HOW NIGEL WAS TRIED BY THE ABBOT OF WAVERLEY

The law of the Middle Ages, shrouded as it was in old Norman-French dialect, and abounding in uncouth and incomprehensible terms, in deodands and heriots, in infang and outfang, was a fearsome weapon in the hands of those who knew how to use it.  It was not for nothing that the first act of the rebel commoners was to hew off the head of the Lord Chancellor.  In an age when few knew how to read or to write, these mystic phrases and intricate forms, with the parchments and seals which were their outward expression, struck cold terror into hearts which were steeled against mere physical danger.

Even young Nigel Loring’s blithe and elastic spirit was chilled as he lay that night in the penal cell of Waverley and pondered over the absolute ruin which threatened his house from a source against which all his courage was of no avail.  As well take up sword and shield to defend himself against the black death, as against this blight of Holy Church.  He was powerless in the grip of the Abbey.  Already they had shorn off a field here and a grove there, and now in one sweep they would take in the rest, and where then was the home of the Lorings, and where should Lady Ermyntrude lay her aged head, or his old retainers, broken and spent, eke out the balance of their days?  He shivered as he thought of it.

It was very well for him to threaten to carry the matter before the King, but it was years since royal Edward had heard the name of Loring, and Nigel knew that the memory of princes was a short one.  Besides, the Church was the ruling power in the palace as well as in the cottage, and it was only for very good cause that a King could be expected to cross the purposes of so high a prelate as the Abbot of Waverley, as long as they came within the scope of the law.  Where then was he to look for help?  With the simple and practical piety of the age, he prayed for the aid of his own particular saints:  of Saint Paul, whose adventures by land and sea had always endeared him; of Saint George, who had gained much honorable advancement from the Dragon; and of Saint Thomas, who was a gentleman of coat-armor, who would understand and help a person of gentle blood.  Then, much comforted by his naïve orisons he enjoyed the sleep of youth and health until the entrance of the lay brother with the bread and small beer, which served as breakfast, in the morning.

The Abbey court sat in the chapter-house at the canonical hour of tierce, which was nine in the forenoon.  At all times the function was a solemn one, even when the culprit might be a villain who was taken poaching on the Abbey estate, or a chapman who had given false measure from his biased scales.  But now, when a man of noble birth was to be tried, the whole legal and ecclesiastical ceremony was carried out with every detail, grotesque or impressive, which the full ritual prescribed.  The distant roll of church music and the slow tolling of the Abbey bell; the white-robed brethren, two and two, walked thrice round the hall singing the “Benedicite” and the “Veni, Creator” before they settled in their places at the desks on either side.  Then in turn each high officer of the Abbey from below upward, the almoner, the lector, the chaplain, the subprior and the prior, swept to their wonted places.

Finally there came the grim sacrist, with demure triumph upon his downcast features, and at his heels Abbot John himself, slow and dignified, with pompous walk and solemn, composed face, his iron-beaded rosary swinging from his waist, his breviary in his hand, and his lips muttering as he hurried through his office for the day.  He knelt at his high prie-dieu; the brethren, at a signal from the prior, prostrated themselves upon the floor, and the low deep voices rolled in prayer, echoed back from the arched and vaulted roof like the wash of waves from an ocean cavern.  Finally the monks resumed their seats; there entered clerks in seemly black with pens and parchment; the red-velveted summoner appeared to tell his tale; Nigel was led in with archers pressing close around him; and then, with much calling of old French and much legal incantation and mystery, the court of the Abbey was open for business.

It was the sacrist who first advanced to the oaken desk reserved for the witnesses and expounded in hard, dry, mechanical fashion the many claims which the House, of Waverley had against the family of Loring.  Some generations back in return for money advanced or for spiritual favor received the Loring of the day had admitted that his estate had certain feudal duties toward the Abbey.  The sacrist held up the crackling yellow parchment with swinging leaden seals on which the claim was based.  Amid the obligations was that of escuage, by which the price of a knight’s fee should be paid every year.  No such price had been paid, nor had any service been done.  The accumulated years came now to a greater sum than the fee simple of the estate.  There were other claims also.  The sacrist called for his books, and with thin, eager forefinger he tracked them down:  dues for this, and tailage for that, so many shillings this year, and so many marks that one.  Some of it occurred before Nigel was born; some of it when he was but a child.  The accounts had been checked and certified by the sergeant of the law.

