In the court, Dick found a part of the garrison3, busy with preparations for defence, and gloomily discussing the chances of a siege. Some were making arrows, some sharpening swords that had long been disused; but even as they worked, they shook their heads.
Twelve of Sir Daniel’s party had escaped the battle, run the gauntlet through the wood, and come alive to the Moat House. But out of this dozen, three had been gravely wounded: two at Risingham in the disorder4 of the rout5, one by John Amend-All’s marksmen as he crossed the forest. This raised the force of the garrison, counting Hatch, Sir Daniel, and young Shelton, to twenty-two effective men. And more might be continually expected to arrive. The danger lay not therefore in the lack of men.
It was the terror of the Black Arrow that oppressed the spirits of the garrison. For their open foes6 of the party of York, in these most changing times, they felt but a far-away concern. “The world,” as people said in those days, “might change again” before harm came. But for their neighbours in the wood, they trembled. It was not Sir Daniel alone who was a mark for hatred7. His men, conscious of impunity8, had carried themselves cruelly through all the country. Harsh commands had been harshly executed; and of the little band that now sat talking in the court, there was not one but had been guilty of some act of oppression or barbarity. And now, by the fortune of war, Sir Daniel had become powerless to protect his instruments; now, by the issue of some hours of battle, at which many of them had not been present, they had all become punishable traitors9 to the State, outside the buckler of the law, a shrunken company in a poor fortress10 that was hardly tenable, and exposed upon all sides to the just resentment11 of their victims. Nor had there been lacking grisly advertisements of what they might expect.
At different periods of the evening and the night, no fewer than seven riderless horses had come neighing in terror to the gate. Two were from Selden’s troop; five belonged to men who had ridden with Sir Daniel to the field. Lastly, a little before dawn, a spearman had come staggering to the moat side, pierced by three arrows; even as they carried him in, his spirit had departed; but by the words that he uttered in his agony, he must have been the last survivor12 of a considerable company of men.
Hatch himself showed, under his sun-brown, the pallour of anxiety; and when he had taken Dick aside and learned the fate of Selden, he fell on a stone bench and fairly wept. The others, from where they sat on stools or doorsteps in the sunny angle of the court, looked at him with wonder and alarm, but none ventured to inquire the cause of his emotion.
“Nay13, Master Shelton,” said Hatch, at last—“nay, but what said I? We shall all go. Selden was a man of his hands; he was like a brother to me. Well, he has gone second; well, we shall all follow! For what said their knave14 rhyme?—‘A black arrow in each black heart.’ Was it not so it went? Appleyard, Selden, Smith, old Humphrey gone; and there lieth poor John Carter, crying, poor sinner, for the priest.”
Dick gave ear. Out of a low window, hard by where they were talking, groans15 and murmurs16 came to his ear.
“Lieth he there?” he asked.
“Ay, in the second porter’s chamber,” answered Hatch. “We could not bear him further, soul and body were so bitterly at odds17. At every step we lifted him, he thought to wend. But now, methinks, it is the soul that suffereth. Ever for the priest he crieth, and Sir Oliver, I wot not why, still cometh not. ’Twill be a long shrift; but poor Appleyard and poor Selden, they had none.”
Dick stooped to the window and looked in. The little cell was low and dark, but he could make out the wounded soldier lying moaning on his pallet.
“Carter, poor friend, how goeth it?” he asked.
“Master Shelton,” returned the man, in an excited whisper, “for the dear light of heaven, bring the priest. Alack, I am sped; I am brought very low down; my hurt is to the death. Ye may do me no more service; this shall be the last. Now, for my poor soul’s interest, and as a loyal gentleman, bestir you; for I have that matter on my conscience that shall drag me deep.”
Just then Sir Daniel appeared upon the threshold of the hall. He had a letter in one hand.
“Lads,” he said, “we have had a shog, we have had a tumble; wherefore, then, deny it? Rather it imputeth to get speedily again to saddle. This old Harry19 the Sixt has had the undermost. Wash we, then, our hands of him. I have a good friend that rideth next the duke, the Lord of Wensleydale. Well, I have writ20 a letter to my friend, praying his good lordship, and offering large satisfaction for the past and reasonable surety for the future. Doubt not but he will lend a favourable21 ear. A prayer without gifts is like a song without music: I surfeit22 him with promises, boys—I spare not to promise. What, then, is lacking? Nay, a great thing—wherefore should I deceive you?—a great thing and a difficult: a messenger to bear it. The woods—y’ are not ignorant of that—lie thick with our ill-willers. Haste is most needful; but without sleight23 and caution all is naught24. Which, then, of this company will take me this letter, bear me it to my Lord of Wensleydale, and bring me the answer back?”
