Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 65: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Murkwood Spears of you. Nor would he have dared use them today, against your Saxon tenants.” “So?” said Sir Giles. ‘Even this was the tale brought to me. Would ye see him who bore the tale?” He spoke to the nearest Saxon, who dis- appeared into the thicket and came back supporting a sorely wounded man-at-arms. Raoul cursed bitterly. “Why, this is he who brought word to my lord from Earl Richard last night!’ he cried. Gislac nodded. “His way led through the Murkwood, and there he fell into our hands. Seeing how little hope there was of his master’s help just then, he was persuaded to tell us of today’s attempt against us. The Rotten Reiver was in error. We were not all en- trenched on Lightwood Knoll; nor does he know what leaders these peasants have. “T think his own plans will turn against him. As for you, ye shall be well guarded and set free in time. Ho, Witta! Fetch me de Born’s trumpete I have a rare note to play today.” “BEFORE GOD, de Born tarries long! I like it ill, John; the less that —tal my messenger came not back last iaht There must be a few prowling Saxons left loose in the Murkwood.” Sir Richard’s handsome face was troubled. But his anxiety was as nothing to that of the dark-featured soldier by his side. They spoke in hushed whispers, as men in am- bush must. “Nay, my lord earl, it was no Saxon slew Red Roger. Your foresters swore the serfs were in full force yonder on the knoll. I fear me the White Lady stole him away.” The soldier shuddered and crossed him- self. Richard de Monrepaire smiled sickly. “The White Lady?” he gibed. “I know her not.” “All else do,’ answered Black John. “Night after night have we heard her from the walls. She wails as no mortal woman wails. It turns the blood cold in our veins. When I have sent men out to find what she is, they come back with a tale of a white form that flits away and vanishes before their eyes. “Oh, my lord, much have we sinned, we of Monrepaire! I fear she is some ghost hot from hell to wreak vengeance on us. 99 Either that or one of the elf-women, who lure men to death. Last night she howled dolorously. It is an ill omen for today. And de Born comes not.” “Be silent!’ the Reiver ordered angrily. Unrepentant rogue that he was, he could not shake off the awe of his captain’s words. He, too, had heard the wailing outside his walls. He had seen a dim white figure of nights, varishing in the enfolding dark. A trumpet shrilled, thin and clear, to the east. “De Born at last!” the earl cried. ‘‘For- ward all!” It was two hours past noon. Monre- paire’s own trumpet answered that of his ally. Instantly the two bodies of his arch- ers advanced to the edge of the woods on either side of a great rocky knoll, where they stood shouting and loosing arrows at the rude ramparts raised by Saxon hands about the top of the crag. All moved according to plan. It was time de Born’s horsemen struck from the east. Eagerly Richard gazed for the first flash of mail. It came, heralding armed horsemen be- neath de Born’s banner. The riders in full mail deployed in open order. As they did so, Richard de Monrepaire cried out in sur- prized alarm. With the horsemen was a mob of Saxons, armed with long Norman swords and shields! Even as the Reiver stared at them, the foremost horseman threw down the Brown Bull’s banner and trampled it under foot. The advancing riders broke into a trot, from the trot into a gallop, and charged down in awful splendor. Before Sir Rich- ard could so much as shout an order, they struck his foresters on the flank, crumpling his long thin lines. Formed and armed to fight against un- mounted serfs, the archers of Monrepaire knew not how to face horse. Dumfounded to see what they took for de Born’s men- at-arms siding with Saxon peasants, they had neither wits nor time to change front or to count their foes. Driven back along the edge of the woods they were cut down from behind or forced out into the open, where they made perfect targets for Godulf’s thirty Saxon archers atop Lightwood Knoll. Their green jerkins were for forest wear and marked them sharply against the light of the treeless plain. Some turned and fled back through the COMmicloo S (©