Next day Sir Bertrand died of his hurts, so they buried him beside young Sir John of Griswold and sturdy old Hubert of Erdington and a hundred and twenty and five others of their company who had fallen in that desperate affray; therefore tarried they a while what time their sick and wounded grew towards health and strength by reason of the skill and tender care of the lady Abbess and her nuns.
Now on the afternoon of this day. Sir Benedict being sick a-bed of his wound, Beltane sat in council among the oldest and wisest of the knights, and presently summoned Walkyn and Ulf, Roger and Jenkyn o' the Ford, speaking them on this wise:
"Good comrades, list ye now! These noble knights and I have hither summoned ye for that ye are of good and approved courage and moreover foresters born and cunning in wood-lore. As ye do know, 'tis our intent to march for Belsaye so soon as our wounded be fit. But first must we be 'ware if our road be open or no. Therefore, Walkyn, do ye and Ulf take ten men and haste to Winisfarne and the forest-road that runneth north and south: be ye wary of surprise and heedful of all things. You, Roger and Jenkyn, with other ten, shall seek the road that runneth east and west; marching due south you shall come to the northern road where ye shall wait two hours (but no longer) for Walkyn. Ye are woodsmen! Heed ye the brush and lower branches of the trees if any be broken, mark well the track in dusty places and seek ye the print of feet in marshy places, learn all ye may from whomsoever ye may and haste ye hot-foot back with tidings good or ill. Is it understood?"
"Aye, lord!" quoth the four.
"And look'ee master," said Jenkyn, "there be my comrade Orson the Tall, look'ee. His hurt is nigh healed and to go wi' us shall be his cure—now, look'ee lord, shall he go wi' us?"
"Nay, Roger shall answer thee this, Jenkyn. So now begone and God speed ye, good comrades all!" Hereupon the mighty four made their obeisance and hasted away, rejoicing.
Now Sir Benedict's hurt had proved an evil one and deep, wherefore the Abbess, in accent soft and tender, had, incontinent, ordered him to bed, and there, within the silken tent that had been Sir Pertolepe's, Beltane oft sat by, the while she, with slim and dexterous fingers, washed and anointed and bound the ugly wound: many times came she, soft-treading, gentle and gracious ever; and at such times Beltane noticed that full often he would find her deep, sad gaze bent upon him; he noticed also that though her voice was low and gentle, yet she spake ever as one 'customed to obedience. Thus it was, that Sir Benedict being ordered to his couch, obeyed the soft-spoke command, but being kept there all day, grumbled (albeit to Beltane): being kept there the second day he fell to muttered oaths and cursing (albeit to Beltane): but at sunset he became unruly, in so much that he ventured to remonstrate with the lady Abbess (albeit humbly), whereon she smiled, and bidding Beltane reach her cup and spoon, forthwith mixed a decoction and dosed Sir Benedict that he fell asleep and slumbered amain.
Thus, during this time, Beltane saw and talked much with the lady Abbess: oft went he to watch her among the sick and to aid her when he might; saw how fierce faces softened when she bent to touch fevered brow or speak them cheerily with smiling lip despite the deep and haunting sadness of her eyes; saw how eagerly rough hands were stretched forth to furtive touch her white habit as she passed; heard harsh voices grow sudden soft and all unfamiliar—voices that broke in murmurous gratitude. All this saw and heard he and failed not, morn and eve, to kneel him at her feet to hear her bless him and to feel that soft, shy touch among his hair.
So passed two days, but neither Roger, nor Walkyn, nor Ulf, nor indeed any of the twenty chosen men had yet returned or sent word or sign, wherefore Beltane began to wax moody and anxious. Thus it was that upon a sunny afternoon he wandered beside a little rivulet, bowered in alder and willow: here, a merry brook that prattled over pebbly bed and laughed among stones and mossy boulders, there a drowsy stream that, widening to dreamy pool, stayed its haste to woo down-bending branches with soft, kissing noises.
Now as Beltane walked beside the stream, head a-droop and very thoughtful, he paused of a sudden to behold one richly dight in gambeson of fair-wrought leather artificially quilted and pinked, who sat ensconced within this greeny bower, his back to a tree, one bandaged arm slung about his neck and in the other hand a long hazel-branch trimmed with infinite care, whereunto a line was tied.
"Sir Benedict!" cried Beltane, "methought thee asleep: what do ye so far from camp and bed?"
"I fish, lad, I fish—I ply a tentative angle. Nay—save thy breath, I have caught me nothing yet, save thoughts. Thoughts do flock a many, but as to fish—they do but sniff my bait and flirt it with their wanton tails, plague take 'em! But what o' fish? 'Tis not for fish alone that man fisheth, for fishing begetteth thought and thought, dreams—and to dream is oft-times sweet!"
"But—Benedict, what of the Abbess?"
"The Abbess? Ha, the Abbess, Beltane! Sweet soul, she sleepeth. At noon each day needs must she sleep since even she is mortal and mortals must sleep now and then. The Abbess? Come sit ye, lad, what time I tickle the noses of these pestilent fish. Sit ye here beside me and tell me, how think ye of this noble and most sweet lady?"
"That, for thy truancy, she will incontinent mix thee another sleeping draught, Benedict."
"Ha—then I'll never drink it!" quoth Sir Benedict, settling his shoulder against Beltane and frowning at his line. "Am I a babe, forsooth, to be dosed to slumber? Ha, by the foul fiend his black dam, ne'er will I drink it, lad!"
"Then will she smile on thee, sad-eyed, and set it to thy lip, and woo thee soft-voiced, so shalt thou swallow it every drop—"
"Not so—dear blood of all the saints! Must I be mewed up within an accursed bed on such a day and all by reason of a small axe-stroke? Malediction, no!"
"She is wondrous gentle with the sick, Benedict—"
"She is a very woman, Beltane, and therefore gentle, a noble lady sweet of soul and body! To die for such were joyful privilege, methinks, aye, verily!" and Sir Benedict, forgetful of his line, drooped his head and sighed.
"And thou didst know her well—long years agone, Benedict?"