Nigel listened to the dread recital, and felt like some young stag who stands at bay with brave pose and heart of fire, but who sees himself compassed round and knows clearly that there is no escape.  With his bold young face, his steady blue eyes, and the proud poise of his head, he was a worthy scion of the old house, and the sun, shining through the high oriel window, and showing up the stained and threadbare condition of his once rich doublet, seemed to illuminate the fallen fortunes of his family.

The sacrist had finished his exposition, and the sergeant-at-law was about to conclude a case which Nigel could in no way controvert, when help came to him from an unexpected quarter.  It may have been a certain malignity with which the sacrist urged his suit, it may have been a diplomatic dislike to driving matters to extremes, or it may have been some genuine impulse of kindliness, for Abbot John was choleric but easily appeased.  Whatever the cause, the result was that a white plump hand, raised in the air with a gesture of authority, showed that the case was at an end.

“Our brother sacrist hath done his duty in urging this suit,” said he, “for the worldly wealth of this Abbey is placed in his pious keeping, and it is to him that we should look if we suffered in such ways, for we are but the trustees of those who come after us.  But to my keeping has been consigned that which is more precious still, the inner spirit and high repute of those who follow the rule of Saint Bernard.  Now it has ever been our endeavor, since first our saintly founder went down into the valley of Clairvaux and built himself a cell there, that we should set an example to all men in gentleness and humility.  For this reason it is that we built our houses in lowly places, that we have no tower to our Abbey churches, and that no finery and no metal, save only iron or lead, come within our walls.  A brother shall eat from a wooden platter, drink from an iron cup, and light himself from a leaden sconce.  Surely it is not for such an order who await the exaltation which is promised to the humble, to judge their own case and so acquire the lands of their neighbor!  If our cause be just, as indeed I believe that it is, then it were better that it be judged at the King’s assizes at Guildford, and so I decree that the case be now dismissed from the Abbey court so that it can be heard elsewhere.”

Nigel breathed a prayer to the three sturdy saints who had stood by him so manfully and well in the hour of his need.  “Abbot John,” said he, “I never thought that any man of my name would utter thanks to a Cistercian of Waverley; but by Saint Paul! you have spoken like a man this day, for it would indeed be to play with cogged dice if the Abbey’s case is to be tried in the Abbey court.”

The eighty white-clad brethren looked with half resentful, half amused eyes as they listened to this frank address to one who, in their small lives, seemed to be the direct vice-regent of Heaven.  The archers had stood back from Nigel, as though he was at liberty to go, when the loud voice of the summoner broke in upon the silence ­

“If it please you, holy father Abbot,” cried the voice, “this decision of yours is indeed secundum legem and intra vires so far as the civil suit is concerned which lies between this person and the Abbey.  That is your affair; but it is I, Joseph the summoner, who have been grievously and criminally mishandled, my writs, papers and indentures destroyed, my authority flouted, and my person dragged through a bog, quagmire or morass, so that my velvet gabardine and silver badge of office were lost and are, as I verily believe, in the morass, quagmire or bog aforementioned, which is the same bog, morass ­”

“Enough!” cried the Abbot sternly.  “Lay aside this foolish fashion of speech and say straitly what you desire.”

“Holy father, I have been the officer of the King’s law no less than the servant of Holy Church, and I have been let, hindered and assaulted in the performance of my lawful and proper duties, whilst my papers, drawn in the King’s name, have been shended and rended and cast to the wind.  Therefore, I demand justice upon this man in the Abbey court, the said assault having been committed within the banlieue of the Abbey’s jurisdiction.”

“What have you to say to this, brother sacrist?” asked the Abbot in some perplexity.

“I would say, father, that it is within our power to deal gently and charitably with all that concerns ourselves, but that where a the King’s officer is concerned we are wanting in our duty if we give him less than the protection that he demands.  I would remind you also, holy father, that this is not the first of this man’s violence, but that he has before now beaten our servants, defied our authority, and put pike in the Abbot’s own fish-pond.”

The prelate’s heavy cheeks flushed with anger as this old grievance came fresh into his mind.  His eyes hardened as he looked at the prisoner.  “Tell me, Squire Nigel, did you indeed put pike in the pond?”

