Nigel Loring - My Story (from Sir Nigel)

By Dr E J Yeaman

Greetings. My name is Nigel Loring, a poor and humble English squire in 1348. But I took part in some of the greatest events in history, including the Battle of Winchelsea, the Combat of the Thirty and the Battle of Poitiers. Let me tell you about them. (A retelling of Sir Nigel, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dr E J Yeaman
• Release date: Sep 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370107841

Dr E J Yeaman

I retired (early) and started a new career as a writer. I wrote short stories and articles. Some were published; some won prizes; some sank without trace.Having heard my stories, two friends suggested I should write for children. I’d never thought of that, although I’d spent my first career communicating with young people – as a Chemistry teacher, and running clubs for badminton, chess, table tennis and hillwalking.I tried writing for young people – and I loved it. It became my main occupation. I sent samples to publishers. One asked to see a complete story. In excitement, I sent it off. Then nothing. After four months, I rang, and was told the manuscript was being considered: I would be notified. Then more nothing. Now, after eight years, I no longer rush to the door when the letter box rattles.But I kept writing the stories because I enjoyed it so much. Until, in late 2013, I learned I could publish my stories and games as e-books. Since then, I’ve been polishing and issuing some of them. I hope everyone enjoys reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.Check out the series:C: Charades – party game – a new twist to the traditional game.D: Diagags – party game – gags written as plays for two people.M: My Story – novels – classical stories, told by the heroes.O: One-Offs – party game – guess the titles, not quite the classical ones.P: Pop Tales – short stories – inspired by 60s and 70s hit songs.Q: Quote-Outs – word games – can you deduce the missing words?S: Inside Story – novels – a boy’s adventures inside classical stories.T: Troubleshooters – novels – space adventures for young people.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle took most of 1905 to write Sir Nigel. It was serialised in the monthly Strand Magazine from December 1905 to December 1906. Issued in book form in 1906, it sold well.

Conan Doyle told the editor of the magazine, I have put into it every ounce of research, fancy, fire and skill I possess. It rises to the very highest I have ever done.

That wasn’t just sales talk. Conan Doyle regarded his historical novels as his literary legacy. The Sherlock Holmes tales were ephemeral. In 1893, to give himself time for serious writing, he killed Holmes off – to a storm of protest.

Then, in 1901, on holiday in Dartmoor, he devised the plot of The Hound of the Baskervilles – and realised that the hero should be Sherlock Holmes. He wrote it as retrospective, but such a clamour rose for more Holmes stories that he yielded – mainly for financial reasons. The result was the thirteen stories of The Return of Sherlock Holmes, published in the Strand in 1903-1904, and issued in book form in early 1905.

Perhaps as a reaction to that, he decided to write another literary novel and, remembering how he had enjoyed his adventures with Sir Nigel Loring in The White Company in 1890, he wrote a prequel, giving an account of the early life of Sir Nigel.

Conan Doyle intended Sir Nigel as literature – what would now be called a dramatised documentary. In the introduction, he says, For good or bad, many books have gone into the building of this one. He lists twenty of the most important, and continues, With these and many others I have lived for months. If I have been unable to combine and transfer their effect, the fault is mine.

He says the history is accurate except: Events have been transposed to the extent of some few months in this narrative in order to preserve the continuity and evenness of the story.

The story is built round a series of actual events – the abortive attempt to capture Calais (31st December 1348), the Battle of Winchelsea (29th August 1350), the Combat of the Thirty (26th March 1351) and the Battle of Poitiers (19th October 1356).

Sir Nigel Loring was a real person, although all his exploits in this story are fictional. All the principal characters he meets in the story – King Edward III, the Black Prince, Sir John Chandos, Sir Walter Manny, Sir Aymery de Pavia, Sir Robert Knolles, Sir Richard Bambro’, Croquard, Robert of Beaumanoir and William de Montaubon – were real people who took part in the events described.

Unfortunately, as Conan Doyle remarks in his autobiography, In England, versatility is looked upon with distrust. Everyone regarded him as a writer of adventure stories. Ergo Sir Nigel was an adventure story. The painstaking inclusion of details of the life and manners of the times was regarded as self-indulgent lumber in a rip-roaring boys’ story.