"Aye, long—years—agone!"
"Very well, Benedict?"
"Very well."
"She was 'Yolande' then, Benedict?"
"Aye," quoth Sir Benedict, lifting his head with a start and looking atBeltane askance, "and to-day she is the lady Abbess Veronica!"
"That shall surely dose thee again and—"
"Ha! bones and body o' me, not so! For here sit I, and here angle I,fish or no fish, thunder o' God, yes! Aye, verily, here will I sit tillI have caught me a fish, or weary and go o' my own free will—byBeelzebub I vow, by Bel and the Dragon I swear it! And furthermore—"
Sir Benedict paused, tilted his head and glancing up, beheld the lady Abbess within a yard of them. Gracious she stood in her long white habit and shook her stately head in grave rebuke, but beholding his abashed look and how the rod sagged in his loosened hold, her lips parted of a sudden and her teeth gleamed in a smile wondrous young and pleasant to see.
"O Benedict!" said she, "O child most disobedient! O sir knight! Is this thy chivalry, noble lord—to steal away for that a poor soul must needs sleep, being, alas! so very mortal?"
"Forsooth and indeed, dear my lady," quoth Sir Benedict, fumbling with his angle, "the sun did woo me forth—and the wind, see you—the wind—"
"Nay, I see it not, my lord, but I did hear something of thy fearsome, great oaths as I came hither."
"Oaths, lady?" said Sir Benedict, fingering his chin, "Forsooth and did I so? Mayhap 'twas by reason that the fish, see you, the pestilent fish—Ha! Saint Benedict! I have a bite!" Up sprang Sir Benedict, quite forgetting his wounded arm, capering lightly to and fro, now in the water, now out, with prodigious stir and splash and swearing oaths galore, until, his pallid cheek flushed and bright eyes a-dance, he had won the fish into the shallows and thence landed it right skilfully, where it thrashed and leapt, flashing in the sun.
"Ha, Yolande!" he cried, "in the golden days thou wert ever fond of a goodly trout fresh caught and broiled upon a fire of—"
"Benedict!" cried the Abbess, and, all forgetful of his hurt, caught him by his wounded arm, "O Sir Benedict!" Now, man of iron though he seemed, Sir Benedict must needs start and flinch beneath her hold and grow livid by reason of the sharp pain of it; whereat she loosed him of a sudden and fell away, white hands tight clasped together.
"Ah Benedict!—I have hurt thee—again!" she panted.
"Not so, 'twas when I landed the fish—my lady Abbess!" Now at this she turned away and standing thus awhile very silent, presently raised her hand, whereat came two of her gentle nuns.
"Dear my daughters," said she, "take now Sir Benedict unto the camp and look to his hurt, anoint it as ye have seen me do. Go!"
Nothing speaking, Sir Benedict bowed him humbly to the stately Abbess and went away between the two white-robed sisters and so was gone.
Slowly the Abbess turned to Beltane who had risen and was regarding her with a new and strange intensity, and meeting that look, her own glance wavered, sank, and she stood awhile gazing down into the murmurous waters; and as she stood thus, aware of his deep-searching eyes, into her pale cheek crept a flush that deepened and ever deepened.
"My lord," said she, very low and placid-seeming, "why dost thou look on me so?"
And for all her stately calm, her hand, which had clenched itself upon the silver crucifix, was woefully a-tremble. "What—is it—my lord Beltane?"
"A thought, noble lady."
"What is thy thought?"
"Lady, 'tis this—that, an I might find a mother such as thee, then would I pay her homage on my knees, and love her and honour her for what I do know her, praying God to make me worthy—!" So saying, he came a step towards her, faltered, stopped, and reached out appealing hands to her.
From red to white and from white to red again the colour flushed in cheek and brow while the Abbess hearkened to his words; then she looked on him with proud head uplifted and in her eyes a great and wondrous light, quick and passionate her slim hands came out to meet his—
A sudden clamour in the air! A clash of arms! A running of swift feet and Walkyn sprang betwixt them, his face grimed with dust and sweat, his armour gone, his great axe all bloody in his hand: "Master!" he cried, "in Winisfarne lieth Pertolepe with over a thousand of his company, I judge—and in the woods 'twixt here and Winisfarne is Hollo of Revelsthorne marching on us through the woods with full five thousand of Ivo's picked levies, new come from Barham Broom!"
Within the camp was prodigious stir, a fanfare of trumpets and hoarse commands, where archers and pikemen, knights and men-at-arms were mustering; but nowhere was hurry or confusion, wherefore Beltane's heart rejoiced and he smiled glad-eyed as he came where, before Sir Benedict and the assembled council, stood Roger and Ulf with fifteen of their twenty men.
"Walkyn," said Sir Benedict, what time his esquire strapped and buckled him into his bright armour, "where-abouts do they hold their march?"
"Scarce twenty miles from here due west, lord."
"Ha, and they come through the forest, ye say?" questioned Sir Brian, "so shall they move more slowly, methinks."
"Why see you, messire," said Walkyn, "they march by way of Felindre that was once a fair town, and from Felindre is a road that leadeth through the wild unto this valley of Brand."
"So have we, I judge, 'twixt six and seven hours," quoth Hacon ofTrant.
"Less, Hacon, less!" said Sir Benedict, beginning to stride up and down in his clanking armour, "Sir Rollo ever rideth with busy spur, and he will doubtless push on amain nor spare his men that he may take us unprepared. Put it at five hours, Hacon, mayhap less!"
"'Tis so I pray!" said Beltane, glancing towards the glowing west, "and in two hours it will be dark, my lords! Walkyn, thy company doth lack for five, meseemeth?" "Aye, master—for five; two fell in Winisfarne where I lay in bonds; other three were slain in the pursuit."
"Saw Sir Rollo aught of thee?"
"Nay, lord, we lay well hid."
"'Tis very well. Are they many?"
"Of horsemen I counted full three thousand, master."
"And I, lord," quoth Ulf, "did reckon over two thousand foot."
"'Tis a fairish company!" said Sir Brian.
