The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

he had hitherto shown to Master Headley’s behests; for now that the time for departure had come, he was really sorry to leave the armourer’s household.  Edmund Burgess had been very good-natured to the raw country lad, and Kit Smallbones was, in his eyes, an Ascapart in strength, and a Bevis in prowess and kindliness.  Mistress Headley too had been kind to the orphan lads, and these two days had given a feeling of being at home at the Dragon.  When Giles wished them a moody farewell, and wished he were going with them, Stephen returned, “Ah! you don’t know when you are well off.”

      Little Dennet came running down after them with two pinks in her hands.  “Here’s a sop-in-wine for a token for each of you young gentlemen,” she cried, “for you came to help father, and I would you were going to stay and wed me instead of Giles.”

      “What, both of us, little maid?” said Ambrose, laughing, as he stooped to receive the kiss her rosy lips tendered to him.

      “Not but what she would have royal example,” muttered Tibble aside.

      Dennet put her head on one side, as considering.  “Nay, not both; but you are gentle and courteous, and he is brave and gallant—and Giles there is moody and glum, and can do nought.”

      “Ah! you will see what a gallant fellow Giles can be when thou hast cured him of his home-sickness by being good to him,” said Ambrose, sorry for the youth in the universal laughter at the child’s plain speaking.

      And thus the lads left the Dragon, amid friendly farewells.  Ambrose looked up at the tall spire of St. Paul’s with a strong determination that he would never put himself out of reach of such words as he had there drunk in, and which were indeed spirit and life to him.

      Tibble took them down to the St. Paul’s stairs on the river, where at his whistle a wherry was instantly brought to transport them to York stairs, only one of the smiths going any further in charge of the corslets.  Very lovely was their voyage in the brilliant summer morning, as the glittering water reflected in broken ripples church spire, convent garden, and stately house.  Here rows of elm-trees made a cool walk by the river side, there strawberry beds sloped down the Strand, and now and then the hooded figures of nuns might be seen gathering the fruit.  There, rose the round church of the Temple, and the beautiful gardens surrounding the buildings, half monastic, half military, and already inhabited by lawyers.  From a barge at the Temple stairs a legal personage descended, with a square beard, and open, benevolent, shrewd face, before whom Tibble removed his cap with eagerness, saying to Ambrose, “Yonder is Master More, a close friend of the dean’s, a good and wise man, and forward in every good work.”

      Thus did they arrive at York House.  Workmen were busy on some portions of it, but it was inhabited by the great Archbishop, the king’s chief adviser.  The approach of the boat seemed to be instantly notified, as it drew near the stone steps giving entrance to the gardens, with an avenue of trees leading up to the principal entrance.

      Four or five yeomen ran down the steps, calling out to Tibble that their corslets had tarried a long time, and that Sir Thomas Drury had been storming for him to get his tilting armour into order.

      Tibble followed the man who had undertaken to conduct him through a path that led to the offices of the great house, bidding the boys keep with him, and asking for their uncle Master Harry Randall.

      The yeoman shook his head.  He knew no such person in the household, and did not think there ever had been such.  Sir Thomas Drury was found in the stable court, trying the paces of the horse he intended to use in the approaching joust.  “Ha! old Wry-mouth,” he cried, “welcome at last!  I must have my new device damasked on my shield.  Come hither, and I’ll show it thee.”

      Private rooms were seldom enjoyed, even by knights and gentlemen, in such a household, and Sir Thomas could only conduct Tibble to the armoury, where numerous suits of armour hung on blocks, presenting the semblance of armed men.  The knight, a good-looking personage, expatiated much on the device he wished to dedicate to his lady-love, a pierced heart with a forget-me-not in the midst, and it was not until the directions were finished that Tibble ventured to mention the inquiry for Randall.

      “I wot of no such fellow,” returned Sir Thomas, “you had best go to the comptroller, who keeps all the names.”  Tibble had to go to this functionary at any rate, to obtain an order for payment for the corslets he had brought home.  Ambrose and Stephen followed him across an enormous hall, where three long tables were being laid for dinner.

      The comptroller of the household, an esquire of good birth, with a stiff little ruff round his neck, sat in a sort of office inclosed by panels at the end of the hall.  He made an entry of Tibble’s account in a big book, and sent a message to the cofferer to bring the amount.  Then Tibble again put his question on behalf of the two young foresters, and the comptroller shook his head.  He did not know the name.  “Was the gentleman” (he chose that word as he looked at the boys) “layman or clerk?”  “Layman, certainly,” said Ambrose, somewhat dismayed to find how little, on interrogation, he really knew.

      “Was he a yeoman of the guard, or in attendance on one of my lord’s nobles in waiting?”

      “We thought he had been a yeoman,” said Ambrose.

      “See,” said the comptroller, stimulated by a fee administered by Tibble, “’tis just dinner time, and I must go to attend on my Lord Archbishop; but do you, Tibble, sit down with these striplings to dinner, and then I will cast my eye over the books, and see if I can find any such name.  What, hast not time?  None ever quits my lord’s without breaking his fast.”

      Tibble had no doubt that his master would be willing that he should give up his time for this purpose, so he accepted the invitation.  The tables were by this time nearly covered, but all stood waiting, for there flowed in from the great doorway of the hall a gorgeous train—first, a man bearing the double archiepiscopal cross of York, fashioned in silver, and thick with gems—then, with lofty mitre enriched with pearls and jewels, and with flowing violet lace-covered robes came the sturdy square-faced ruddy prelate, who was then the chief influence in England, and after him two glittering ranks of priests in square caps and richly embroidered copes, all in accordant colours.  They were returning, as a yeoman told Tibble, from some great ecclesiastical ceremony, and dinner would be served instantly.

      “That for which Ralf Bowyer lives!” said a voice close by, “He would fain that the dial’s hands were Marie bones, the face blancmange, wherein the figures should be grapes of Corinth!”

      Stephen looked round and saw a man close beside him in what he knew at once to be the garb of a jester.  A tall scarlet velvet cap, with three peaks, bound with gold braid, and each surmounted with a little gilded bell, crowned his head, a small crimson ridge to indicate the cock’s comb running along the front.  His jerkin and hose were of motley, the left arm and right leg being blue, their opposites, orange tawny, while the nether stocks and shoes were in like manner black and scarlet counterchanged.  And yet, somehow, whether from the way of wearing it, or from the effect of the gold embroidery meandering over all, the effect was not distressing, but more like that of a gorgeous bird.  The figure was tall, lithe, and active, the brown ruddy face had none of the blank stare of vacant idiocy, but was full of twinkling merriment, the black eyes laughed gaily, and perhaps only so clearsighted and shrewd an observer as Tibble would have detected a weakness of purpose about the mouth.

      There was a roar of laughter at the gibe, as indeed there was at whatever was uttered by the man whose profession was to make mirth.

      “Thou likest thy food well enough thyself, quipsome one,” muttered Ralf.

      “Hast found one who doth not, Ralf?  Then should he have a free gift of my bauble,” responded the jester, shaking on high that badge, surmounted with the golden head of an ass, and jingling with bells.  “How now, friend Wry-mouth?  ’Tis long since thou wert here!  This house hath well-nigh been forced to its ghostly weapons for lack of thy substantial ones.  Where hast thou been?”

      “At Salisbury, good Merryman.”

      “Have the Wilts men raked the moon yet out of the pond?  Did they lend thee their rake, Tib, that thou hast raked up a couple of green Forest palmer worms, or be they the sons of the