The Moat House stood not far from the rough forest
road. Externally, it was a compact rectangle
of red stone, flanked at each corner by a round tower,
pierced for archery and battlemented at the top.
Within, it enclosed a narrow court. The moat
was perhaps twelve feet wide, crossed by a single
drawbridge. It was supplied with water by a
trench, leading to a forest pool and commanded, through
its whole length, from the battlements of the two
southern towers. Except that one or two tall
and thick trees had been suffered to remain within
half a bowshot of the walls, the house was in a good
posture for defence.
In the court, Dick found a part of the garrison, busy
with preparations for defence, and gloomily discussing
the chances of a siege. Some were making arrows,
some sharpening swords that had long been disused;
but even as they worked, they shook their heads.
Twelve of Sir Daniel’s party had escaped the
battle, run the gauntlet through the wood, and come
alive to the Moat House. But out of this dozen,
three had been gravely wounded: two at Risingham
in the disorder of the rout, one by John Amend-All’s
marksmen as he crossed the forest. This raised
the force of the garrison, counting Hatch, Sir Daniel,
and young Shelton, to twenty-two effective men.
And more might be continually expected to arrive.
The danger lay not therefore in the lack of men.
It was the terror of the Black Arrow that oppressed
the spirits of the garrison. For their open
foes of the party of York, in these most changing
times, they felt but a far-away concern. “The
world,” as people said in those days, “might
change again” before harm came. But for
their neighbours in the wood, they trembled.
It was not Sir Daniel alone who was a mark for hatred.
His men, conscious of impunity, had carried themselves
cruelly through all the country. Harsh commands
had been harshly executed; and of the little band
that now sat talking in the court, there was not one
but had been guilty of some act of oppression or barbarity.
And now, by the fortune of war, Sir Daniel had become
powerless to protect his instruments; now, by the
issue of some hours of battle, at which many of them
had not been present, they had all become punishable
traitors to the State, outside the buckler of the law,
a shrunken company in a poor fortress that was hardly
tenable, and exposed upon all sides to the just resentment
of their victims. Nor had there been lacking
grisly advertisements of what they might expect.
At different periods of the evening and the night,
no fewer than seven riderless horses had come neighing
in terror to the gate. Two were from Selden’s
troop; five belonged to men who had ridden with Sir
Daniel to the field. Lastly, a little before
dawn, a spearman had come staggering to the moat side,
pierced by three arrows; even as they carried him
in, his spirit had departed; but by the words that
he uttered in his agony, he must have been the last
survivor of a considerable company of men.