"And I do lack my sword-arm!" sighed Sir Benedict, "but my left hath served me well ere now."
"And Sir Pertolepe lieth yet in Winisfarne!" said Beltane thoughtfully.
"Aye," nodded Sir Benedict, "and shall march south to cut off our retreat if haply any of us escape Sir Rollo's onfall."
"So should we strike camp and march forthright," said Sir Brian.
"March—aye, but whither?" questioned Sir Hacon. "We are threatened on two fronts and for the rest, we have the trackless wilderness! Whither would'st march, Brian?"
"South to Belsaye," answered Sir Benedict. "South through the wild until we strike the western road by Thornaby. I with certain others will form a rear-guard and hold Sir Rollo in play what time our main body presses on at speed."
"Ha!" quoth Sir Hacon, "and what of Red Pertolepe? Truly our case is desperate methinks, old comrade!"
"Why, 'tis not the first time we have out-faced desperate odds, Hacon!"
"Aye, verily, Benedict—thy cool head and cunning strategy have saved us from dungeon and death a score of times, but then were we a chosen company, swift at onfall or retreat, well mounted and equipped— to-night we go hampered with our wounded and these lady nuns. So is our case desperate, Benedict, and needeth desperate remedy—"
"And that, methinks, I've found, messire!" quoth Beltane, and rising up he looked upon them all, his eye bright with sudden purpose. "Hark ye, my lords! Great and valiant knights do I know ye, one and all—wise in experience of battle and much versed in warlike stratagem beyond my understanding; but this is the wild-wood where only wood-craft shall advantage us. Within these wilds your tactics shall avail nothing nor all your trampling chivalry—here must be foresters that may go silent and unseen amid the leaves, 'neath whose trained feet no twig shall snap, who smite unseen from brush and thicket and being wise in wood-craft thus make the forest their ally. And, lords, I am a forester; all my days the greenwood hath been my home, and in my loneliness I made the trees my friends. So, I pray you, let me with three hundred chosen foresters keep our rear to-night, and this night the forest shall fight for us and Sir Rollo rue the hour he dared adventure him within the green. Messires, how say you?"
"Why my lord, 'tis very well!" sighed Sir Benedict, glancing down at his wounded arm, "I, for one, do agree right heartily."
"And I!" nodded Sir Brian.
"And I also!" quoth Sir Hacon, "though 'tis a far cry to Belsaye and I love not to be pent within walls, and with Red Pertolepe threatening our flank 'tis a very parlous case, methinks."
"And thou art ever at thy best where danger is, Hacon," said SirBenedict, "so will I give thee charge of our van-ward!" Now hereuponSir Hacon's gloom vanished and rising up, he smiled and forthwith didon his great war-helm.
"Then it is agreed!" said Beltane and beckoned to Roger and Walkyn; quoth he:
"Good friends, go now and choose three hundred trusty fellows, skilled foresters all; look that each doth bear flint and steel for by yon clouds I judge 'twill be a dark night. Let every fire within the camp be quenched and the ground well cooled with water, that by the feel of it none may know how long we have removed—see you to this, Ulf."
Now when the mighty three were gone about the business, their fifteen lusty fellows at their heels, Beltane turned and pointed westward, and lo! the sun was set.
"Messires," said he, "you were wise, methinks, to mount and away ere the night fall. To-night, since the moon is hid, 'twill be very dark amid the trees, therefore let Orson guide you—he is forest-bred and well knoweth the way to Thornaby. Heaven prosper you, for in your valiant keeping is the safety of—of our noble lady Abbess—and her ladies. So mount, my lords, press on with what speed ye may, and God aid us this night each and every—fare ye well!"
Presently the trumpets sounded and forthwith armour was buckled on, horses saddled, while everywhere was stir and bustle of departure, what time, within his osier hut, my Beltane was busily doing on his armour, and, being in haste, making slow business of it; thrice he essayed to buckle a certain strap and thrice it escaped him, when lo! came a slim white hand to do it for him, and turning, he beheld the lady Abbess. And in her eyes was yet that soft and radiant look, but nought said she until Beltane stood armed from head to heel, until she had girt the great sword about him; then she set her hands upon his shoulders:
"Beltane," said she soft-voiced, "thou didst yearn for thy mother, so is she come to thee at last, dear son!" So saying, she drew him down into her embrace. "O Beltane, son of mine, long, long have I waited— aye, bitter, weary years, and oft-times in my sorrow I have dreamed of this hour—the arms about thee are thy mother's arms!"
Now fell Beltane upon his knees and caught those white and gentle hands and kissed them; quoth he:
"Mother—O dear my mother, ne'er did I know how deep had been my need of thee until now. And yet, all unknowing, I have yearned for thee; in my youth I did love all sweet and gentle things in thy stead—the trees, the tender flowers, the murmurous brooks—these did I love in place of thee for that mine heart did yearn and hunger for a mother's tender love—" Here needs must she stoop, all soft whispers and tender mother-cries, to kiss him oft, to lay her cheek upon his golden head and murmur over him.
"And thou wilt love thy mother, Beltane—thou wilt love thy unknown mother—now and always, for that she is thy mother?"
"I will love her and honour her now and always, for that my mother is a sweet and noble woman!"
"And thou didst need me, Beltane, in thy lonely childhood thou didst need me, and I—O God pity me—I was far from thee! But, dear my son, because I could not cherish thee within these arms I strove to love and cherish all motherless children for thy dear sake and to grieve for all sorrowing mothers. So builded I the nunnery at Winisfarne and there sought to bring solace and comfort to desolate hearts because my heart was so desolate for thee, my babe, my Beltane. And I have prayed unceasing unto God, and He, in His infinite mercy, hath given thee to my arms again—"
A trumpet brayed harsh and loud near by, whereat those tender mother-arms drew him closer yet within their sheltering embrace.
"Sweet son," she sighed, "methinks death is very near each one of us to-night—but I have held thee to my heart, have felt thy kisses and heard thy loving words—now if death come how shall it avail 'gainst such love as ours? Sir Benedict telleth me thou hast chosen the post of danger—'tis so I would have it, dear my son, and thy proud mother's prayers go with thee—God keep thee—O God keep thee, my Beltane—ah, there sounds again the clarion bidding me from thee! Kiss now thy mother farewell, for alas! I must be gone!"
