, Master Geoffrey, when I have served my time, I mean to follow the army. There is always work there for armourers to do, and sometimes at a pinch they may even get their share of fighting.”
Walter did not venture to say that he would prefer to be a man-at-arms, for such a sentiment would be deemed as outrageous80 in the ears of a quiet city craftsman as would the proposal of the son of such a man nowadays to enlist81 as a soldier. The armourer smiled; he knew well enough what was in Walter's mind. It had cost Geoffrey himself a hard struggle to settle down to a craft, and deemed it but natural that with the knightly82 blood flowing in Walter's veins he should long to distinguish himself in the field. He said nothing of this, however, but renewed his promise to speak to Giles Fletcher, deeming that a few years passed in his forge would be the best preparation which Walter could have for a career as a soldier.
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1
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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3
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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4
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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5
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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6
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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hostels
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| n.旅舍，招待所( hostel的名词复数 )；青年宿舍 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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26
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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46
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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51
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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53
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprenticing
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的现在分词 ) | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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81
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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