gauntlets and shoes were of iron plates, craftily jointed. So, with jingle of arms and clatter of hoofs, they rode across the Bridge of Avon, while the burghers shouted lustily for the flag of the five roses and its gallant guard.
Close at the heels of the horses came two score archers, bearded and burly, their round targets on their backs and their long yellow bows, the most deadly weapon that the wit of man had yet devised, thrusting forth from behind their shoulders. From each man's girdle hung sword or axe, according to his humour, and over the right hip there jutted out the leathern quiver, with its bristle of goose, pigeon, and peacock feathers. Behind the bowmen strode two drummers beating their nakirs, and two trumpeters in parti-coloured clothes. After them came twenty-seven sumpter-horses carrying tent-poles, cloth, spare arms, spurs, wedges, cooking kettles, horse-shoes, bags of nails, and the hundred other things which experience had shown to be needful in a harried and hostile country. A white mule with red trappings, led by a varlet, carried Sir Nigel's own napery and table comforts. Then came two score more archers, ten more men-at-arms, and finally a rearguard of twenty bowmen, with big John towering in the front rank and the veteran Aylward marching by his side, his battered harness and faded surcoat in strange contrast with the snow-white jupons and shining brigandines of his companions. A quick cross-fire of greetings and questions and rough West Saxon jests flew from rank to rank, or were bandied about betwixt the marching archers and the gazing crowd.
'Holà, Gaffer Higginson!' cried Aylward, as he spied the portly figure of the village innkeeper. 'No more of thy nut-brown, mon gar. We leave it behind us.'
'By St. Paul, no!' cried the other. 'You take it with you. Devil a drop have you left in the great kilderkin. It was time for you to go.'
'If your cask is leer, I warrant your purse is full, gaffer,' shouted Hordle John. 'See that you lay in good store of the best for our home-coming.'