So presently Beltane brought the Abbess where stood Sir Benedict with an easy-paced jennet for her use and his company formed up in column beyond the camp. Then Beltane lifted the lady Abbess to the saddle and with her hand yet clasped in his, reached the other to Sir Benedict.
"My lord of Bourne," said he, "dear my friend, to thy care I give this lady Abbess, Duchess of Pentavalon—my well-beloved and noble mother. O Benedict, no prouder son than I in all the world, methinks—nor one so humble! God send we meet again anon, but now—fare ye well!" Saying the which, Beltane caught his mother's hand to his lips, and turning him suddenly about, hasted to Roger and Walkyn and the chosen three hundred. And in a while, the nuns and wounded in their midst, Sir Benedict's steel-clad column moved forward up the slope. First rode Sir Hacon and his knights in the van and last Sir Benedict with his grim men-at-arms to form a rear-ward, while archers and pikemen marched upon their flanks. With ring of steel, with jingle of stirrup and bridle-chain they swung away up the slope and plunging into the gloom of the forest were gone; only Sir Benedict paused to turn in his saddle and lift unwounded arm in salutation ere he too vanished into the shadows of the wild-wood. Awhile stood Beltane before the three hundred, his head bowed as one in meditation until the sound of voices, the ring and clash of their companions' going was died away; then looked he at the cloudy sky already deepening to evening, and round about upon the encircling woods.
"The wind is from the south, methinks!" said he.
"Aye, master," nodded Walkyn.
"South-westerly!" quoth Roger.
Now came Beltane and looked upon his company, tall, lusty fellows they, whose bold, sun-tanned faces proclaimed them free men of the forest-lands; and beholding their hardy look Beltane's eye brightened.
"Comrades," quoth he, "we be foresters all, and the wild-wood our home and playground. But yonder from the west do march full five thousand of Duke Ivo's knights and soldiery-men, they, of courts, of town and city, so now will we teach them 'tis an ill thing to adventure them 'gainst trained foresters within the green. List now—and mark me well, for, an our plan do fail, there shall few of us live to see to-morrow's sun."
Then Beltane spake them plain and to the point, insomuch that when all was said, these hardy foresters stood mute awhile, desperate fellows though they were; then laughed they fierce and loud, and flourished sword and bow-stave and so fell to clamourous talk.
Now did Beltane divide the three hundred into five companies of sixty; over the first company he set Walkyn, over the second, Roger, over the third, Ulf, over the fourth Jenkyn o' the Ford. Then spake he on this wise:
"Walkyn, take now these sixty good fellows and march you north-westerly yonder across the valley; let your men lie well hid a bow-shot within the forest, but do you stay upon the verge of the forest and watch for the coming of our foes. And when they be come, 'tis sure they will plant outposts and sentinels within the green, so be ye wary to smite outpost and sentinel suddenly and that none may hear within the camp nor take alarm; when 'tis done, cry you thrice like unto a curlew that we may know. Are all things understood?"
"Aye, lord!" they cried, one and all.
"Why then, be ye cautious each and every, for, an our foes do take alarm, so shall it be our death. March, Walkyn—away!"
Forthwith Walkyn lifted his axe and strode off up the slope until he and his sixty men had vanished quite into the glooming woods to the north-west.
"Jenkyn, didst hear my commands to Walkyn, so shalt thou do also—your post doth lie to the east, yonder."
"Aye, master, and look'ee now—my signal shall be three owl-hoots, master, look'ee!"
So saying, Jenkyn turned, his sixty at his heels, and swung away until they were lost to sight in the woods to the east.
"Ulf the Strong, thy post doth lie south-westerly, and Roger's south-easterly; thus I, lying south, shall have ye on my left and right: go get ye to your places, watch ye, and wait in patience for the signals, and when time for action cometh, be swift and sure."
Away marched Roger and Ulf with their companies, and presently were gone, and there remained within the little valley only Beltane and his sixty men. Awhile he stood to look to the north and east and west but nought saw he save the dense gloom of forest growing dark and ever darker with evening. Then of a sudden turned he, and summoning his company, strode away into the forest to the south.
Thus, as night fell, the valley of Brand lay deserted quite, and no sound brake the pervading quiet save the wind that moaned feebly through those dark and solitary woods wherein Death lay hid, so very silent—so very patient, but Death in grim and awful shape.
A hum upon the night-wind, lost, ever and anon, in wailing gust, yet a hum that never ceased; a sound that grew and grew, loud and ever more loud until it seemed to fill the very night, a dreadful sound, ominous and threatening, a sound to shake the boldest heart—the ring and tramp of an armed, oncoming multitude.
Now, lying amid the leaves and fern with Cnut and the small man Prat beside him. Beltane presently espied certain figures moving in the valley below, stealthy figures that were men of Sir Rollo's van-ward. Soft-creeping they approached the deserted camp, soft-creeping they entered it; and suddenly their trumpets brayed loud and long, and, dying away, gave place to the ring and trampling thunder of the advancing host.
On they came, knights and men-at-arms, rank upon rank, company by company, until the valley seemed full of the dull gleam of their armour and the air rang loud with clash and jingle and the trample of countless hooves. Yet still they came, horsemen and foot-men, and ever the sound of them waxed upon the air, a harsh, confused din—and ever, from the glooming woods above, Death stared down on them.
And now the trumpets blew amain, lights flickered and flared, as one by one, fires were lighted whose red glow flashed back from many a helm and shield and breast-plate, from broad gisarm and twinkling lance-point, what time, above the confused hum, above stamping hooves and clashing armour, voices shouted hoarse commands.
So, little by little, from chaos order was wrought, pack-horse and charger were led away to be watered and picketed and gleaming figures sank wearily about the many camp-fires where food was already preparing. In a while, from the stir of the camp, bright with its many watch-fires, divers small groups of men were detached, and, pike and gisarm on shoulder, began to mount toward the forest at varying points.
