wide hall.
CHAPTER V
Squire George of Gamewell rested at his ease in the comfort of his own domain during the next day; and, though he would have Robin go into Nottingham, with his new esquire and Warrenton–Montfichet's own man–young Fitzooth was more than content to stay near to his patron's side.
There had been no difficulty in the matter of Master Stuteley's detachment from the other strollers. The old tumbler was shrewd enough to see that his son would considerably better his fortunes by joining them with those of Robin of Locksley. Will was delighted, and wished to commence his duty in Robin's service by instructing his young master at once in the arts of wrestling, single-stick, and quarter-staff.
The Squire laughed at their enthusiasm.
"Do you leave me, Robin, to the care of your mother: I warrant me I'll come to no harm!" he said. "There are matters on which I would talk with her, and we must be at peace."
Montfichet dismissed them. He was quite restored by this time, and settled himself to a serious conversation with his sister.
There were subjects which he touched upon only to her–being a secret man in some things, and very cautious.
"Having now no son, and being a lonely man," he had written in his letter, and Dame Fitzooth had known from this that unhappy relations still existed between George of Gamewell and Geoffrey Montfichet, his only son.
The two men had been for a long time on unfriendly terms, though the Squire latterly had sought honestly to undo that which had been years a-doing. He could not own to himself that the fault was his altogether: but Geoffrey, exiled to London, had been brought back to Gamewell at his father's entreaty. For a time things had gone on in a better direction–then had come Prince John's rebellion.
Geoffrey Montfichet was found to have been implicated in it, and had been condemned to death. Only by the Squire's most strenuous endeavors had this sentence been commuted by the King to life punishment. Geoffrey fled to Scotland, whilst the Squire had been exercising himself on his erring son's behalf. It was the last straw, and George Montfichet disinherited his son. The hard-won Manor of Gamewell must pass from the line.
Squire George had suddenly perceived a chance to prevent that catastrophe. He had taken greatly to the lad Robin Fitzooth: and this boy was of the true Montfichet blood–why should he not adopt the Montfichet name and become the Montfichet heir?
This notion had been simmering in the Squire's mind. It had been born at that moment when Robin had so cared for him and fought for him in Nottingham Fair. "Here, at last," said the Squire, "have I found a son, indeed."
Mistress Fitzooth had to listen to her brother's arguments submissively. The dame saw stormy days for her ahead, for well she guessed that Hugh Fitzooth would never agree to what the other in his impetuous way was proposing. She listened and said "yea" and "nay" as the occasion offered: once she mentioned Geoffrey's name, and saw Gamewell's face cloud instantly with anger.
"He is no son of mine," said Montfichet, in a hard voice. "Do not speak of him here, sister Nell–nor think me an unforgiving man," he hastened to add, "for God knows that I did humble myself to the ground that I might save his head from the axe of the King's executioner! And he disgraced me by running away to Scotland on the very night that I had gained Henry's pardon for him. Nay; I have no kin with cowards!"
"Geoffrey may have some reasonable excuse, brother mine," began the dame, anxious to make peace.
Gamewell cut her short. "There can be no excuse for him," he said, harshly.
His voice softened when he talked of Robin, for he was concerned to gain his point.
"Fitzooth will be difficult in the matter, I do fear me," murmured the dame, perplexed and ill at ease. "He is a Saxon, George, and thinks much of his descent and name. He looks to Robin winning fame for it, as in olden days. I do misdoubt me sorely."
"Well, let the lad be known as Robin Fitzooth Montfichet–'tis but tacking on another name to him," said the Squire. "If he lives here, as I shall devise in my will, right soon will he be known as Gamewell, and that only! That fate has befallen me, and one might believe me now as Saxon as your Hugh, Nell."
"You are none the worse for't, George," answered the dame, proudly. "Either race is a kingly one."
"Saxon or Norman–shall Robin become Montfichet?" asked the Squire, commencing his arguments again.
Fate had in store for young Robin, however, very different plans from those tormenting Fitzooth the Ranger and old Squire George of Gamewell Hall.
* * * * *
The two lads strolled arm-in-arm about the wide court of Gamewell, following Warrenton, in dutiful mood. The old henchman was very proud of the place, and had all the legends of it at his fingers' ends. He told young Robin of hidden treasure and secret passage-ways, and waxed eloquent concerning the tapestries and carvings.
The hours went pleasantly enough, for, after the building had been duly shown them, Warrenton took Robin about the gardens and orchards. There was a pleasance, and a "Lady's Bower," wherein, Warrenton affirmed, walked a beautiful lady once in every twelve months, at Hallow-e'en, on the stroke of midnight. The old man then left them.
Very shocked was the old retainer to find these merry lads engaged together, later, at wrestling and the quarter-staff, as if they had been equals in birth. When Stuteley had thrown Robin thrice at "touch and hold," within sight of the hall–it was indeed upon the soft grass of the pleasance–Warrenton looked to see old Gamewell thundering forth.
When the Squire came not, and Robin nerved himself for yet another tussle, the retainer shrugged his shoulders and even took an interest in the matter.
[Illustration: ROBIN WRESTLES WILL STUTELEY AT GAMEWELL
"Catch him by the middle," he shouted. "Now you have him, lording, fairly. Throw him prettily!" And sure enough Stuteley came down.]
"Catch him by the middle," he shouted. "Now you have him, lording, fairly. Throw him prettily!" And sure enough Stuteley came down.
"Does Master Gamewell play at archery here, Warrenton?" Robin asked, presently, when he and Will were tired of wrestling. "Are they not targets that I see yonder?"
The old man's eye lit up with pride. "Squire's as pretty a marksman as any in Nottingham, lording, for all his years!" cried he. "And old Warrenton it was who taught him. Yon target is a fair mark for any shaft from where we stand. Yet I dare swear that Gamewell's lord would never miss the bull in fifty shots at it!"
"Have you bow and quiver here?" inquired Robin, eagerly. "Mine I have left in my room."
"Cross bow, longbow, or what you will, most noble. All that Gamewell has I am to give you. Such were my master's commands. An your esquire will run to the little hut near by, within the trees, he will find all that we need."
"Go, Will. Haste you, and bring me a proper bow," cried Robin, with sparkling eyes. "Now I'll bend the yew and see if I cannot do better than in Sherwood."
Master Stuteley, having journeyed to the hut, peeped in and started back with a cry of affright.
"The Yellow Woman, Robin!" called he, scampering back to them. "She is in there, and did snatch at me! Let us run, quickly!"
"Beshrew me, master, but this is an adventure, for sure! The Yellow One, was it? Then your days are numbered, and we had better be seeking a new esquire," said Warrenton.
"Are you afraid, Warrenton?" said Robin, moving involuntarily nearer to him. He glanced from one to the other, undecided whether to believe Will or stand and laugh at his fears.
"I have had the distemper, master, and cannot again be hurt. But here she comes, by the Lord! Keep near to me, lording, and shut your eyes tight."
Robin was too dazed to heed the old man's advice. He glared in a fascinated way at the figure emerging from the hut.
"It is a man," cried Robin, at last, "and listen–he is calling you, Warrenton."
The retainer uttered a little sound of astonishment and ran forward. "Sir–sir," he cried, as if in