University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE SHERIFF.

Two hours' hard riding, considering that the riders were
men armed in heavy mail, brought the party into the narrow,
ill-paved streets of Kendal, at least two hours earlier than the
time specified by Sir Foulke d'Oilly, and it was not above ten
o'clock of the night when they pulled up before a long, low,
thatched cabin, above the door of which, a bush and a bottle,
suspended from a pole, gave note that it was a house of entertainment.
Flinging his rein to one of half-a-dozen grooms
and horse-boys, who were lounging about the gate, the knight
raised the latch, and entered a long, smoky apartment, which
seemed to occupy the whole ground floor of the building,
affording room for the accommodation of fifty or sixty guests,
on occasion of feasts, fairs, or holidays.

It was an area of thirty or forty feet in length, by ten or
twelve in width, with bare rough-cast walls, and bare rafters
overhead, blackened by the smoke which escaped from the ill-constructed
chimneys at either end, and eddied overhead in a
perennial canopy of sable. The floor, however, was strewed

with fresh green rushes, green wreaths and branches were hung
on the rough-cast walls, and a large earthen-vase or two of
water-lilies and other showy wild-flowers adorned the board,
which was covered with clean white napery of domestic fabric.
At the upper end of this long table, half-a-dozen or eight men
were supping on a chine of hill-kid, with roasted moor-fowl
and wild-ducks, the landlord of the tavern being the bailiff of
the town, and having his lord's license to take all small game,
save bustard, heron, woodcock, and pheasant, for the benefit
of his guest-table.

On the entrance of Sir Foulke, these men rose to their feet;
and one, the best-armed and best-looking of the party, seeming
to be a second esquire or equerry, asked him, in a subdued
voice—

“What fortune, Sir Foulke; have you got the villeyn?”

“Safe enough, Fitz Hugh,” replied the knight; “but he is
no mere brute, as you fellows told me, but a perilous, shrewd,
intelligent, clear-headed Saxon. He has been advised, too, in
this matter, by some one well-skilled in the law, and was, I
think, expecting our coming. I should not marvel much, if
De Taillebois have notice of us. We must be in the saddle
again as soon as possible. But I must have a morsel ere we
start; I have not tasted aught since high-noon, and then it
was but a beggarly oat-cake and a flask of mead. What have
you there?”

“Some right good treble ale, beausire; let me fill you a
tankard, and play cup-bearer for once.” And, suiting the action
to the word, he filled out a mighty horn of the liquid
amber, capped with its snowy foam, and handed it to the
knight, adding, “The supper is but fragments, but there is

more at the fire now. I will go to the stables, and see the
fresh horses saddled and caparisoned; and as I pass the buttery
and tap, I will stir up the loitering knaves.”

“Do so, Fitz Hugh,” replied the other; “but hasten, Jesu
Maria! hasten! I reckon but half done until we are out of
this beggarly hole, and under way for merry Yorkshire. And
hark you, Fitz Hugh, let them bring in the prisoner. We
must have him along with us; and ten of the best men,
lightly armed, and mounted on the pick of our stud. Ten
more may tarry with the tired beasts we have just used, and
bring them on with the baggage and sumpter horses to-morrow.”

Then, as his officer left the hall to attend to his multifarious
duties, he quaffed another huge flagon of the strong, heady
ale; and, casting himself into a settle in the chimney-corner,
what between the warmth of the fire, grateful after his hard
ride in the chilly night air, and the fumes of the heady tankard,
he sunk into a doze, from which he only aroused himself,
when, half an hour afterward, in came a dozen clumsy village
servants, stamping and clattering in their heavy-clouted shoes,
and loaded the table with smoking platters and huge joints,
of which, however coarse the cookery, the odors were any
thing but unsavory.

To supper accordingly he now applied himself, two or
three of the men who had been with him at the seizure of
Kenric, crowding into the room and taking the lower end of
the table, where another great fire was blazing, and others
coming in and out in succession, until all were satisfied.