One man instantly arose.
“I will, an’t like you,” said he. “I will even risk my carcase.”
“Nay, Dicky Bowyer, not so,” returned the knight25. “It likes me not. Y’ are sly indeed, but not speedy. Ye were a laggard26 ever.”
“An’t be so, Sir Daniel, here am I,” cried another.
“The saints forfend!” said the knight. “Y’ are speedy, but not sly. Ye would blunder me headforemost into John Amend-All’s camp. I thank you both for your good courage; but, in sooth, it may not be.”
Then Hatch offered himself, and he also was refused.
“I want you here, good Bennet; y’ are my right hand, indeed,” returned the knight; and then several coming forward in a group, Sir Daniel at length selected one and gave him the letter.
“Now,” he said, “upon your good speed and better discretion27 we do all depend. Bring me a good answer back, and before three weeks, I will have purged28 my forest of these vagabonds that brave us to our faces. But mark it well, Throgmorton: the matter is not easy. Ye must steal forth29 under night, and go like a fox; and how ye are to cross Till I know not, neither by the bridge nor ferry.”
“I can swim,” returned Throgmorton. “I will come soundly, fear not.”
“Well, friend, get ye to the buttery,” replied Sir Daniel. “Ye shall swim first of all in nut-brown ale.” And with that he turned back into the hall.
“Sir Daniel hath a wise tongue,” said Hatch, aside, to Dick. “See, now, where many a lesser30 man had glossed31 the matter over, he speaketh it out plainly to his company. Here is a danger, ’a saith, and here difficulty; and jesteth in the very saying. Nay, by Saint Barbary, he is a born captain! Not a man but he is some deal heartened up! See how they fall again to work.”
This praise of Sir Daniel put a thought in the lad’s head.
“Bennet,” he said, “how came my father by his end?”
“Ask me not that,” replied Hatch. “I had no hand nor knowledge in it; furthermore, I will even be silent, Master Dick. For look you, in a man’s own business there he may speak; but of hearsay32 matters and of common talk, not so. Ask me Sir Oliver—ay, or Carter, if ye will; not me.”
“Wherefore would he not tell me?” thought the lad. “And wherefore named he Carter? Carter—nay, then Carter had a hand in it, perchance.”
He entered the house, and passing some little way along a flagged and vaulted34 passage, came to the door of the cell where the hurt man lay groaning35. At his entrance Carter started eagerly.
“Have ye brought the priest?” he cried.
“Not yet awhile,” returned Dick. “Y’ ’ave a word to tell me first. How came my father, Harry Shelton, by his death?”
The man’s face altered instantly.
“Nay, ye know well,” returned Dick. “Seek not to put me by.”
“I tell you I know not,” repeated Carter.
“Then,” said Dick, “ye shall die unshriven. Here am I, and here shall stay. There shall no priest come near you, rest assured. For of what avail is penitence37, an ye have no mind to right those wrongs ye had a hand in? and without penitence, confession38 is but mockery.”
“Ye say what ye mean not, Master Dick,” said Carter, composedly. “It is ill threatening the dying, and becometh you (to speak truth) little. And for as little as it commends you, it shall serve you less. Stay, an ye please. Ye will condemn39 my soul—ye shall learn nothing! There is my last word to you.” And the wounded man turned upon the other side.
Now, Dick, to say truth, had spoken hastily, and was ashamed of his threat. But he made one more effort.
“Carter,” he said, “mistake me not. I know ye were but an instrument in the hands of others; a churl40 must obey his lord; I would not bear heavily on such an one. But I begin to learn upon many sides that this great duty lieth on my youth and ignorance, to avenge41 my father. Prithee, then, good Carter, set aside the memory of my threatenings, and in pure goodwill42 and honest penitence give me a word of help.”
The wounded man lay silent; nor, say what Dick pleased, could he extract another word from him.
“Well,” said Dick, “I will go call the priest to you as ye desired; for howsoever ye be in fault to me or mine, I would not be willingly in fault to any, least of all to one upon the last change.”
Again the old soldier heard him without speech or motion; even his groans he had suppressed; and as Dick turned and left the room, he was filled with admiration43 for that rugged44 fortitude45.