Adapting Sir Nigel, I have tried to respect Conan Doyle’s intentions while removing a lot of the detail that Nigel wouldn’t expound. And, like Sir Arthur, I intend this story for adults, although I hope young people will enjoy it too.

P.S. Some of the incidents in this story are highly unlikely. I won’t give examples, for fear of spoiling it for you. Suffice it to say that we must suspend disbelief.

But one episode, I think, is not just unlikely: it’s impossible. I innocently wrote it as part of the story, but noticed the problem during my revision. I’ve left it because the correction would involve a significant rewrite.

I put forward the suggestion with diffidence, because Conan Doyle was a careful writer: I wouldn’t have expected him to make an error such as I suggest. See if you can spot the problem. I’ve added my opinion at the end.

NIGEL LORING – MY STORY

PART 1: WAVERLEY ABBEY

1

WAVERLEY ABBEY

It was May Day in the year of Our Lord 1348. But, although the weather was bright, my thoughts were dark as I cantered along the Tilford lane. I was descended from a noble family. I had trained in all the knightly skills because my sole ambition was to become a knight. But I saw little prospect of achieving that aim. And the reason lay, all too plain, before my eyes – the Abbey of Waverley.

My horse had once been good, but now it was a shambling old wreck which the lowliest monk of Waverley would have scorned to ride. My tunic had belonged to my father, but it had been cut down to fit me. It was well patched, and the purple had faded with age. An Abbey servant would not have worn a garment in such condition.

Yes. The cause of my poverty, the blight of my future, was Waverley Abbey, and it increased my irritation by dominating the local landscape – huge and prosperous.

The lane ran past a field near the Abbey. Hearing a commotion in that field, I rode nearer the high stone wall so that I could look over.

The main occupant of that field was a magnificent yellow horse – a horse that would thrill a soldier or a sculptor. He was tall, broad and strong. He stood with his noble head high, his ears erect, his mane bristling, and his nostrils flaring with defiance. For six of the Abbey servants were trying to catch him. Each had a rope with a noose on the end. They were creeping towards the horse, trying to throw the nooses over his head.

But the horse would swing towards one of these would-be captors and, with outstretched head, flying mane and clashing teeth, would chase him, screaming, to the safety of the wall.

The other five then closed in on the beast, occasionally throwing a hopeful rope, before another was chased to safety.

It was an entertaining spectacle, and I paused to enjoy it. I wasn’t the only one. On the other side of the field, Abbot John and some of his senior clergy were also watching.

If the men could pass two nooses over the horse’s head, they would secure him, but they didn’t manage one – until the horse drove one of their number, panting, over the wall near me. Perhaps the horse delayed a little too long, snorting defiance at him. That gave the other hopeful captors time to close in behind him. Two nooses were cast – and one went over his head.

At that, the horse spun round with a bellow of pure fury. The servants scattered, fleeing for their lives. Except the one who had thrown the successful noose. Perhaps expecting to take advantage, he lingered a little. In a moment, the horse was on him, raising its great forelegs to trample him. The comedy turned to tragedy.

I vaulted off my horse and over the wall. Shouting, I raced towards the horse and his writhing, groaning victim.

Seeing and hearing me, the horse turned from him and charged for me. I braced myself, then dodged aside at the last moment, striking the head of the horse with the heavy stock of my whip.

That was not calculated to pacify the beast. He swung round and charged me once again. Once again, his reward was a blow on the head while I jinked out of range.

Eight times, that horse attacked. Sometimes he charged. Sometimes he reared up, threatening to trample me under those powerful front hooves. But eight times, I escaped at the last moment, dealing the horse another blow.

After that, he circled me with his mane flying and his tail streaming, snorting in rage and pain. I ran to the servant and hoisted him over my shoulders. I’m not tall, but I’m strong. I ran with the man to the wall and lifted him over to his colleagues. Then, since the horse seemed keen to renew hostilities, I vaulted over the wall too.

2

A GIFT

A crowd of monks surrounded me, giving thanks and praise. I wanted no chatter with inhabitants of Waverley Abbey, so I pushed through them to hurry away – until I was confronted by Abbot John himself. I couldn’t treat him so brusquely, so I stood facing him, almost as the horse had faced the servants.