It is, however, remarkable, as in character with the sensual,
self-indulgent, and unrestrained temperament of this most unworthy

and unknightly Norman, his race being, of all the
northern tribes, that least addicted to gluttony and drunkenness,
and priding itself on moderation and decorum at the
table, that, notwithstanding his earnest desire to depart from
his somewhat perilous situation, he yet yielded to his appetites,
and lingered over the board, though it offered nothing
beyond coarse viands and strong ale, long after the horses
were announced to be in readiness.

At length he rose, washed his hands, and calling his page
to replace such portions of his armor as he had laid aside,
was preparing to move in earnest, when the well-known clash
of mail-coats and the thick trampling of a numerous squadron
coming up the village street gave notice that he was
surprised.

The next moment, a man-at-arms rushed into the room,
with dismay in his face.

“Lances, my Lord of d'Oilly,” he cried; “lances and a
broad banner! There are full fifty of them coming up the
street from the northward, and some of the grooms who were
on the out-look report more spears to the south. We are
surrounded.”

“Call in the men hither from the stables, then; let them
cut short their lances to six feet, and bring their maces and
battle-axes; we can make a stout stand here, and command
good terms at the worst.”

Time, however, was short, and his orders were but partially
obeyed, the men coming in by twos and threes from the
stables in the rear, looking gloomy and dispirited, when a
trumpet was blown clearly without, and, the cavalcade halting,

in mass, in front of the hostelry, a fine deep voice was heard
to cry;

“What men be these? Who dare lift spears, or display
banners, in my town of Kendal, without license of me?”

“It is De Taillebois,” said D'Oilly; “it avails nothing to
resist. Throw the doors open.”

But, as he spoke, the reply of his lieutenant was heard to
the summons;

“We be Sir Foulke d'Oilly's men, and we dare lift spear
and display banner, wheresoever our lord order us.”

“Well said, good fellow!” answered the powerful voice of
the old knight. “Go in, therefore, and tell your lord that
the Sheriff of Lancaster is at the door, with fifty lances, to
inforce the king's peace; and that he draw in his men at
once, or ere worse come of it, and show cause what he makes
here, in effeir of war, in my manor of Kendal, and the king's
county of Westmoreland.”

D'Oilly set his teeth hard, and smote the table with his
gauntleted hand. “Curses on him,” he muttered, “he hath
me at advantage.” Then, as he received the summons, “Pray
the Lord of Taillebois,” he said; “he will have the courtesy
to set foot to ground, and enter in hither, that we hold conference.”

Again the voice was heard without, “Ride to the bridge,
Huon, at the town end, and call me Aradas.”

There was a short pause, and then, as the gallop of a horse
was heard coming up to the house, the orders were given to
dismount, link bridles, and close up to the doors; and at the
next instant, Sir Yvo entered, stooping his tall crest to pass
the low-browed door, followed by his trusty squire, Aradas de

Ratcliffe, and half-a-dozen others of his principal retainers,
one or two of them wearing knightly crests upon their burgonets.

The first words the knight uttered, as he raised his avantaille
and gazed about him, were “St. Agatha, how hot it is,
and what a reek of peat-smoke and ale! Open those windows,
some of you, to the street, and let us have a breath of
heaven's fresh air. The Lord, he knows we need it.”

In a moment, the thick-wooden shutters and lattices, which
had been closed by those within on the first alarm of his
coming, were cast wide open, and the spaces were filled at
once by the stalwart forms and resolute faces of the men-at-arms
of De Taillebois, in such numbers as to render treachery
impossible, if it had been intended.

Then, for the first time, did Sir Yvo turn his eyes toward
the intruder, who stood at the farther end of the hall, irresolute
how to act, with his men clustered in a sullen group behind
him, and the prisoner Kenric held firmly by the shoulders
by two stout troopers.

“Ha! Sir Foulke d'Oilly,” he said, with a slight inclination
of his head. “To what do I owe the honor of receiving that
noble baron in my poor manor of Kendal; and wherefore, if
he come in courtesy and peace, do I not meet him rather in
my own castle of Hawkshead, where I might show him fitting
courtesy, than in this smoky den, fitter for Saxon churls than
Norman nobles?”

