George Fenn - Sweet Mace - A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

“I know, father,” said Mace, “but put away those swords;” and she held up the wounded man’s head as her father cleverly removed the velvet doublet and turned up the fine white linen shirt, whose sleeve was stained with blood. The wound could now be seen, or rather wounds – two narrow clean cuts on either side of the fleshy part of the arm, from which the blood pretty freely welled.

“Now lay his head down again, my child. No: better not. Here’s Janet. Sake’s girl! Don’t stand staring. Put the basin here. Some strips of linen. That’s right, child,” he continued, as Mace snatched off her white kerchief and tore it up.

“It weighs full thirty pounds,” cried a hearty voice in the entry. “Hey, hallo, what’s wrong? A wounded man?”

“Ay!” cried the founder. “Quick, Gil, you are a good chirurgeon;” and the new-comer – to wit, Mace’s companion on the Pool – strode in, went down on one knee, and without a word dipped a portion of the linen in the cold water, removed the blood, and with the skill of an adept made a couple of pads, and cleverly bound up the wound.

“Give him a little of the strong waters,” he cried, and the founder hurriedly fetched a flask and held a glass to the wounded man’s lips before the new-comer said briefly, “How was it?”

“Oh, he angered and drew on me, and we had a few passes,” cried the founder. “My own fault, too.”

“It is a mere nothing,” said the other. “Why Mace, my child, don’t look so white. He is a soldier evidently, and he’ll bear it like a man.”

“Am I white, Gil?” said the girl, looking up and smiling sadly, as she thought of how her life seemed cast among warlike weapons and their works. “I am not frightened, only troubled. Father, dear, this is so sad.”

“It is, it is, my child. I’d have given half I have sooner than it should have happened. Hush, he’s coming to.”

For just then the injured man sighed, opened his eyes wonderingly, gazed upwards to see who supported him, and lowered his lids again, saying softly —

“The face of an angel: is this Heaven?”

“Oh, no,” cried the amateur surgeon, frowning slightly as he saw Mace colour, “and if you were here sometimes, when friend Cobbe is casting cannon, you’d think it was the other place. Come, sir, let me help you up. It is a mere flesh wound, and will only smart.”

“Thank you, I can rise,” said Sir Mark, reddening, as he made an effort and rose without assistance; but the room seemed to swim round, and he staggered and would have fallen, had not his surgeon caught him by the uninjured arm, and helped him to a seat, letting him gently down into a half-reclining position.

As he did so the eyes of the two young men met, and Gilbert Carr, as he gazed into those of his patient, felt a strange sense of mistrust pass over him like a foreboding of coming trouble; while on the other side, as the smooth young courtier looked into the bright, clear grey eyes, and scanned the dark, bronzed visage bending over him, he felt that they two would be enemies for a woman’s sake.

“That’s it – that’s better,” said Gilbert Carr, quietly. “You need have no fear for the consequences, sir. It is a clean cut, and will soon heal in our pure, fresh air.”

“I thank you,” said Sir Mark, rather stiffly; “I do not fear. Madam, I grieve to have caused you this trouble,” he continued, addressing Mace, who stood close by.

“Nay, sir; pray do not say that. It is we who are grieved – my father.”

“Ay, she’s right,” said Cobbe, advancing. “My brave lad, I feel ashamed to face you after such a stroke.”

“Ashamed!” said Sir Mark, with a quiet glance at Mace; and then, seeing his advantage, he said, smiling as he held out his uninjured hand, “Never be ashamed, sir, of so gallant a handling of your sword. They tell me in London I can fence, and that enemies who have fought make the best of friends.”

“You are a brave true gentleman, sir,” cried the founder, wringing the outstretched hand; “and I humbly ask your forgiveness for my choler. I was hot and angry. There, God bless the King; and I beg his Majesty’s pardon for what I said.”

“It is granted,” said Sir Mark, smiling faintly, “for he will never know.”

“Now let me say a word,” said Gil, who had been uneasily looking on. “Fever may come on if he is excited. Take my advice, sir, lie back and go to sleep. Mace – no, here is Janet – fetch a pillow for this gentleman.”

The girl ran out, and returned bearing one of snowy hue, which Gil adjusted beneath the wounded man’s head.

“Now, sir, sleep for awhile, and you will be refreshed. Your arm is all right. I have dressed many a sword-cut in my time.”

“Thanks,” said Sir Mark, faintly; “but some one will stay with me in the room?”

He glanced at Mace.

“Of course,” said the founder. “Mace, my child.”

“Yes,” said Gil, quietly, “go away, Mace; Janet will stay and watch by this gentleman’s side.”

Mace glanced at him wonderingly, and Janet coloured with pleasure as, frowning slightly, Sir Mark closed his eyes, and the girl half drew the blind, while, headed by the founder, after removing all traces of the conflict, Gilbert Carr and Mace went softly out, and closed the door.

“Why do you look at me like that?” said Mace, as they stood alone. “Gil, do you doubt me?”

“Doubt you?” he said softly as he bent down and kissed her white forehead. “No, I could not, for you are not as other women are. I did not wish you, though, to be ’tendant to this spark from the Court, for such he seems to be. Nay, Mace, I’ve no jealousy in me. But there is your pike,” he added, pointing to the fish, a great fellow four feet long, which lay on the red bricks at their feet. “Here is your father, and he’ll tell us how the quarrel rose.”

“Quarrel! it was not worth calling a quarrel,” cried the founder, shortly. “It seems that some meddlesome fool has been telling them in London of my works, and this gentleman has been sent down to inspect the place. He vexed me, and said something about the King, which made me rap out an oath. He drew: I drew.”

“And our visitor went down,” said Gil Carr, smiling. “Well, Master Cobbe, there’s not much harm done.”

“But I shall have to send over to the Moat, Gil, and tell Sir Thomas; he was here a piece back.”

“Nay,” said Gil, “ill news flies apace, there is no need to hasten it. Leave it to the gentleman himself.”

“Perhaps you are right,” returned the founder. “Of course he will not be fit to leave for a day or two. Mace, child, get the south chamber ready for our guest: let’s try and make up for the ill that we have done.”

Gilbert Carr half-closed his eyes and stood silent till Mace left the open hall, where they were standing, to prepare the chamber for the wounded man, when he replied to the founder’s remark: —

“It depends so upon the man.”

“Eh? How?”

“Well, if you had a scratch or pin-thrust like that you would go and see to the grinding of your last batch of powder. If I had it, I should.”

“Well?” said the founder.

“I should tie it up – tightly,” replied Gil, drily. “Your guest there will make a month’s illness of it for the sake of being petted by the women and nursed.”

“That’s a pretty jealous kind of remark, Captain Gil,” said the founder sharply. “I noticed how you took me up short when I bade Mace stop in the room with the poor young man. Come down here, I want to talk to you. We may as well say it now as at any other time. Let’s walk down to the empty furnace. No one will heed us there.”

“With all my heart,” said Gil, and, with a cloud gathering on his brow, he walked after the founder, along by the side of the rushing water, past the mill-wheel, and down to a good-sized stone building, beside which was a great pile of charcoal.