Hereupon, Beltane reached out in the dark and touched the small manPrat the Archer. Quoth he:
"Hither come their outposts, go now and bring up my company,—and bid them come silently!"
Forthwith Prat sank down among the fern and was gone, while Beltane watched, keen-eyed, where four men of Sir Hollo's outposts climbed the slope hard by. And one was singing, and one was cursing, and two were quarrelling, and all four, Beltane judged, were men aweary with long marching. Thus, singing, cursing, quarrelling, came they to keep their ward within these dark and silent woods, crashing through the underbrush careless of their going and all unheeding the sombre, stealthy forms that rose up so silently behind them and before from brush and brake and thicket, creeping figures that moved only when the night-wind moaned in the shivering leaves.
Beltane's dagger was out and he rose up from the fern, crouched and strung for action—but from the gloom near by rose a sudden, strange flurry amid the leaves, a whimpering sound evil to hear and swiftly ended, a groan, a cry choked to strangling gasp and thereafter— silence, save for the fitful wailing of the wind—a long, breathless pause; then, high and clear rose the cry of an owl thrice repeated, and presently small Prat was beside him in the fern again.
"Lord," said he softly, albeit panting a little, "these men were fools! We do but wait our comrades' signals now." And he fell to cleansing his dagger-blade carefully with a handful of bracken.
"Ha—list ye!" whispered Cnut, "there sounds Ulf's warning, methinks!"
And from the gloom on their left a frog croaked hoarsely.
A hundred watch-fires blazed in the valley below and around each fire armour glittered; little by little the great camp grew to silence and rest until nought was heard but the stamp and snorting of the many horses and the cries of the sentinels below. But ever dagger in hand Beltane strained eyes and ears northward across the valley, while big Cnut bit his nails and wriggled beside him in the bracken, and small Prat softly snapped his fingers; so waited they with ears on the stretch and eyes that glared ever to the north.
At last, faint and far across the valley, rose the doleful cry of a curlew thrice repeated, the which was answered from the east by the hooting of an owl, which again was caught up like an echo, and repeated thrice upon their right.
Then Beltane sheathed his dagger.
"Look," said he, "Cnut—Prat, look north and tell me what ye see!"
"Fire, my lord!" quoth Prat. "Ha! it burneth well—see, see how it spreads!"
"And there again—in the east," said Cnut, "Oho! Jenkyn is busy—look, master!"
"Aye, and Roger too!" said Beltane, grim-lipped, "our ring of fire is well-nigh complete—it lacketh but for us and Ulf—to work, then!"
Came the sound of flint meeting steel—a sound that spread along the ranks that lay unseen beyond Prat and Cnut. And behold—a spark! a glow! a little flame that died down, leapt up, caught upon dry grass and bracken, seized upon crackling twigs, flared up high and ever fiercer—a devouring flame, hungry and yellow-tongued that licked along the earth—a vengeful flame, pitiless and unrelenting—a host of fiery demons that leapt and danced with crackling laughter changing little by little to an angry roar that was the voice of awful doom.
Now of a sudden above the hiss of flame, from the valley of Brand a cry went up—a shout—a roar of fear and amaze and thereafter rose a wild clamour; a babel inarticulate, split, ever and anon, by frantic trumpet-blast. But ever the dreadful hubbub waxed and grew, shrieks and cries and the screaming of maddened horses with the awful, rolling thunder of their fierce-galloping hooves!
Within that valley of doom Death was abroad already, Death in many dire shapes. Proud knights, doughty archers and men-at-arms who had fronted death unmoved on many a stricken field, wept aloud and crouched upon their knees and screamed—but not so loud as those wild and maddened horses, that, bursting all bonds asunder, reared and leapt with lashing hooves, and, choked with rolling smoke-clouds, blinded by flame, plunged headlong through and over the doomed camp, wave upon wave of wild-flung heads and tossing manes. On they came, with nought to let or stay them, their wild hooves trampling down hut of osier and silken tent, spurning the trembling earth and filling the air with flying clods; and wheresoever they galloped there was flame to meet them, so swerved they, screaming their terror and fled round and round within the valley. So raced they blindly to and fro and back and forth, trampling down, maiming and mangling 'neath reddened, cruel hooves all and every that chanced to lie athwart their wild career: on and ever on they galloped until sobbing, panting, they fell, to be crushed 'neath the thundering hooves behind.
Within the little valley of Brand Death was rife in many and awful shapes that no eye might see, for the many watch-fires were scattered and trampled out; but up from that pit of doom rose shrieks and cries and many hateful sounds—sounds to pierce the brain and ring there everlastingly.
Thus Beltane, marching swift to the south at the head of his three hundred foresters, heard nought of their joyful acclaim, heeded not their triumph, saw nought of watchful Roger's troubled glances, but went with head bowed low, with pallid cheek and eyes wide-staring, for he saw yet again the fierce leap of those merciless flames and in his ears rang the screams and cries of Sir Rollo's proud chivalry.
The sun was high as they came to the western road that led to the ford at Thornaby, but upon the edge of the forest Beltane stopped of a sudden to stare up at an adjacent tree.
"What is't, master?" questioned Roger, halting beside him.
"An arrow—and new-shot by the look of it!" said Beltane, gloomily.
"Aye master, and it hath travelled far—see, it hath scarce pierced the bark!"
"'Twas shot from the brush yonder, methinks," said Beltane, pointing to the dense underwood that skirted the opposite side of the dusty highway. "Reach me it down, Roger!" so saying Beltane stooped and hove Roger aloft until he could grasp and draw the arrow from the tree.
"Here is no woodsman's shaft, master!" quoth Roger, turning the missile over in his hand ere he gave it to Beltane, "no forester doth wing his shafts so."
"True!" nodded Beltane, frowning at the arrow. "Walkyn, Ulf! here hath been an ambushment, methinks—'tis a likely place for such. Let our company scatter and search amid the fern hereabouts—"
But even as he spake came a cry, a clamour of voices, and Prat the archer came frowning and snapping his restless fingers.