“To be brief, my lord,” replied d'Oilly, with a voice half
conciliatory, half defiant, “I came neither in enmity, nor yet
in courtesy, but to reclaim and seize my fugitive villeyn yonder,
Eadwulf the Red, who hath not only killed deer in my

chase of Fenton in the Forest, but hath murdered my bailiff
of Waltheofstow, and now hath fled from me, against my will;
and I find him here, hidden in an out corner of this your
manor of Kentmere, in Kendal.”

“There is some error here, Sir Foulke,” said De Taillebois,
firmly. “That man, whom I see some one hath brutally
misused, of which more anon, is not called Eadwulf at all, but
Kenric. Nor is he your serf, fair sir, nor any man's serf at
all, or villeyn, but a free Englishman, as any who stands on
this floor. I myself purchased and manumitted him in this
July last past, for that he saved the life of my child, the Lady
Guendolen, at risk of his own. Of this I pledge my honor,
as belted knight and Norman noble.”

“I know the fellow very well, Sir Yvo,” answered the other,
doggedly. “Four or five of my men here can swear to the
knave; and we have proof positive that he is the man who
shot a deer about daybreak, and murdered my bailiff on the
thirteenth day of September last, in my forest between the
meres of Thurgoland and Bolterstone, in Sherwood.”

“The thirteenth day of last September?” said De Taillebois,
thoughtfully. “Ha! Aradas, Fitz Adhelm, was 't not on that
day we ran the big mouse-colored hart royal, with the black
talbots, from high Yewdale, past Grisdale pike, to the skirts
of Skiddaw?”

“Surely it was, Sir Yvo,” answered both the gentlemen in
a breath.

“There is some error here, Sir Foulke,” repeated the
Sheriff, “but the law will decide it. And now, speaking of
the law, Sir Baron, may I crave, by what right, or form of
law, you have laid hands on this man, within the jurisdiction

of my manor, and under the shadow of night? I say, by
what warrant have you done this?”

“By the same right, and form, and warrant, by which,
wherever I find my stolen goods, there I seize them! By the
best law of right; that is, the law of might.”

“The law of might has failed you, for this time, Sir
Foulke.”

“That is to say, you being stronger, at this present time,
than I, will not allow me to carry off my villeyn, whom I have
justly seized.”

“Whom you have most unjustly, most illegally, seized, Sir
Foulke. You know, as well as I, or ought to know, that if
you proceed by seizure, it must be upon oath; and none can
seize within this shire, but I, the sheriff of it. Or if you proceed
by writ de nativo habendo, no one can serve that writ,
within this shire, but I, the sheriff of it. What! when a man
can not seize and sell an ox or an ass, that is claimed by
another, without due process of law, shall he seize and take,
that which is the dearest thing any man hath, even as dear as
the breath of his nostrils, his right to himself, his liberty,
without any form at all? No, Sir Foulke, no! Our English
law presumes every man free, till he be proved a slave; and
no man, who claims freedom, can be deprived of freedom, no,
not by my lord the King himself in counsel, except upon the
verdict of an English jury. But do I understand aright?
Does this man Eadwulf, or Kenric, claim to be free, or confess
himself to be a villeyn?”

“I claim to be a freeman, Sir Yvo; and I demand liberty
to prove it,” cried Kenric. “I warned Sir Foulke d'Oilly,
when he seized me in my cottage by Kentmere, as I can prove

by the boy Gilbert, that I am a freeman, and that were I a
villeyn and a fugitive, to make a true seizure, it must be made
by the sheriff.”

“Ha! thou didst—didst thou. Thou art learned in the
law, it seems.”

“It behooves an Englishman, beausire, to know the law by
which to guard his liberty, seeing that it is the dearest thing
he hath, under Heaven. But I am not learned; only I had
good advice.”

“So it seems. And you deny to be a villeyn, and claim to
prove your liberty?”