The young man drew himself proudly up.  “Ere I answer such a question, father Abbot, do you answer one from me, and tell me what the monks of Waverley have ever done for me that I should hold my hand when I could injure them?”

A low murmur ran round the room, partly wonder at his frankness, and partly anger at his boldness.

The Abbot settled down in his seat as one who has made up his mind.  “Let the case of the summoner be laid before me,” said he.  “Justice shall be done, and the offender shall be punished, be he noble or simple.  Let the plaint be brought before the court.”

The tale of the summoner, though rambling and filled with endless legal reiteration, was only too clear in its essence.  Red Swire, with his angry face framed in white bristles, was led in, and confessed to his ill treatment of the official.  A second culprit, a little wiry nut-brown archer from Churt, had aided and abetted in the deed.  Both of them were ready to declare that young Squire Nigel Loring knew nothing of the matter.  But then there was the awkward incident of the tearing of the writs.  Nigel, to whom a lie was an impossibility, had to admit that with his own hands he had shredded those august documents.  As to an excuse or an explanation, he was too proud to advance any.  A cloud gathered over the brow of the Abbot, and the sacrist gazed with an ironical smile at the prisoner, while a solemn hush fell over the chapter-house as the case ended and only, judgment remained.

“Squire Nigel,” said the Abbot, “it was for you, who are, as all men know, of ancient lineage in this land, to give a fair example by which others should set their conduct.  Instead of this, your manor house has ever been a center for the stirring up of strife, and now not content with your harsh showing toward us, the Cistercian monks of Waverley, you have even marked your contempt for the King’s law, and through your servants have mishandled the person of his messenger.  For such offenses it is in my power to call the spiritual terrors of the Church upon your head, and yet I would not be harsh with you, seeing that you are young, and that even last week you saved the life of a servant of the Abbey when in peril.  Therefore, it is by temporal and carnal means that I will use my power to tame your overbold spirit, and to chasten that headstrong and violent humor which has caused such scandal in your dealings with our Abbey.  Bread and water for six weeks from now to the Feast of Saint Benedict, with a daily exhortation from our chaplain, the pious Father Ambrose, may still avail to bend the stiff neck and to soften the hard heart.”

At this ignominious sentence by which the proud heir of the house of Loring would share the fate of the meanest village poacher, the hot blood of Nigel rushed to his face, and his eye glanced round him with a gleam which said more plainly than words that there could be no tame acceptance of such a doom.  Twice he tried to speak, and twice his anger and his shame held the words in his throat.

“I am no subject of yours, proud Abbot!” he cried at last.  “My house has ever been vavasor to the King.  I deny the power of you and your court to lay sentence upon me.  Punish these your own monks, who whimper at your frown, but do not dare to lay your hand upon him who fears you not, for he is a free man, and the peer of any save only the King himself.”

The Abbot seemed for an instant taken aback by these bold words, and by the high and strenuous voice in which they were uttered.  But the sterner sacrist came as ever to stiffen his will.  He held up the old parchment in his hand.

“The Lorings were indeed vavasors to the King,” said he; “but here is the very seal of Eustace Loring which shows that he made himself vassal to the Abbey and held his land from it.”

“Because he was gentle,” cried Nigel, “because he had no thought of trick or guile.”

“Nay!” said the summoner.  “If my voice may be heard, father Abbot, upon a point of the law, it is of no weight what the causes may have been why a deed is subscribed, signed or confirmed, but a court is concerned only with the terms, articles, covenants and contracts of the said deed.”

“Besides,” said the sacrist, “sentence is passed by the Abbey court, and there is an end of its honor and good name if it be not upheld.”

“Brother sacrist,” said the Abbot angrily, “methinks you show overmuch zeal in this case, and certes, we are well able to uphold the dignity and honor of the Abbey court without any rede of thine.  As to you, worthy summoner, you will give your opinion when we crave for it, and not before, or you may yourself get some touch of the power of our tribunal.  But your case hath been tried, Squire Loring, and judgment given.  I have no more to say.”

He motioned with his hand, and an archer laid his grip upon the shoulder of the prisoner.  But that rough plebeian touch woke every passion of revolt in Nigel’s spirit.  Of all his high line of ancestors, was there one who had been subjected to such ignominy as this?  Would they not have preferred death?  And should he be the first to lower their spirit or their traditions?  With a quick, lithe movement, he slipped under the arm of the archer, and plucked the short, straight sword from the soldier’s side as he did so.  The next instant he had wedged himself into the recess of one of the narrow windows, and there were his pale set face, his burning eyes, and his ready blade turned upon the assembly.

