Chapter 9 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

The troop of horsemen made their way out of the wood, and soon afterwards, riding down the romantic glen of Millbrook, reached the Bedford valley. They were now on the road to Elstow, and nearing Bedford itself; but as they approached the town, an incident occurred which changed the direction of De Breauté's route.

The cavalcade were hurrying along, as their leader was anxious to get his prisoners safe into the castle ere the town-folk should be aware of their capture. For although the burgesses of Bedford had by this time been sufficiently cowed by the Robber Baron and his men, and were by no means unaccustomed to seeing prisoners swept off into the "devil's nest," as they called his castle, yet it was more satisfactory that the impounding should be done without any fuss or disturbance.

So through the little village of Elstow clattered the horsemen, their arms and accoutrements ringing as they went. The village people recognized with a shudder the soldiers from Bedford Castle. They were mostly retainers of the abbey, and they crossed themselves devoutly and uttered a prayer as the enemies and spoilers of the church rode by. They scarcely noted the unfortunate judge who was being jolted along in their midst at a pace so different from that at which he usually travelled, and who

"Little thought when he set out

Of running such a rig."

Increasing their pace, the hurrying troop scattered the wayfarers right and left. The inhabitants fled into their houses; the peasants dragged their beasts and carts into the ditches. All knew that there could be the servants of but one man who would ride through the country in this fashion.

But as they passed the abbey gate, De Breauté and his men, in their headlong career, charged full tilt into a small party of riders just turning out of the archway.

This knot of travellers seemed in no wise disposed to give De Breauté's horsemen more than their fair share of the road, and did not draw aside into the hedge, after the manner of the peasants. The two foremost of the little company were an elderly and dignified ecclesiastic, and a young and graceful lady whose wimple and riding-hood concealed her face. The old priest, encumbered with his ecclesiastical habit, was unable to resist the impetus with which the armed party bore down upon the defenceless travellers. Too late, he drew rein aside; but the ponderous war-horse of the foremost man-at-arms struck his palfrey full on the flank, and rolled both horse and rider to the ground.

The mass of horsemen, rushing in wedge shape, separated the priest from his companion, and the latter was forced to the opposite side of the road. She was either quicker, more skilful, or better mounted than was the elderly ecclesiastic; for not only did she turn her horse aside just at the right moment and avoid an imminent collision, but putting him at the boundary hedge which bordered the road, cleared it in a style which showed her to possess the hand and seat of a first-rate horsewoman.

The unexpected encounter caused a sudden and confused halt to De Breauté's party, and their leader was able to give a by no means pleased look at those who, by no fault of their own, but by reason of the furious onrush of his own men, had unintentionally impeded his progress. But when once he had glanced at the bold horsewoman escaping by her leap from the confused throng, he hardly deigned to notice the prostrate priest striving to extricate himself from his dangerous position. For as her horse cleared the obstacle, the riding-hood, which concealed the features of the rider, fell back upon her shoulders, and revealed to his astonished gaze the lovely face of Aliva de Pateshulle.

In a moment his brother's orders were all forgotten. Even had he recognized Martin de Pateshulle in the dismounted horseman, it is not likely he would have paused to capture him. But shouting to two of his men to follow him, he turned quickly round, and putting spurs to his horse, rode after the retreating figure at the top of his speed.

His leaderless party pulled themselves together, so to speak, and gazed after the pursued and the pursuer till they vanished round the corner of the abbey walls. They gave vent to a few coarse jests over their master's disappearance, and then the senior among them took upon himself the command of the party. He turned to the unlucky priest, whom his servants had now raised from under his fallen steed. Martin de Pateshulle--for it was he--had evidently been severely injured, and lay prostrate in his attendants' arms. In reply to the soldier's questions they told that their master was the Archdeacon of Northampton, and the lady his niece. Had they mentioned his name, it is possible the trooper might have recognized that of one of the justices they had sallied out to seize. But as it was, deeply imbued with a soldier's notion of implicit obedience to orders before all things, he thought only of conveying the prisoner he had already made with all speed to Bedford. Even Henry de Braybrooke, whom his guard had removed to a little distance from the scene of the accident, could only learn that it was an old priest who had been injured, ere he was again hurried off in the direction of the Robber Baron's castle.

Meanwhile, the grooms who had picked up the archdeacon proceeded to carry him, moaning with pain, back to the abbey they had just left. In vain the unhappy priest conjured them to leave him to his fate, and to hasten after his niece, as soon as he realized that she was being pursued by De Breauté.

With one exception, none seemed inclined to obey their master, protesting that it was their first duty to see his injuries attended to within the abbey walls.

That exception was our fat friend Dicky Dumpling, who had been of the party, in attendance on his young mistress. He, too, had been rolled over; but no sooner had he picked himself up out of the mire and learned that she had fled, than his distress was great.

"Alack! alack!" he cried. "Chased by that young French popinjay, say you? Oh, woe the day! He came a-wooing her that day the gallant Sir Ralph rode over, and he departed with his beauty marred, the serving-maid doth say--but women have such long tongues! Oh, my hapless young lady! I must after her to her succour!"

"Thou Dickon!" gasped one of his fellows,--"with thy feather weight, to say nothing of that good dinner of beef and ale in the porter's lodge."

"And thy nag's good browse in the abbey stables," put in another. "Think you he is a match for the knight's war-horse?"

"Alack! alack!" moaned worthy Dicky; "my heart misgives me sore. But bring me my horse, lads, and find me my cap. With good St. Dunstan's aid I will do my best. Give me a leg up, lads, and Dobbin and I will after her as long as there is a breath left in our bodies!"