“Before God, I do, and your worship.”

“Summon my bailiff, Aradas; he is a justice of peace for
the county, and will tell us what is needed. I will give you
this benefit, Sir Foulke, though you are in no wise entitled to
it. Because it is on my own ground, and on the person of
my own man, you have made this seizure, I will allow it to
stand good, as if made legally, in due form. Had it been
made elsewhere, within the county, I would have held it null,
and committed you for false imprisonment, and breach of the
King's peace. But no man shall say I avenge my own private
griefs by power of my office. Now, bailiff, art thou there?”

“So please you, Sir Yvo, I have been here all the evening,
and am possessed of the whole case.”

“Well, then, what needs this man Kenric?”

“A writ, my lord, de libertate probanda. I have it here,
ready.”

“Recite it to us then, in God's name, and make service of
it; for I am waxing weary of this matter.”

Thus exhorted, the bailiff lifted up his voice and read, pompously

but distinctly, the following form; and then, bowing
low, handed it to the sheriff, calling on two of the men-at-arms,
whose names were subscribed, to witness the service:

“This tenth day of October, in the year of Grace, 1184.
Kendal, county of Westmoreland.”

“Well, there is a bail-bond needed, is there not, bailiff?”

“It is here, sir. William Fitz Adhelm, knight, and Aradas
de Ratcliffe, esquire, both of the county of Westmoreland, are
herein bound, jointly and severally, in the sum of two thousand
marks, that Kenric, as aforesaid, shall appear at the Lancaster

assizes next ensuing, and show cause why he is a freeman,
and not a villeyn, as claimed, of Sir Foulke d'Oilly, as
aforesaid. This is according to the law of England, and Kenric
may go his way until the time of the assize, none hindering
him in his lawful business.”

“Therefore,” said Sir Yvo de Taillebois, “I will pray Sir
Foulke d'Oilly to command his vassals, that they release the
man Kenric forthwith, nor force me to rescue him by the
strong hand.”

D'Oilly, who, during all these proceedings, to which, however
unwilling, he was compelled to listen without resistance,
had sat on the settle in the chimney corner, in a lounging attitude,
gazing into the ashes of the wood fire, and affecting to
hear nothing that was passing, rose to his feet sullenly, shook
himself, till every link of his mail clashed and rang, and
uttered, in a tone more like the short roar of a disappointed
lion than the voice of a man, the one word, “Lachez!” Then
turning to Sir Yvo, he said—

“And now, sir, I suppose that I, too, like this Saxon cur,
about whom there has been so much pother, may go about
my lawful business, none hindering me.”

“So much so, Sir Foulke, that if you will do me the favor
to order your horses, I will mount on the instant, and escort
you to the boundary of the shire. You, Kenric, tarry here
with my harbinger, and get yourself into more fitting guise
to return to the castle. Now, master bailiff, in quality of
host, can you not find a flask of something choicer than your
ale and metheglin? Ha! wine of Anjou! This will wash
the cobwebs of the law out of my gullet, rarely. I was nigh
choked with them, by St. Agatha! Sir Foulke, I hear your

horses stamping at the door. Will it please you, mount? It
draws nigh to morning.”

“I will mount,” he replied fiercely, “when I am ready;
and so give you short thanks for scanty courtesy.”

“The less we say, I think, about courtesy, Sir Foulke
d'Oilly, the better,” said Sir Yvo, sternly; “for courtesy is not,
nor ever can be, between us two, until I am certified how my
dear friend and comrade in arms, Sir Philip de Morville, came
by his death in Sherwood Forest.”

The baron glared at him fiercely under the rim of his raised
avantaille; then dashed the vizor down over his scowling features,
that none might read their fell expression; clinched
his gauntleted hand, and dashed it against the shield which
hung about his neck, in impotent fury. But he spoke no
word more, till they parted, without salutation or defiance, on
a bare moor, where the three shires of York, Lancaster, and
Westmoreland, meet, at the county stone, under the looming
mountain masses of Whernside.