und; and in Tunstall hamlet a group
of poor country-folk stood wondering at the summons.

Tunstall hamlet at that period, in the reign of old King Henry VI., wore
much the same appearance as it wears to-day. A score or so of houses,
heavily framed with oak, stood scattered in a long green valley ascending
from the river. At the foot, the road crossed a bridge, and mounting on
the other side, disappeared into the fringes of the forest on its way to
the Moat House, and further forth to Holywood Abbey. Half-way up the
village, the church stood among yews. On every side the slopes were
crowned and the view bounded by the green elms and greening oak-trees of
the forest.

Hard by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon a knoll, and here 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 if
they die, my master?"

"They cannot better die than for their natural lord," said Dic