“By Saint Paul!” said he, “I never thought to find honorable advancement under the roof of an abbey, but perchance there may, be some room for it ere you hale me to your prison.”

The chapter-house was in an uproar.  Never in the long and decorous history of the Abbey had such a scene been witnessed within its walls.  The monks themselves seemed for an instant to be infected by this spirit of daring revolt.  Their own lifelong fetters hung more loosely as they viewed this unheard-of defiance of authority.  They broke from their seats on either side and huddled half-scared, half-fascinated, in a large half-circle round the defiant captive, chattering, pointing, grimacing, a scandal for all time.  Scourges should fall and penance be done for many a long week before the shadow of that day should pass from Waverley.  But meanwhile there was no effort to bring them back to their rule.  Everything was chaos and disorder.  The Abbot had left his seat of justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and hustled in the crowd of his own monks like a sheep-dog who finds himself entangled amid a flock.

Only the sacrist stood clear.  He had taken shelter behind the half-dozen archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal of indecision at this bold fugitive from justice.

“On him!” cried the sacrist.  “Shall he defy the authority of the court, or shall one man hold six of you at bay?  Close in upon him and seize him.  You, Baddlesmere, why do you hold back?”

The man in question, a tall bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the others in green jerkin and breeches with high brown boots, advanced slowly, sword in hand, against Nigel.  His heart was not in the business, for these clerical courts were not popular, and everyone had a tender heart for the fallen fortunes of the house of Loring and wished well to its young heir.

“Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough,” said he.  “Stand forth and give yourself up!”

“Come and fetch me, good fellow,” said Nigel, with a dangerous smile.

The archer ran in.  There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered like a swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood running down his forearm and dripping from his fingers.  He wrung them and growled a Saxon oath.

“By the black rood of Bromeholm!” he cried, “I had as soon put my hand down a fox’s earth to drag up a vixen from her cubs.”

“Standoff!” said Nigel curtly.  “I would not hurt you; but by Saint Paul!  I will not be handled, or some one will be hurt in the handling.”

So fierce was his eye and so menacing his blade as he crouched in the narrow bay of the window that the little knot of archers were at a loss what to do.  The Abbot had forced his way through the crowd and stood, purple with outraged dignity, at their side.

“He is outside the law,” said he.  “He hath shed blood in a court of justice, and for such a sin there is no forgiveness.  I will not have my court so flouted and set at naught.  He who draws the sword, by the sword also let him perish.  Forester Hugh lay a shaft to your bow!”

The man, who was one of the Abbey’s lay servants, put his weight upon his long bow and slipped the loose end of the string into the upper notch.  Then, drawing one of the terrible three-foot arrows, steel-tipped and gaudily winged, from his waist, he laid it to the string.

“Now draw your bow and hold it ready!” cried the furious Abbot.  “Squire Nigel, it is not for Holy Church to shed blood, but there is naught but violence which will prevail against the violent, and on your head be the sin.  Cast down the sword which you hold in your hand!”

“Will you give me freedom to leave your Abbey?”

“When you have abided your sentence and purged your sin.”

“Then I had rather die where I stand than give up my sword.”

A dangerous flame lit in the Abbot’s eyes.  He came of a fighting Norman stock, like so many of those fierce prelates who, bearing a mace lest they should be guilty of effusion of blood, led their troops into battle, ever remembering that it was one of their own cloth and dignity who, crosier in hand, had turned the long-drawn bloody day of Hastings.  The soft accent of the churchman was gone and it was the hard voice of a soldier which said ­

“One minute I give you, and no more.  Then when I cry ‘Loose!’ drive me an arrow through his body.”

