till the first flight of wild arrows from the
stands flew fair over them.

'I cried, "'Ware shot! 'Ware shot!" and a knot of young knights new from
Normandy, that had strayed away from the Grand Stand, turned about, and
in mere sport loosed off at our line shouting: "'Ware Santlache arrows!
'Ware Santlache arrows!" A jest, I grant you, but too sharp. One of our
beaters answered in Saxon: "'Ware New Forest arrows! 'Ware Red William's
arrow!" so I judged it time to end the jests, and when the boys saw my
old mail gown (for, to shoot with strangers I count the same as war),
they ceased shooting. So that was smoothed over, and we gave our beaters
ale to wash down their anger. They were excusable! We--they had
sweated to show our guests good sport, and our reward was a flight
of hunting-arrows which no man loves, and worse, a churl's jibe over
hard-fought, fair-lost Hastings fight. So, before the next beat, Hugh
and I assembled and called the beaters over by name, to steady them. The
greater part we knew, but among the Netherfield men I saw an old, old
man, in the dress of a pilgrim.

'The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known by repute for twenty
years as a witless man that journeyed without rest to all the shrines of
England. The old man sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. We Normans
rest the chin on the left palm. '"Who answers for him?" said I. "If he
fails in his duty, who will pay his fine?"

'"Who will pay my fine?" the pilgrim said. "I have asked that of all the
Saints in England these forty years, less three months and nine days!
They have not answered!" When he lifted his thin face I saw he was
one-eyed, and frail as a rush. '"Nay, but, Father," I said, "to whom
hast thou commended thyself-?" He shook his head, so I spoke in Saxon:
"Whose man art thou?"

'"I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King's jester," said he
after a while. "I am, as I suppose, Rahere's man."

'He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh, coming up, read it.

'It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere's man, and that Rahere was the
King's jester. There was Latin writ at the back.

'"What a plague conjuration's here?" said Hugh, turning it over.
"Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?"

'"Black Magic," said the Clerk of Netherfield (he had been a monk at
Battle). "They say Rahere is more of a priest than a fool and more of a
wizard than either. Here's Rahere's name writ, and there's Rahere's red
cockscomb mark drawn below for such