The White Company Chapter 6 - How Samkin Aylward Wagered his Feather-bed

**Arthur Conan Doyle** (0:23)
CHAPTER VI HOW SAMKIN AYLWARD WAGERED HIS FEATHER BED He was a middle-sized man of most massive and robust build, with an arching chest and extraordinary breadth of shoulder. His shaven face was as brown as a hazelnut, tanned and dried by the weather, with harsh, well-marked features which were not improved by a long white scar which stretched from the corner of his left nostril to the angle of the jaw.
His eyes were bright and searching, with something of menace and of authority in their quick glitter, and his mouth was firm set and hard, as befitted one who was wont to set his face against danger.
A straight sword by his side and a painted longbow, jutting over his shoulder, proclaimed his profession, while his starred brigadine of chainmail and his dinted steel cap showed that he was no holiday soldier, but one who was even now fresh from the wars. A white surcoat with the Lion of St. George in red upon the centre covered his broad breast, while a sprig of new-plucked broom at the side of his headgear gave a touch of gaiety and grace to his grim, war-worn equipment.
he cried, blinking like an owl in the sudden glare. Good evening to you, comrades! Oh, la! a woman by my soul! And at an instant he had clipped Dame Eliza round the waist and was kissing her violently. His eye happening to wander upon the maid, however, he instantly abandoned the mistress and danced off after the other, who scurried in confusion up one of the ladders and dropped the heavy trap-door upon her pursuer.
He then turned back and saluted the landlady once more with the utmost relish and satisfaction. La petite is frightened, said he. Ah! c'est l'amour, l'amour! Curse this trick of French, which will stick to my throat! I must wash it out with some good English ale. By my hilt, camarade, there's no drop of French blood in my body, and I'm a true English bowman, Samkin Aylward by name. And I tell you, mes amis, that it warms my very heart roots to set my feet on the dear old land once more. When I came off the galley at Hyth, this very day, I down on my bones, and I kissed the good brown earth, as I kiss thee now, my belle, for it was eight long years since I had seen it. The very smell of it seemed life to me. But where are my six rascals? All are there, en avant! At the order, six men dressed as common drudges marched solemnly into the room, each bearing a huge bundle upon his head. They formed in military line while the soldier stood in front of them, with stern eyes checking off their several packages. Number one, a French for the bed with two counterpains of white cendol, said he. Here, worthy sir, answered the first of the bearers, laying a great package down in the corner. Number two, seven Ls of red turkey cloth and nine Ls of cloth of gold. Put it down by the other. Good dame, I prithee give each of these men a botrine of wine or a jack-o'-vale.
Three, a full piece of white cendol and velvet, with twelve Ls of purple silk.
Thou rascal, there is dirt on the hem. Thou hast brushed it against some wall, cocan. Not I most worthy, sir, cried the carrier, shrinking away from the fierce eyes of the bowman. I say, yes, dog. By the three kings I have seen a man gasp out his last breath for less. Had you gone through the pain and unease that I have done to earn these things, you would be at more care. I swear by my ten finger bones that there is not one of them that hath not cost its weight in French blood.
Four. An incense-boat, a ewer of silver, a gold buckle and a cope worked in pearls. I found them, camarade, at the Church of Saint-Denis in the harrying of Narbonne, and I took them away with me lest they fall into the hands of the wicked.
Five. A cloak of fur, turned up with minniver, a gold goblet with stand and cover, and a box of rose-coloured sugar. See that you lay them together. Six. A box of moneys, three pounds of limousine goldwork, a pair of boots, silver-tagged, and lastly a store of napin linen. So the tally is complete. Here is a groter piece, and you may go.
Go wither, worthy sir? asked one of the carriers. Wither? To the devil, if you will! What is it to me? Now, my belle, to supper! A pair of cold capons, a mortice of brawn, or what you will, with a flask or two of the right gascony. I have crowns in my pouch, my sweet, and I mean to spend them. Bring in the wine while the food is dressing. Bouvons, me brave lads! You shall each empty a stoop with me. Here was an offer, which the company and an English inn at that or any other date are slow to refuse. The flagons were re-gathered and came back with the white foam dripping over their edges.