Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Men of Iron by Howard Pyle (golden son ebook .txt) 📖
- Author: Howard Pyle
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Book online «Men of Iron by Howard Pyle (golden son ebook .txt) 📖». Author Howard Pyle
One morning Myles and Gascoyne and Wilkes sat under the shade of two trees, between which was a board nailed to the trunks, making a rude bench—always a favorite lounging-place for the lads in idle moments. Myles was polishing his bascinet with lard and wood-ashes, rubbing the metal with a piece of leather, and wiping it clean with a fustian rag. The other two, who had just been relieved from household duty, lay at length idly looking on.
Just then one of the smaller pages, a boy of twelve or thirteen, by name Robin Ingoldsby, crossed the court. He had been crying; his face was red and blubbered, and his body was still shaken with convulsive sniffs.
Myles looked up. “Come hither, Robin,” he called from where he sat. “What is to do?”
The little fellow came slowly up to where the three rested in the shade. “Mowbray beat me with a strap,” said he, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes, and catching his breath at the recollection.
“Beat thee, didst say?” said Myles, drawing his brows together. “Why did he beat thee?”
“Because,” said Robin, “I tarried overlong in fetching a pot of beer from the buttery for him and Wyatt.” Then, with a boy’s sudden and easy quickness in forgetting past troubles, “Tell me, Falworth,” said he, “when wilt thou give me that knife thou promised me—the one thou break the blade of yesterday?”
“I know not,” said Myles, bluntly, vexed that the boy did not take the disgrace of his beating more to heart. “Some time soon, mayhap. Me thinks thou shouldst think more of thy beating than of a broken knife. Now get thee gone to thy business.”
The youngster lingered for a moment or two watching Myles at his work. “What is that on the leather scrap, Falworth?” said he, curiously.
“Lard and ashes,” said Myles, testily. “Get thee gone, I say, or I will crack thy head for thee;” and he picked up a block of wood, with a threatening gesture.
The youngster made a hideous grimace, and then scurried away, ducking his head, lest in spite of Myles’s well-known good-nature the block should come whizzing after him.
“Hear ye that now!” cried Myles, flinging down the block again and turning to his two friends. “Beaten with straps because, forsooth, he would not fetch and carry quickly enough to please the haste of these bachelors. Oh, this passeth patience, and I for one will bear it no longer.”
“Nay, Myles,” said Gascoyne, soothingly, “the little imp is as lazy as a dormouse and as mischievous as a monkey. I’ll warrant the hiding was his due, and that more of the like would do him good.”
“Why, how dost thou talk, Francis!” said Myles, turning upon him indignantly. “Thou knowest that thou likest to see the boy beaten no more than I.” Then, after a meditative pause, “How many, think ye, we muster of our company of the Rose today?”
Wilkes looked doubtfully at Gascoyne. “There be only seventeen of us here now,” said he at last. “Brinton and Lambourne are away to Roby Castle in Lord George’s train, and will not be back till Saturday next. And Watt Newton is in the infirmary.
“Seventeen be’st enou,” said Myles, grimly. “Let us get together this afternoon, such as may, in the Brutus Tower, for I, as I did say, will no longer suffer these vile bachelors.”
Gascoyne and Wilkes exchanged looks, and then the former blew a long whistle.
So that afternoon a gloomy set of young faces were gathered together in the Eyry—fifteen of the Knights of the Rose—and all knew why they were assembled. The talk which followed was conducted mostly by Myles. He addressed the others with a straightforward vim and earnestness, but the response was only half-hearted, and when at last, having heated himself up with his own fire, he sat down, puffing out his red cheeks and glaring round, a space of silence followed, the lads looked doubtfully at one another. Myles felt the chill of their silence strike coldly on his enthusiasm, and it vexed him.
“What wouldst thou do, Falworth?” said one of the knights, at last. “Wouldst have us open a quarrel with the bachelors?”
“Nay,” said Myles, gruffly. “I had thought that ye would all lend me a hand in a pitched battle but now I see that ye ha’ no stomach for that. Ne’theless, I tell ye plainly I will not submit longer to the bachelors. So now I will ask ye not to take any venture upon yourselves, but only this: that ye will stand by me when I do my fighting, and not let five or seven of them fall upon me at once.
“There is Walter Blunt; he is parlous strong, said one of the others, after a time of silence. “Methinks he could conquer any two of us.”
“Nay,” said Myles; “ye do fear him too greatly. I tell ye I fear not to stand up to try battle with him and will do so, too, if the need arise. Only say ye that ye will stand by my back.”
“Marry,” said Gascoyne, quaintly, “an thou wilt dare take the heavy end upon thee, I for one am willing to stand by and see that thou have thy fill of fighting.”
“I too will stand thee by, Myles,” said Edmund Wilkes.
“And I, and I, and I,” said others, chiming in.