Abbot John said, Squire Loring, you are no friend to the Abbey, but you have behaved as a good Christian today. If our servant lives, we have you to thank, and our gracious patron, St Bernard.

I said, I have nothing but contempt for you and your Abbey. I don’t want your thanks. If I have done any good, it was for my own pleasure.

At my words, the abbot flushed and frowned.

Beside him was the tall, gaunt figure of his sacrist, the business manager of the Abbey, like a crafty vulture. He said, It would be more fitting to address the Holy Father Abbot in a more respectful tone.

I turned on the sacrist. If it wasn’t for the gown on your back and your silver hair, I would treat you as you deserve. You’re the lean wolf which growls at our door, greedy for the little land we have left. Say and do what you like with me, but, if your greedy minions distress my grandmother, I’ll use this whip to drive them off the few acres which remain of my forefathers’ lands.

The Abbot raised a finger. Have a care, Nigel Loring, have a care! Have you no fear of the law of England?

I retorted, I fear and obey a just law.

Have you no respect for the holy church?

I respect all that is holy in the church. I do not respect those who oppress the poor and steal their neighbour’s lands.

Rash man! Many have been excommunicated for less than you have just said. But you are young and impetuous. I shall not judge you harshly. He asked the monks who were kneeling by the injured man, How is my servant?

He is badly hurt but he will live.

Then take him to the hospital. The Abbot turned to the sacrist. Now, brother, what shall we do about that terrible beast which snorts defiance at us, almost as perverse as Squire Loring?

The sacrist said, The horse came from Aylward’s farm. No doubt he will take it back.

No, he won’t! Aylward, standing by, stout and red-faced, was sure of that. That brute has chased me twice round my own paddock. My boy, Samkin, was determined to ride him, and suffered in the attempt. Not a man in my employ would go near his stall. I rued the day when I took him from the castle stud at Guildford, where they couldn’t find anyone bold or skilful enough to mount him. When the sacrist here took him for a ten-crown debt, he made a bargain and he must abide by it. That horse will not return to my farm!

The Abbot said, He cannot remain here. Brother sacrist, you have raised the Devil. You must lay him.

I shall soon do that, said the sacrist. Since I made the misjudgement, I shall pay the ten crowns to the Abbey for the beast. And here is Old Wat with the crossbow he uses for killing vermin. Let him put a bolt through the head of that cursed creature. It will be worth more as hide and bones.

Old Wat lined up his crossbow at the head of the horse – until I struck it aside with the stock of my whip. Keep your bolts for your weasels! Would you kill a creature whose only fault is that he is so spirited that no one can control him? You want to slay a horse which a knight – or even a king – would covet, simply because a few country fellows don’t have the skill to master him.

The sacrist turned quickly to me. However rude your words may be, the Abbey owes you something for what you have done today. If you think so much of that horse, you may want to own it. If I am to pay for it, then, with the Abbot’s permission, it is mine, and I give it freely to you.

The Abbot plucked the sacrist’s sleeve. Brother sacrist, we do not want that man’s blood on our hands.

The sacrist answered, Holy Father, they are equally wilful. He gave a sly smile. Man or beast, one will break the other, and the world will be better for it. Do you forbid me?

No, brother. You have bought the horse. You may do what you wish with it.

Then I give it – hide and hooves, tail and temper – to Nigel Loring. May it be as sweet and gentle to him as he has been to the Abbot of Waverley.

I said, I accept your gift, monk, although I know why you give it. Yet I thank you, for a noble horse is something which I’ve always wanted but could never afford. And that is as noble a horse as I could wish. He is all the more attractive since I’ll have to win his obedience. What’s his name?

Aylward answered, His name is Pommers. I warn you, young man, that none may ride him. Many have tried, and the luckiest had only a staved rib to show for it.

I thank you for your warning, sir, I said. It makes me realise I’ll never find a better horse.

3

POMMERS

I leaned over the wall, where the horse was standing, proud and defiant, almost as if he knew we were talking about him. I told him, Pommers, I am your master, and you are my horse. Today, you will admit that, or I’ll never need a horse again. It’s my will against yours, Pommers, but hold your spirit high.