The shaft was fitted, the bow was bent, and the stern eyes of the woodman were fixed on his mark.  Slowly the minute passed, while Nigel breathed a prayer to his three soldier saints, not that they should save his body in this life, but that they should have a kindly care for his soul in the next.  Some thought of a fierce wildcat sally crossed his mind, but once out of his corner he was lost indeed.  Yet at the last he would have rushed among his enemies, and his body was bent for the spring, when with a deep sonorous hum, like a breaking harp-string, the cord of the bow was cloven in twain, and the arrow tinkled upon the tiled floor.  At the same moment a young curly-headed bowman, whose broad shoulders and deep chest told of immense strength, as clearly as his frank, laughing face and honest hazel eyes did of good humor and courage, sprang forward sword in hand and took his place by Nigel’s side.

“Nay, comrades!” said he.  “Samkin Aylward cannot stand by and see a gallant man shot down like a bull at the end of a baiting.  Five against one is long odds; but two against four is better, and by my finger-bones!  Squire Nigel and I leave this room together, be it on our feet or no.”

The formidable appearance of this ally and his high reputation among his fellows gave a further chill to the lukewarm ardor of the attack.  Aylward’s left arm was passed through his strung bow, and he was known from Woolmer Forest to the Weald as the quickest, surest archer that ever dropped a running deer at tenscore paces.

“Nay, Baddlesmere, hold your fingers from your string-case, or I may chance to give your drawing hand a two months’ rest,” said Aylward.  “Swords, if you will, comrades, but no man strings his bow till I have loosed mine.”

Yet the angry hearts of both Abbot and sacrist rose higher with a fresh obstacle.

“This is an ill day for your father, Franklin Aylward, who holds the tenancy of Crooksbury,” said the sacrist.  “He will rue it that ever he begot a son who will lose him his acres and his steading.”

“My father is a bold yeoman, and would rue it evermore that ever his son should stand by while foul work was afoot,” said Aylward stoutly.  “Fall on, comrades!  We are waiting.”

Encouraged by promises of reward if they should fall in the service of the Abbey, and by threats of penalties if they should hold back, the four archers were about to close, when a singular interruption gave an entirely new turn to the proceedings.

At the door of the chapter-house, while these fiery doings had been afoot, there had assembled a mixed crowd of lay brothers, servants and varlets who had watched the development of the drama with the interest and delight with which men hail a sudden break in a dull routine.  Suddenly there was an agitation at the back of this group, then a swirl in the center, and finally the front rank was violently thrust aside, and through the gap there emerged a strange and whimsical figure, who from the instant of his appearance dominated both chapter-house and Abbey, monks, prelates and archers, as if he were their owner and their master.

He was a man somewhat above middle age, with thin lemon-colored hair, a curling mustache, a tufted chin of the same hue, and a high craggy face, all running to a great hook of the nose, like the beak of an eagle.  His skin was tanned a brown-red by much exposure to the wind and sun.  In height he was tall, and his figure was thin and loose-jointed, but stringy and hard-bitten.  One eye was entirely covered by its lid, which lay flat over an empty socket, but the other danced and sparkled with a most roguish light, darting here and there with a twinkle of humor and criticism and intelligence, the whole fire of his soul bursting through that one narrow cranny.

His dress was as noteworthy as his person.  A rich purple doublet and cloak was marked on the lapels with a strange scarlet device shaped like a wedge.  Costly lace hung round his shoulders, and amid its soft folds there smoldered the dull red of a heavy golden chain.  A knight’s belt at his waist and a knight’s golden spurs twinkling from his doeskin riding-boots proclaimed his rank, and on the wrist of his left gauntlet there sat a demure little hooded falcon of a breed which in itself was a mark of the dignity of the owner.  Of weapons he had none, but a mandolin was slung by a black silken band over his back, and the high brown end projected above his shoulder.  Such was the man, quaint, critical, masterful, with a touch of what is formidable behind it, who now surveyed the opposing groups of armed men and angry monks with an eye which commanded their attention.

“Excusez!” said he, in a lisping French.  “Excusez, mes amis!  I had thought to arouse from prayer or meditation, but never have I seen such a holy exercise as this under an abbey’s roof, with swords for breviaries and archers for acolytes.  I fear that I have come amiss, and yet I ride on an errand from one who permits no delay.”

The Abbot, and possibly the sacrist also, had begun to realize that events had gone a great deal farther than they had intended, and that without an extreme scandal it was no easy matter for them to save their dignity and the good name of Waverley.  Therefore, in spite of the debonair, not to say disrespectful, bearing of the newcomer, they rejoiced at his appearance and intervention.