"My lord," said he, "yonder doth lie my good comrade Martin and three other fellows of my archer-company that marched with Sir Benedict, and all dead, lord, slain by arrows all four."
"Show me!" said Beltane.
And when he had viewed and touched those stark and pallid forms that lay scattered here and there amid the bracken, his anxious frown deepened. "These have been dead men full six hours!" quoth he.
"Aye, lord," says Prat, "and 'tis unmeet such good fellows should lie here for beasts to tear; shall we bury them?"
"Not so!" answered Beltane, turning away. "Take their shafts and fall to your ranks—we must march forthright!"
Thus soon the three hundred were striding fast behind Beltane, keeping ever to the forest yet well within bow-shot of the road, and, though they travelled at speed they went very silently, as only foresters might.
In a while Beltane brought them to those high wooded banks betwixt which the road ran winding down to Thornaby Ford—that self-same hilly road where, upon a time, the Red Pertolepe had surprised the lawless company of Gilles of Brandonmere; and, now as then, the dark defile was littered with the wrack of fight, fallen charges that kicked and snorted in their pain or lay mute and still, men in battered harness that stared up from the dust, all unseeing, upon the new day. They lay thick within the sunken road but thicker beside the ford, and they dotted the white road beyond, grim signs of Sir Benedict's stubborn retreat. Hereupon Beltane halted his hard-breathing foresters and bidding them rest awhile and break their fast, hasted down into the roadway with Walkyn and Cnut and Black Roger.
"Aha!" cried Walkyn, pointing to divers of the slain that hampered their going, "these be Pertolepe's rogues—"
"Aye," quoth Roger, throwing back his mail-coif, "and yonder lie four, five—six of Sir Benedict's good fellows! It hath been a dour fight hereabouts—they have fought every yard of the way!"
"Forsooth," nodded Cnut, "Sir Benedict is ever most fierce when he retreats, look you." A while stood Beltane in that dark defile, the which, untouched as jet by the sun's level beams, struck dank and chill, a place of gloom and awful silence—so stood he, glancing from one still form to another, twice he knelt to look more closely on the dead and each time he rose thereafter, his brow was blacker and he shivered, despite his mantle.
"'Tis strange," said he, "and passing strange that they should all lie dead—not a living man among them! How think you Roger?"
"I think, lord, others have been here afore us. See you this knight now, his gorget loosed off—"
"O messire!" said a faint voice hard by, "if ye have any pity save me from the crone—for the love of Christ let not the hag slay me as she hath so many—save me!"
Starting round, Beltane espied a pale face that glared up at him from a thick furze-bush beside the way, a youthful face albeit haggard and drawn.
"Fear not!" said Beltane, kneeling beside the wounded youth, "thy life is safe from us. But what mean you by talk of hag and crone?"
"Ah, messire, to-day, ere the dawn, we fell upon Sir Benedict of Bourne—a seditious lord who hath long withstood Duke Ivo. But though his men were few they fought hard and gained the ford ahead of us. And in the fight I, with many others as ye see, was smitten down and the fight rolled on and left us here in the dust. As I lay, striving to tend my hurt and hearkening to the sighs and groans of the stricken, I heard a scream, and looking about, beheld an ancient woman—busied with her knife—slaying—slaying and robbing the dead—ah, behold her—with the black-haired archer—yonder!"
And verily Roger stepped forth of the underwood that clothed the steep, dragging a thing of rags and tatters, a wretched creature, bent and wrinkled, that mopped and mowed with toothless chaps and clutched a misshapen bundle in yellow, talon-like fingers, and these yellow fingers were splotched horribly with dark stains even as were the rags that covered her. She whined and whimpered querulously, mouthing inarticulate plaints and prayers as Roger haled her along, with Cnut and Walkyn, fierce and scowling, behind. Having brought her to Beltane, Roger loosed her, and wrenching away her bundle, opened it, and lo! a yellow-gleaming hoard of golden neck-chains, of rings and armlets, of golden spurs and belt-buckles, the which he incontinent scattered at Beltane's feet; whereon the gibbering creature screamed in high-pitched, cracked and ancient voice, and, screeching, threw herself upon the gold and fell to scrabbling among the dust with her gnarled and bony fingers; and ever as she raked and raked, she screeched harsh and high—a hateful noise that ended, of a sudden, in a wheezing sob, and sinking down, she lay outstretched and silent, her wrinkled face in the dust and a cloth-yard shaft transfixing her yellow throat.
So swift had death been dealt that all men fell back a pace and were yet staring down at this awful dead thing when forth from the brush an archer crawled painfully, his bow yet in his hand, and so lay, panting loud and hoarse.
"Ha!" cried Cnut, "'tis lusty Siward of our archers! How now, Siward?"
"I'm sped, Cnut!" groaned Siward, "but yon hag lieth dead, so am I— content. I've watched her slay John that was my comrade, you'll mind— for his armlet. And—good Sir Hugh she stabbed,—yonder he lieth—him she slew for—spurs and chain. When I fell I—dropped my bow—in the brush, yonder—I have been two hours creeping—a dozen yards to—reach my bow but—I got it at last—Aha!" And Siward, feebly pointing to the ancient, dead woman, strove to laugh and so—died.
Then Beltane turned, and coming beside the wounded youth spake him tender and compassionate.
"Young sir, we must hence, but first can I do aught forthee?"
"O messire, an I might—come to the river—water!"
Saying no word, Beltane stooped and lifting the young knight very carefully, bore him down toward the ford.
"Messire," quoth the young knight, stifling his groans, "art very strong and wondrous gentle withal!" Presently Beltane brought him beside the river, and while the youth drank, laid bare an ugly wound above the knee and bathed it with his hand, and, thereafter, tearing a strip from his ragged cloak, he bound it tight above the hurt, (even as he had seen Sir Fidelis do) and thus stayed the bleeding. Now while this was a-doing, the young knight must needs talk.
