The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

St. Mary’s, as was evident to practised eyes by its arches and windows, but it had been so entirely eclipsed by Wykeham’s foundation that the number of priests, students, and choir-boys it was intended to maintain, had dwindled away, so that it now contained merely the Warden, a superannuated priest, and a couple of big lads who acted as servants.  There was an air of great quietude and coolness about the pointed arches of its tiny cloister on that summer’s day, with the old monk dozing in his chair over the manuscript he thought he was reading, not far from the little table where the Warden was eagerly studying Erasmus’s Praise of Folly.  But the Birkenholts were of the age at which quiet means dulness, at least Stephen was, and the Warden had pity both on them and on himself; and hearing joyous shouts outside, he opened a little door in the cloister wall, and revealed a multitude of lads with their black gowns tucked up “a playing at the ball”—these being the scholars of St. Mary’s.  Beckoning to a pair of elder ones, who were walking up and down more quietly, he consigned the strangers to their care, sweetening the introduction by an invitation to supper, for which he would gain permission from their Warden.

      One of the young Wykehamists was shy and churlish, and sheered off from the brothers, but the other catechised them on their views of becoming scholars in the college.  He pointed out the cloister where the studies took place in all weathers, showed them the hall, the chapel, and the chambers, and expatiated on the chances of attaining to New College.  Being moreover a scholarly fellow, he and Ambrose fell into a discussion over the passage of Virgil, copied out on a bit of paper, which he was learning by heart.  Some other scholars having finished their game, and become aware of the presence of a strange dog and two strange boys, proceeded to mob Stephen and Spring, whereupon the shy boy stood forth and declared that the Warden of St. Elizabeth’s had brought them in for an hour’s sport.

      Of course, in such close quarters, the rival Warden was esteemed a natural enemy, and went by the name of “Old Bess,” so that his recommendation went for worse than nothing, and a dash at Spring was made by the inhospitable young savages.  Stephen stood to the defence in act to box, and the shy lad stood by him, calling for fair play and one at a time.  Of course a fight ensued, Stephen and his champion on the one side, and two assailants on the other, till after a fall on either side, Ambrose’s friend interfered with a voice as thundering as the manly crack would permit, peace was restored, Stephen found himself free of the meads, and Spring was caressed instead of being tormented.

      Stephen was examined on his past, present, and future, envied for his Forest home, and beguiled into magnificent accounts, not only of the deer that had fallen to his bow and the boars that had fallen to his father’s spear, but of the honours to which his uncle in the Archbishop’s household would prefer him—for he viewed it as an absolute certainty that his kinsman was captain among the men-at-arms, whom he endowed on the spot with scarlet coats faced with black velvet, and silver medals and chains.

      Whereat one of the other boys was not behind in telling how his father was pursuivant to my Lord Duke of Norfolk, and never went abroad save with silver lions broidered on back and breast, and trumpets going before; and another dwelt on the splendours of the mayor and aldermen of Southampton with their chains and cups of gold.  Stephen felt bound to surpass this with the last report that my Lord of York’s men rode Flemish steeds in crimson velvet housings, passmented with gold and gems, and of course his uncle had the leading of them.

      “Who be thine uncle?” demanded a thin, squeaky voice.  “I have brothers likewise in my Lord of York’s meimé.”

      “Mine uncle is Captain Harry Randall, of Shirley,” quoth Stephen magnificently, scornfully surveying the small proportions of the speaker, “What is thy brother?”

      “Head turnspit,” said a rude voice, provoking a general shout of laughter; but the boy stood his ground, and said hotly: “He is page to the comptroller of my lord’s household, and waits at the second table, and I know every one of the captains.”

      “He’ll say next he knows every one of the Seven Worthies,” cried another boy, for Stephen was becoming a popular character.

      “And all the paladins to boot.  Come on, little Rowley!” was the cry.

      “I tell you my brother is page to the comptroller of the household, and my mother dwells beside the Gate House, and I know every man of them,” insisted Rowley, waxing hot.  “As for that Forest savage fellow’s uncle being captain of the guard, ’tis more like that he is my lord’s fool, Quipsome Hal!”

      Whereat there was a cry, in which were blended exultation at the hit, and vituperation of the hitter.  Stephen flew forward to avenge the insult, but a big bell was beginning to ring, a whole wave of black gowns rushed to obey it, sweeping little Rowley away with them; and Stephen found himself left alone with his brother and the two lads who had been invited to St. Elizabeth’s, and who now repaired thither with them.

      The supper party in the refectory was a small one, and the rule of the foundation limited the meal to one dish and a pittance, but the dish was of savoury eels, and the Warden’s good nature had added to it some cates and comfits in consideration of his youthful guests.

      After some conversation with the elder Wykehamist, the Warden called Ambrose and put him through an examination on his attainments, which proved so satisfactory, that it ended in an invitation to the brothers to fill two of the empty scholarships of the college of the dear St. Elizabeth.  It was a good offer, and one that Ambrose would fain have accepted, but Stephen had no mind for the cloister or for learning.

      The Warden had no doubt that he could be apprenticed in the city of Winchester, since the brother at home had in keeping a sum sufficient for the fee.  Though the trade of “capping” had fallen off, there were still good substantial burgesses who would be willing to receive an active lad of good parentage, some being themselves of gentle blood.  Stephen, however, would not brook the idea.  “Out upon you, Ambrose!” said he, “to desire to bind your own brother to base mechanical arts.”

      “’Tis what Nurse Joan held to be best for us both,” said Ambrose.

      “Joan!  Yea, like a woman, who deems a man safest when he is a tailor, or a perfumer.  An you be minded to stay here with a black gown and a shaven crown, I shall on with Spring and come to preferment.  Maybe thou’lt next hear of me when I have got some fat canonry for thee.”

      “Nay, I quit thee not,” said Ambrose.  “If thou fare forward, so do I.  But I would thou couldst have brought thy mind to rest there.”

      “What! wouldst thou be content with this worn-out place, with more churches than houses, and more empty houses than full ones?  No! let us on where there is something doing!  Thou wilt see that my Lord of York will have room for the scholar as well as the man-at-arms.”

      So the kind offer was declined, but Ambrose was grieved to see that the Warden thought him foolish, and perhaps ungrateful.

      Nevertheless the good man gave them a letter to the Reverend Master Alworthy, singing clerk at St. Paul’s Cathedral, telling Ambrose it might serve them in case they failed to find their uncle, or if my Lord of York’s household should not be in town.  He likewise gave them a recommendation which would procure them a night’s lodging at the Grange, and after the morning’s mass and meat, sped them on their way with his blessing, muttering to himself, “That elder one might have been the staff of mine age!  Pity on him to be lost in the great and evil City!  Yet ’tis a good lad to follow that fiery spark his brother.  Tanquam agnus inter lupos.  Alack!”

      CHAPTER IV

      A HERO’S FALL

      “These four came all afront and mainly made at me.  I made no more ado, but took their seven points on my target—thus—”

Shakespeare.

      The journey to Alton was eventless.  It was slow, for the day was a broiling one, and the young foresters missed their oaks and beeches, as they toiled over the chalk downs that rose and sank in endless succession; though they would hardly have slackened their pace if it had not been for poor old Spring, who was sorely distressed by the heat and the want of water on the downs.  Every now and then he lay down, panting distressfully, with his tongue hanging