A Gentleman-at-Arms: Being Passages in the Life of Sir Christopher Rudd, KnightStrang, Herbert
History
A Gentleman-at-Arms: Being Passages in the Life of Sir Christopher Rudd, Knight
Strang, Herbert
Adventure stories; Great Britain -- History -- Elizabeth, 1558-1603 -- Juvenile fiction
Before I could answer, Stubbs came to me with the tools, and since time
was precious I went at once with him to the gate, and by dint of hewing
and hacking we contrived to drop the portcullis, and so shut up the
entrance that might otherwise have been our undoing. Which was no
sooner done than a loud cry summoned me to the wall, and mounting
thereon I saw the rabblement gathered on the further shore, and in the
forefront a man of vast stature with a head like a bull-calf, and fat
red cheeks bulging out from a shaggy mane the colour of hay. He wore no
cap, but his form was clad in a loose tunic of saffron hue, leather
trews to his ankles, and great shoes of undressed hide. Flourishing a
two-handed sword, he bellowed something in the execrable tongue of these
savages, and my Irishman at my side said that he called upon the Lady
Sheila to yield up the castle and make her humble submission.
"Methinks his name should be Roarer Mac Shane," said I, and I went to
inform the damsel of his demand. "What is your answer, mistress, to
this windy swain? He is young and over-grown, which may excuse the
tempestuous manner of his wooing."
"Tell him I deny him and defy him," she cried ringingly. "I am daughter
of Kedagh O’Hagan!"
When this was repeated by my Irishman, Mac Shane vented another blast of
foul breath, and at his command a company of his ruffians hied them to
the woods towards the north side of the lake, and fell to cutting
timber, which they proceeded to fashion into rafts, binding the logs
together with ropes they had brought with them: manifestly Mac Shane had
not expected the lady to spring into his arms. While this was doing,
others of the ragged crew built light ladders, setting at the top iron
hooks wherewith to catch the wall. These preparations were little to my
liking, and I saw that there was rough work before us.
And now becoming aware of my emptiness, for I had neither eaten nor
drunk since my supper overnight, I considered there was time to make a
meal, without overhaste, for ’twould certainly be an hour or two ere the
rafts and ladders were finished. My fair lady served me with her own
hands, and paid me little heed when I said she must be sparing of
victuals, but heaped upon my platter plenty of broiled flesh garnished
with shamrock, a herb of the country, with fair white bread, butter
(somewhat rancid), and a great horn of mead.
"Great warriors must needs be great eaters," she said, sitting
composedly over against the window near to the ancient gossip her
companion, whom she had fetched from above, and who had never yet said a
word in my hearing.
"But not great eaters great warriors," said I, in her vein.
"No, or swine would be the most warlike of beasts," she said. Then,
resting her chin upon her hand: "Tell me, Master Captain Rudd, the
manner of your escape. My women say you are a necromancer."
"Why, mistress, then by my black art conjured myself into the shape of a
simple fowl, and spread my wings, and hey!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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