"Ho!" cried he, "'twas a good fight, messire, and he who gave me this was none other than Benedict of Bourne himself—whom our good Duke doth fondly imagine pent up within Thrasfordham! O indeed 'twas Sir Benedict, I saw his hawk-face plain ere he closed his vizor, and he fought left-handed. Moreover, beside him I recognised the leaping dog blazoned on the shield of Hacon of Trant—Oho, this shall be wondrous news for Duke Ivo, methinks. But, faith, 'tis wonder how he escaped Sir Rollo, and as for the outlaw Beltane we saw nought of him—Sir Pertolepe vows he was not of this company—mayhap Sir Rollo hath him, 'tis so I pray—so, peradventure I shall see him hang yet! My grateful thanks, messire, for thy tender care of me. At home I have a mother that watcheth and prayeth for me—prithee tell me thy name that she may remember it in her prayers?"
"I am called Beltane the Outlaw, sir knight—and I charge thee to heed that thy bandage slip not, lest the bleeding start afresh—fare thee well!" So saying, Beltane turned and went on across the ford what time the young knight, propped upon weak elbow, stared after him wide of eye and mouth.
Forthwith Beltane, setting horn to lip, sounded the rally, and very soon the three hundred crossed the ford and swung off to the left into the green.
Thus, heartened and refreshed by food and rest, they pressed on amain southward through the forest with eyes and ears alert and on the strain; what time grim Sir Benedict, riding with his rearguard, peered through the dust of battle but saw only the threatening column of the foe upon the forest road behind, rank upon rank far as the eye could reach, and the dense green of the adjacent woods on either flank whence unseen arrows whizzed ever and anon to glance from his heavy armour.
"Ha, Benedict!" quoth Sir Brian, "they do know thee, methinks, 'spite thy plain armour—'tis the third shaft hath struck thee in as many minutes!"
"So needs must I stifle and sweat within closed casque!" Sir Benedict groaned. Upon his right hand Sir Brian rode and upon his left his chiefest esquire, and oft needs must they wheel their chargers to front the thunderous onset of Red Pertolepe's fierce van, at the which times Sir Benedict laughed and gibed through his vizor as he thrust and smote left-armed, parrying sword and lance-point right skilfully nevertheless, since shield he bare none. Time and again they beat back their assailants thus, until spent and short of wind they gave place to three fresh knights.
"By Our Lady of Hartismere!" panted Sir Brian, "but thy left arm serves thee well, Benedict!"
"'Tis fair, Brian, 'tis fair, God be thanked!" sighed Sir Benedict, eyeing his reeking blade, "though I missed my thrust 'neath yon gentle knight's gorget—"
"Yet shore clean through his helm, my lord!" quoth young Walter the esquire.
"Why truly, 'tis a good blade, this of mine," said Sir Benedict, and sighed again.
"Art doleful, Benedict?" questioned Sir Brian, "'tis not like thee when steel is ringing, man."
"In very sooth, Brian, I hanker for knowledge of our Beltane—ha, Walter!" he cried suddenly, "lower thy vizor, boy—down with it, I say!"
"Nay, dear my lord, fain would I breathe the sweet, cool air—but a moment and—"
The young esquire rose up stiffly in his stirrups, threw up gauntleted hands and swaying from the high saddle, pitched down crashing into the dust.
"Alas! there endeth my poor Walter!" sighed Sir Benedict.
"Aye, a shaft between the eyes, poor lad! A curse on these unseen archers!" quoth Sir Brian, beckoning a pikeman to lead forward the riderless horse. "Ha—look yonder, Benedict—we are beset in flank, and by dismounted knights from the underwood. See, as I live 'tis the nuns they make for!"
Nothing saying, Sir Benedict spurred forward beside his hard-pressed company; in the midst of the column was dire tumult and shouting, where, from the dense woods upon their left a body of knights sheathed in steel from head to foot were cutting their way toward the lady Abbess, who, conspicuous in her white habit, was soothing her frightened palfrey. All about her a shouting, reeling press of Sir Benedict's light-armed footmen were giving back and back before the swing of ponderous axe and mace and sword, were smitten down and trampled 'neath those resistless, steel-clad ranks.
"Ha! the Abbess!" they cried, "yield us the lady Abbess!" Into this close and desperate affray Sir Benedict spurred, striving with voice and hand to re-form his broken ranks, hewing him a path by dint of sword until he had won beside the Abbess.
"Yolande!" he shouted above the din, "keep thou beside me close—close, Yolande—stoop—ah, stoop thy head that I may cover thee—the debate waxeth a little sharp hereabouts!" Even as he spake he reeled 'neath the blow of a heavy mace, steadied himself, cut down his smiter, and thrust and smote amain until the grim, fierce-shouting ranks gave back before the sweep of that long sword.
"See, Yolande!" he panted, hard-breathing, "see yonder where my goodHacon spurs in to our relief—ha, mighty lance!"
"Ah, Benedict," cried the Abbess, pale-lipped but calm of eye, "of what avail? 'Tis me they seek, though wherefore I know not, so—dear Benedict—let me go. Indeed, indeed 'tis best, so shall these fair lives be saved—ah, sweet Jesu, 'tis horrible! See—O see how fast they fall and die about us! I must go—I will go! My lord, let me pass— loose my bridle—"
A hunting horn fiercely winded among the woods hard by! A confused roar of harsh voices and forth of the green four terrible figures sprang, two that smote with long-shafted axes and two that plied ponderous broadswords; and behind these men were others, lean and brown-faced— the very woods seemed alive with them. And from these fierce ranks a mighty shout rent the air:
"Arise! Arise! Ha, Beltane—Pentavalon!"
Then did Sir Benedict, laughing loud and joyous, haste to re-form his swaying ranks, the bloody gap in his column closed up and Sir Pertolepe's knights, hemmed in thus, smote and were smitten and but scant few were they that won them free. And presently, through that red confusion brake Beltane with Roger and Ulf and Walkyn at his heels, and, sword in hand, he sprang and caught the Abbess in a close embrace.
"Mother!" he cried.
