'De Aquila was like Witta. He suffered no idleness. In fair weather we would ride along between Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other - sometimes with hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both on the Marsh and the Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets from Normandy. In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower, frowning against the rain - peering here and pointing there. It always vexed him to think how Witta's ship had come and gone without his knowledge. When the wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf's edge he would go and, leaning on his sword among the stinking fish, would call to the mariners for their news from France. His other eye he kept landward for word of Henry's war against the Barons.
'Many brought him news - jongleurs, harpers, pedlars, sutlers, priests and the like; and, though he was secret enough in small things, yet, if their news misliked him, then, regarding neither time nor place nor people, he would curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe. I have heard him cry aloud by the fishing boats: "If I were King of England I would do thus and thus"; and when I rode out to see that the warning-beacons were laid and dry, he hath often called to me from the shot-window: "Look to it, Richard! Do not copy our blind King, but see with thine own eyes and feel with thine own hands."
I do not think he knew any sort of fear. And so we lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber above the Hall.
'One foul night came word that a messenger of the King waited below. We were chilled after a long riding in the fog towards Bexlei, which is an easy place for ships to land. De Aquila sent word the man might either eat with us or wait till we had fed. Anon jehan, at the stair-head, cried that he had called for horse, and was gone. "Pest on him!" said De Aquila. "I have more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for every gadling the King sends. Left he no word?"
"'None," said Jehan, "except" - he had been with De Aquila at Santlache - "except he said that if an old dog could not learn new tricks it was time to sweep out the kennel."
"'Oho!" said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, "to whom did he say that?"
"'To his beard, chiefly, but some to his horse's flank as he was girthing up. I followed him out," said jehan the Crab.
"'What was his shield-mark?"
"'Gold horseshoes on black," said the Crab.
"'That is one of Fulke's men," said De Aquila.'
Puck broke in very gently, 'Gold horseshoes on black is not the Fulkes' shield. The Fulkes' arms are -'
The knight waved one hand statelily.
'Thou knowest that evil man's true name,' he replied, 'but I have chosen to call him Fulke because I promised him I would not tell the story of his wickedness so that any man might guess it. I have changed all the names in my tale. His children's children may be still alive.'
'True - true,' said Puck, smiling softly. 'It is knightly to keep faith - even after a thousand years.'
Sir Richard bowed a little and went on:
"'Gold horseshoes on black?" said De Aquila. "I had heard Fulke had joined the Barons/ but if this is true our King must be of the upper hand. No matter, all Fulkes are faithless. Still, I would not have sent the man away empty."
"'He fed," said jehan. "Gilbert the Clerk fetched him meat and wine from the kitchens. He ate at Gilbert's table."
'This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, who kept the accounts of the Manor of Pevensey. He was tall and pale-coloured, and carried those new-fashioned beads for counting of prayers. They were large brown nuts or seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his pen and ink-horn they clashed when he walked. His place was in the great fireplace. There was his table of accounts, and there he lay o' nights. He feared the hounds in the Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep on the warm ashes, and would slash at them with his beads - like a woman. When De Aquila sat in Hall to do justice, take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so write it in the Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to feed our guests, or to let them depart without his lord's knowledge.
'Said De Aquila, after jehan was gone down the stair:
"Hugh, hast thou ever told my Gilbert thou canst read Latin hand-of-write?"
"'No," said Hugh. "He is no friend to me, or to Odo my hound either."
"'No matter," said De Aquila. "Let him never know thou canst tell one letter from its fellow, and" - there he yerked us in the ribs with his scabbard - "watch him, both of ye. There be devils in Africa, as I have heard, but by the Saints, there be greater devils in Pevensey!" And that was all he would say.
'It chanced, some small while afterwards, a Norman man-at-arms would wed a Saxon wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had watched him well since De Aquila spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave. Since De Aquila would give them a field of good land, if she were free, the matter came up at the justice in Great Hall before De Aquila. First the wench's father spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the Hall rang and the hounds bayed. De Aquila held up his hands. "Write her free," he called to Gilbert by the fireplace. "A' God's name write her free, before she deafens me! Yes, yes," he said to the wench that was on her knees at him; "thou art Cerdic's sister, and own cousin to the Lady of Mercia, if thou wilt be silent. In fifty years there will be neither Norman nor Saxon, but all English," said he, "and these are the men that do our work!" He clapped the man-at-arms that was Jehan's nephew on the shoulder, and kissed the wench, and fretted with his feet among the rushes to show it was finished. (The Great Hall is always bitter cold.) I stood at his side; Hugh was behind Gilbert in the fireplace ****** to play with wise rough Odo. He signed to De Aquila, who bade Gilbert measure the new field for the new couple. Out then runs our Gilbert between man and maid, his beads clashing at his waist, and the Hall being empty, we three sit by the fire.