“I am the Abbot of Waverley, fair son,” said the prelate.  “If your message deal with a public matter it may be fitly repeated in the chapter-house; if not I will give you audience in my own chamber; for it is clear to me that you are a gentle man of blood and coat-armor who would not lightly break in upon the business of our court ­a business which, as you have remarked, is little welcome to men of peace like myself and the brethren of the rule of Saint Bernard.”

“Pardieu!  Father Abbot,” said the stranger.  “One had but to glance at you and your men to see that the business was indeed little to your taste, and it may be even less so when I say that rather than see this young person in the window, who hath a noble bearing, further molested by these archers, I will myself adventure my person on his behalf.”

The Abbot’s smile turned to a frown at these frank words.  “It would become you better, sir, to deliver the message of which you say that you are the bearer, than to uphold a prisoner against the rightful judgment of a court.”

The stranger swept the court with his questioning eye.  “The message is not for you, good father Abbot.  It is for one whom I know not.  I have been to his house, and they have sent me hither.  The name is Nigel Loring.”

“It is for me, fair sir.”

“I had thought as much.  I knew your father, Eustace Loring, and though he would have made two of you, yet he has left his stamp plain enough upon your face.”

“You know not the truth of this matter,” said the Abbot.  “If you are a loyal man, you will stand aside, for this young man hath grievously offended against the law, and it is for the King’s lièges to give us their support.”

“And you have haled him up for judgment,” cried the stranger with much amusement.  “It is as though a rookery sat in judgment upon a falcon.  I warrant that you have found it easier to judge than to punish.  Let me tell you, father Abbot, that this standeth not aright.  When powers such as these were given to the like of you, they were given that you might check a brawling underling or correct a drunken woodman, and not that you might drag the best blood in England to your bar and set your archers on him if he questioned your findings.”

The Abbot was little used to hear such words of reproof uttered in so stern a voice under his own abbey roof and before his listening monks.  “You may perchance find that an Abbey court has more powers than you wot of, Sir Knight,” said he, “if knight indeed you be who are so uncourteous and short in your speech.  Ere we go further, I would ask your name and style?”

The stranger laughed.  “It is easy to see that you are indeed men of peace,” said he proudly.  “Had I shown this sign,” and he touched the token upon his lapels, “whether on shield or pennon, in the marches of France or Scotland, there is not a cavalier but would have known the red pile of Chandos.”

Chandos, John Chandos, the flower of English chivalry, the pink of knight-errantry, the hero already of fifty desperate enterprises, a man known and honored from end to end of Europe!  Nigel gazed at him as one who sees a vision.  The archers stood back abashed, while the monks crowded closer to stare at the famous soldier of the French wars.  The Abbot abated his tone, and a smile came to his angry face.

“We are indeed men of peace, Sir John, and little skilled in warlike blazonry,” said he; “yet stout as are our Abbey walls, they are not so thick that the fame of your exploits has not passed through them and reached our ears.  If it be your pleasure to take an interest in this young and misguided Squire, it is not for us to thwart your kind intention or to withhold such grace as you request.  I am glad indeed that he hath one who can set him so fair an example for a friend.”

“I thank you for your courtesy, good father Abbot,” said Chandos carelessly.  “This young Squire has, however, a better friend than myself, one who is kinder to those he loves and more terrible to those he hates.  It is from him I bear a message.”

“I pray you, fair and honored sir,” said Nigel, “that you will tell me what is the message that you bear.”

“The message, mon ami, is that your friend comes into these parts and would have a night’s lodging at the manor house of Tilford for the love and respect that he bears your family.”

“Nay, he is most welcome,” said Nigel, “and yet I hope that he is one who can relish a soldier’s fare and sleep under a humble roof, for indeed we can but give our best, poor as it is.”

“He is indeed a soldier and a good one,” Chandos answered, laughing, “and I warrant he has slept in rougher quarters than Tilford Manor-house.”

“I have few friends, fair sir,” said Nigel, with a puzzled face.  “I pray you give me this gentleman’s name.”

“His name is Edward.”

“Sir Edward Mortimer of Kent, perchance, or is it Sir Edward Brocas of whom the Lady Ermyntrude talks?”

“Nay, he is known as Edward only, and if you ask a second name it is Plantagenet, for he who comes to seek the shelter of your roof is your liege lord and mine, the King’s high majesty, Edward of England.”