I collected my bridle and bit from my old horse, leaving it nibbling the roadside grass. Then I climbed on the wall, and stood there, balanced on the balls of my feet.

With a fierce snort, Pommers made for me. His teeth snapped dangerously close to my leg, but a blow from the stock of my whip made him swerve. As he did, I launched myself and landed astride him.

Pommers showed his resentment of a creature on his back by bucking and tossing. I clamped his body between my legs, held a handful of his mane, and clung for my life. As I tossed around, I was conscious of the row of monks’ heads, watching me over the wall.

They saw Pommers try every trick to throw me off. One moment, he was bucking up and down; the next he was lurching from side to side. One moment, his head was down at his forelegs; the next he was rearing on his hind legs with his forelegs flailing the air. I clung on, enjoying every moment of the contest with this gallant animal.

A last mad effort saw Pommers rear so high that he toppled over backwards. The monks groaned, no doubt imagining me crushed under that bulky body. But, at the last moment, I squirmed aside. I rolled to my feet and, as Pommers rose, I grasped his mane and vaulted onto his back. A cheer rang across the field.

My continued presence seemed to drive Pommers mad. One boundary of the field included the wall of an outbuilding of the Abbey. Pommers galloped towards that, apparently intent on destroying me by destroying himself also.

With the wall looming near, I transferred my whip and bridle to my left hand, in Pommers’ mane. With my right hand, I pulled off my short cape and flung it over his head, covering his eyes.

That stopped Pommers – more abruptly than I expected, almost throwing me over his head. But I clung onto the mane and, while he was confused, I slipped the bit into his mouth.

When I pulled off my cape, Pommers pranced around, apparently baffled and angered by the new ignominy of the metal in his mouth.

He seemed to decide that his best course was to escape the confinement of the field: he took off at a furious gallop towards the gate. It was lower than the wall, but it was designed to contain animals: it was more than four feet high. I could only hang on as Pommers thundered towards it. Scattering monks, he soared over it, and galloped across the water meadow.

Beyond that, the river rippled, but the horse never hesitated. He gathered his rear legs under him, and cleared that twenty-foot stream, plus a furze bush on the other bank.

He plunged into a wood, perhaps hoping to scrape me off on a low branch. But I clung on tight and lay flat along his back. One branch scraped sorely along my spine, then we were out of the trees, and galloping at full speed across the downs.

In front of us stretched a rolling ocean of knee-deep heather, rising in billows to the hilltops. In mad fury, Pommers galloped through it, down the gullies, across the streams, up the rough slopes. I clung onto his back.

He plunged into a marsh with mud above his knees, then bounded up the long stony slope of the next hill, then down a gorge with his hooves clattering among the loose stones.

We shot through a village, leaving the inhabitants gaping. Then up a long slope, down into a valley, through a boggy stream, and up the next hill.

By that time, Pommers’ flanks were heaving, and his great head was starting to sink, so I pulled a little on his bridle. The attempt to control him spurred him to a fresh effort, but that again subsided, so I pulled on the bridle, trying to swing his head homeward.

That roused him to new defiance. He broke into a fast gallop. Through another gorge, beyond which he had to climb a slope. That was too much, even for his gallant heart. He slowed to a canter.

I had to show him who was the master. I dug my spurs into his flank and gave his shoulder a cut of my whip. The insult roused him to forget his weariness. He galloped on, over more heathery slopes. Once again, when he showed signs of flagging, I gave him a dose of the whip and spurs.

He sprang on again, through another village, then up the next slope – where his spirit at last failed him. With a sob of agony, he sank into the heather. The fall was so sudden that I flew forward, over his shoulder. We lay, side by side, exhausted.

I was first to recover. Kneeling by the panting, exhausted animal, I passed my hand gently over the tangled mane and down the foam-flecked face. Pommers’ red eye looked up at me, but it was wonder, not defiance, that I saw in it.

As I stroked his reeking muzzle, Pommers whinnied gently and thrust his nose into my hand. That gesture signalled the end of our contest – the acceptance of new conditions by a noble foe from a noble victor.

I whispered to him, You are my horse, Pommers, I know you, and you know me. With the help of St Paul, we shall teach others to know us both. Now let’s walk to that pond, for we both need a good drink.

The contest had taken so long