Those who would still have held back were carried along by the stream, and so it was settled that if the need should arise for Myles to do a bit of fighting, the others should stand by to see that he had fair play.
“When thinkest thou that thou wilt take thy stand against them, Myles?” asked Wilkes.
Myles hesitated a moment. “To-morrow,” said he, grimly.
Several of the lads whistled softly.
Gascoyne was prepared for an early opening of the war, but perhaps not for such an early opening as this. “By ‘r Lady, Myles, thou art hungry for brawling,” said he.
After the first excitement of meeting, discussing, and deciding had passed, Myles began to feel the weight of the load he had so boldly taken upon himself. He began to reckon what a serious thing it was for him to stand as a single champion against the tyranny that had grown so strong through years of custom. Had he let himself do so, he might almost have repented, but it was too late now for repentance. He had laid his hand to the plough, and he must drive the furrow.
Somehow the news of impending battle had leaked out among the rest of the body of squires, and a buzz of suppressed excitement hummed through the dormitory that evening. The bachelors, to whom, no doubt, vague rumors had been blown, looked lowering, and talked together in low voices, standing apart in a group. Some of them made a rather marked show of secreting knives in the straw of their beds, and no doubt it had its effect upon more than one young heart that secretly thrilled at the sight of the shining blades. However, all was undisturbed that evening. The lights were put out, and the lads retired with more than usual quietness, only for the murmur of whispering.
All night Myles’s sleep was more or less disturbed by dreams in which he was now conquering, now being conquered, and before the day had fairly broken he was awake. He lay upon his cot, keying himself up for the encounter which he had set upon himself to face, and it would not be the truth to say that the sight of those knives hidden in the straw the night before had made no impression upon him. By-and-by he knew the others were beginning to awake, for he heard them softly stirring, and as the light grew broad and strong, saw them arise, one by one, and begin dressing in the gray morning. Then he himself arose and put on his doublet and hose, strapping his belt tightly about his waist; then he sat down on the side of his cot.
Presently that happened for which he was waiting; two of the younger squires started to bring the bachelors’ morning supply of water. As they crossed the room Myles called to them in a loud voice—a little uneven, perhaps: “Stop! We draw no more water for any one in this house, saving only for ourselves. Set ye down those buckets, and go back to your places!”
The two lads stopped, half turned, and then stood still, holding the three buckets undecidedly.
In a moment all was uproar and confusion, for by this time every one of the lads had arisen, some sitting on the edge of their beds, some nearly, others quite dressed. A half-dozen of the Knights of the Rose came over to where Myles stood, gathering in a body behind him and the others followed, one after another.
The bachelors were hardly prepared for such prompt and vigorous action.
“What is to do?” cried one of them, who stood near the two lads with the buckets. “Why fetch ye not the water?”
“Falworth says we shall not fetch it,” answered one of the lads, a boy by the name of Gosse.
“What mean ye by that, Falworth?” the young man called to Myles.
Myles’s heart was beating thickly and heavily within him, but nevertheless he spoke up boldly enough. “I mean,” said he, “that from henceforth ye shall fetch and carry for yourselves,”
“Look’ee, Blunt,” called the bachelor; “here is Falworth says they squires will fetch no more water for us.”
The head bachelor had heard all that had passed, and was even then hastily slipping on his doublet and hose. “Now, then, Falworth,” said he at last, striding forward, “what is to do? Ye will fetch no more water, eh? By ‘r Lady, I will know the reason why.”
He was still advancing towards Myles, with two or three of the older bachelors at his heels, when Gascoyne spoke.
“Thou hadst best stand back, Blunt,” said he, “else thou mayst be hurt. We will not have ye bang Falworth again as ye once did, so stand thou back!”
Blunt stopped short and looked upon the lads standing behind Myles, some of them with faces a trifle pale perhaps, but all grim and determined looking enough. Then he turned upon his heel suddenly, and walked back to the far end of the dormitory, where the bachelors were presently clustered together. A few words passed between them, and then the thirteen began at once arming themselves, some with wooden clogs, and some with the knives which they had so openly concealed the night before. At the sign of imminent battle, all those not actively interested scuttled away to right and left, climbing up on the benches and cots, and leaving a free field to the combatants. The next moment would have brought bloodshed.
Now Myles, thanks to the training of the Crosbey-Dale smith, felt tolerably sure that in a wrestling bout he was a match—perhaps more than a match—for any one of the body of squires, and he had determined, if possible, to bring the battle to a single-handed encounter upon that footing. Accordingly he suddenly stepped forward before the others.
“Look’ee, fellow,” he called to Blunt, “thou art he who struck me whilst I was down some while since. Wilt thou let this quarrel stand between thee and me, and meet me man to man without weapon? See, I throw me down mine own, and will meet thee with bare hands.” And as he spoke, he tossed the clog he held in his hand back upon the cot.
“So be it,” said Blunt, with great readiness, tossing down a similar weapon which he himself held.
“Do not go, Myles,” cried
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