“And yet,” he thought, “of what use is courage without wit? Had his hands been clean, he would have spoken; his silence did confess the secret louder than words. Nay, upon all sides, proof floweth on me. Sir Daniel, he or his men, hath done this thing.”
Dick paused in the stone passage with a heavy heart. At that hour, in the ebb46 of Sir Daniel’s fortune, when he was beleaguered47 by the archers48 of the Black Arrow and proscribed49 by the victorious50 Yorkists, was Dick, also, to turn upon the man who had nourished and taught him, who had severely51 punished, indeed, but yet unwearyingly protected his youth? The necessity, if it should prove to be one, was cruel.
“Pray Heaven he be innocent!” he said.
And then steps sounded on the flagging, and Sir Oliver came gravely towards the lad.
“One seeketh you earnestly,” said Dick.
“I am upon the way, good Richard,” said the priest. “It is this poor Carter. Alack, he is beyond cure.”
“And yet his soul is sicker than his body,” answered Dick.
“Have ye seen him?” asked Sir Oliver, with a manifest start.
“I do but come from him,” replied Dick.
“What said he? what said he?” snapped the priest, with extraordinary eagerness.
“He but cried for you the more piteously, Sir Oliver. It were well done to go the faster, for his hurt is grievous,” returned the lad.
“I am straight for him,” was the reply. “Well, we have all our sins. We must all come to our latter day, good Richard.”
“Ay, sir; and it were well if we all came fairly,” answered Dick.
The priest dropped his eyes, and with an inaudible benediction52 hurried on.
“He, too!” thought Dick—“he, that taught me in piety53! Nay, then, what a world is this, if all that care for me be blood-guilty of my father’s death? Vengeance54! Alas55! what a sore fate is mine, if I must be avenged56 upon my friends!”
The thought put Matcham in his head. He smiled at the remembrance of his strange companion, and then wondered where he was. Ever since they had come together to the doors of the Moat House the younger lad had disappeared, and Dick began to weary for a word with him.
About an hour after, mass being somewhat hastily run through by Sir Oliver, the company gathered in the hall for dinner. It was a long, low apartment, strewn with green rushes, and the walls hung with arras in a design of savage57 men and questing bloodhounds; here and there hung spears and bows and bucklers; a fire blazed in the big chimney; there were arras-covered benches round the wall, and in the midst the table, fairly spread, awaited the arrival of the diners. Neither Sir Daniel nor his lady made their appearance. Sir Oliver himself was absent, and here again there was no word of Matcham. Dick began to grow alarmed, to recall his companion’s melancholy58 forebodings, and to wonder to himself if any foul59 play had befallen him in that house.
After dinner he found Goody Hatch, who was hurrying to my Lady Brackley.
“Goody,” he said, “where is Master Matcham, I prithee? I saw ye go in with him when we arrived.”
The old woman laughed aloud.
“Ah, Master Dick,” she said, “y’ have a famous bright eye in your head, to be sure!” and laughed again.
“Nay, but where is he, indeed?” persisted Dick.
“Ye will never see him more,” she returned—“never. It is sure.”
“An I do not,” returned the lad, “I will know the reason why. He came not hither of his full free will; such as I am, I am his best protector, and I will see him justly used. There be too many mysteries; I do begin to weary of the game!”
But as Dick was speaking, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. It was Bennet Hatch that had come unperceived behind him. With a jerk of his thumb, the retainer dismissed his wife.
“Friend Dick,” he said, as soon as they were alone, “are ye a moon-struck natural? An ye leave not certain things in peace, ye were better in the salt sea than here in Tunstall Moat House. Y’ have questioned me; y’ have baited Carter; y’ have frighted the Jack-priest with hints. Bear ye more wisely, fool; and even now, when Sir Daniel calleth you, show me a smooth face for the love of wisdom. Y’ are to be sharply questioned. Look to your answers.”
“Hatch,” returned Dick, “in all this I smell a guilty conscience.”
“An ye go not the wiser, ye will soon smell blood,” replied Bennet. “I do but warn you. And here cometh one to call you.”
And indeed, at that very moment, a messenger came across the court to summon Dick into the presence of Sir Daniel.
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收听单词发音
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1
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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3
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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4
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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7
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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8
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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9
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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13
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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15
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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16
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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17
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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18
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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19
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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28
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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30
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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31
glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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33
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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34
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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35
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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36
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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38
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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39
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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40
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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41
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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42
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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43
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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44
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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45
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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46
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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47
beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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48
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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49
proscribed
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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51
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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52
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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53
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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54
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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55
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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56
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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57
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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58
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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59
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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