the group had collected--half a dozen women and one tall fellow in
a russet smock--discussing what the bell betided. An express had
gone through the hamlet half an hour before, and drunk a pot of ale
in the saddle, not daring to dismount for the hurry of his errand;
but he had been ignorant himself of what was forward, and only bore
sealed letters from Sir Daniel Brackley to Sir Oliver Oates, the
parson, who kept the Moat House in the master's absence.

But now there was the noise of a horse; and soon, out of the edge
of the wood and over the echoing bridge, there rode up young Master
Richard Shelton, Sir Daniel's ward. He, at the least, would know,
and they hailed him and begged him to explain. He drew bridle
willingly enough--a young fellow not yet eighteen, sun-browned and
grey-eyed, in a jacket of deer's leather, with a black velvet
collar, a green hood upon his head, and a steel cross-bow at his
back. The express, it appeared, had brought great news. A battle
was impending. Sir Daniel had sent for every man that could draw a
bow or carry a bill to go post-haste to Kettley, under pain of his
severe displeasure; but for whom they were to fight, or of where
the battle was expected, Dick knew nothing. Sir Oliver would come
shortly himself, and Bennet Hatch was arming at that moment, for he
it was who should lead the party.

"It is the ruin of this kind land," a woman said. "If the barons
live at war, ploughfolk must eat roots."

"Nay," said Dick, "every man that follows shall have sixpence a
day, and archers twelve."

"If they live," returned the woman, "that may very well be; but how