"Dear, dear son of mine—and thou art safe? Thanks be to God who hath heard the passion of thy mother's prayers!" Now Sir Benedict turned, and wheeling his horse, left them together and so beheld Sir Hacon near by, who, standing high in his stirrups, pointed to their rear.
"Benedict!" he panted, "ha, look—Brian is over-borne! Ho! a rescue—a rescue to Sir Brian of Hartismere!" So shouting, he drave back into the confusion of the staggering rear-guard with Sir Benedict spurring behind. But, as Sir Benedict rode, pushing past the files of his halted company, he felt hands that gripped either stirrup and glancing down beheld Ulf the Strong on his one flank and grim Walkyn upon the other. So came they where the road broadened out and where the battle raged swaying and surging above the form of Sir Brian prostrate in the dust where horsemen and footmen strove together in desperate grapple, where knightly shields, aflare with proud devices, rang 'neath the blows of Beltane's lusty foresters and Sir Benedict's veteran pikemen.
Then of a sudden Walkyn shouted fierce and loud, and sprang forward with mighty axe whirled aloft.
"Ha—Pertolepe, turn!" he roared, "Ho, Bloody Pertolepe—turn, thou dog! 'Tis I—'tis Waldron of Brand!" So cried he, and, plunging into the thick of the affray, smote aside all such as barred his way until he fronted Sir Pertolepe, who, astride a powerful mailed charger, wielded a bloody mace, and who, hearing that hoarse cry, turned and met the shearing axe with blazoned shield—and behold! the gorgeous shield was split in twain; but even so, he smote in turn and mighty Walkyn was beaten to his knee. Forth sprang Ulf, swift and eager, but Walkyn, bounding up, shouldered him aside—his axe whirled and fell once, and Sir Pertolepe's mace was dashed from his loosened hold—whirled and fell again, and Sir Pertolepe's great casque was beaten from his head and all men might see the ghastly, jagged cross that scarred his brow beneath his fiery hair—whirled again, but, ere it could fall, knights and esquires mounted and afoot, had burst 'twixt Walkyn and their reeling lord, and Walkyn was dashed aside, shouting, cursing, foaming with rage, what time Sir Pertolepe was borne out of the fight.
But the rear-guard was saved, and, with a hedge of bristling pikes behind, Sir Benedict's sore-battered company marched on along the forest-road and breathed again, the while their pursuers, staggered in their onset, paused to re-form ere they thundered down upon that devoted rear-guard once more. But Sir Benedict was there, loud-voiced and cheery still despite fatigue, and Sir Hacon was there, his wonted gloom forgotten quite, and Beltane was there, equipped with shield and vizored war-helm and astride a noble horse, and there, too, was Roger, grim and silent, and fierce Ulf, and Walkyn in black and evil temper; quoth he:
"Ha—'tis ever so, his life within my very grasp, yet doth he escape me! But one more blow and the Red Pertolepe had been in hell—"
"Yet, forsooth, didst save our rear-guard, comrade!" said Ulf.
"Aye—and what o' that? 'Twas Pertolepe's foul life I sought—"
"And there," quoth Beltane, "there spake Vengeance, and vengeance is ever a foul thing and very selfish!" Now hereupon Walkyn's scowl deepened, and, falling further to the rear, he spake no more.
"Beltane, dear my lad," said Sir Benedict as they rode together, "hast told me nought of thy doings last night—what of Sir Rollo?"
"Nay, Benedict, ask me not yet, only rest ye assured Sir Rollo shall not trouble us this side Belsaye. But pray, how doth our brave Sir Brian?"
"Well enough, Beltane; he lieth in a litter, being tended by thy noble lady mother. A small lance-thrust 'neath the gorget, see'st thou, 'twill be healed—Ha, they charge us again—stand firm, pikes!" So shouting, Sir Benedict wheeled his horse and Beltane with him, and once again the road echoed to the din of battle.
Thus all day long they fought their way south along the forest-road, as, time and again, Sir Pertolepe's heavy chivalry thundered down upon them, to check and break before that hedge of deadly pikes. So marched this valiant rear-guard, parched with thirst, choked with dust, grim with blood and wounds, until, as the sun sank westwards, the woods thinned away and they beheld at last, glad-eyed and joyful, the walls and towers of fair Belsaye town. Now just beyond the edge of the woods, Sir Benedict halted his shrunken column, his dusty pikemen drawn up across the narrow road with archers behind supported by his cavalry to hold Sir Pertolepe's powers in check amid the woods what time the nuns with the spent and wounded hasted on towards the city.
Hereupon Beltane raised his vizor and setting horn to lip, sounded the rally. And lo! from the city a glad and mighty shout went up, the while above the square and frowning keep a great standard arose and flapping out upon the soft air, discovered a red lion on a white field.
"Aha, Beltane!" quoth Sir Benedict, "yon is a rare-sweet sight—behold thy father's Lion banner that hath not felt the breeze this many a year—"
"Aye, lords," growled Walkyn, "and yonder cometh yet another lion—a black lion on red!" and he pointed where, far to their left, a red standard flaunted above the distant glitter of a wide-flung battle line.
"Hast good eyes, Walkyn!" said Sir Benedict, peering 'neath his hand toward the advancing host, "aye, verily—'tis Ivo himself. Sir Pertolepe must have warned him of our coming."
"So are we like to be crushed 'twixt hammer and anvil," quoth SirHacon, tightening the lacing of his battered casque.
"So will I give thee charge of our knights and men-at-arms—what is left of them, alas!—to meet Black Ivo's banner, my doleful Hacon!" spake Sir Benedict.
"Nay, Benedict," said Sir Hacon, grim-smiling, "my dole is but caution!" So saying, he closed his vizor and rode away to muster his chivalry to meet their new assailants the while Sir Benedict fell to re-forming his scanty ranks of pikemen and archers. Meantime Beltane, sitting his weary charger, glanced from Sir Pertolepe's deep array of knights and men-at-arms that thronged and jostled each other in the narrow forest-road to the distant flash and glitter of Duke Ivo's mighty van-ward, and from these again to the walls of Belsaye. And as he looked thither he saw the great drawbridge fall, the portcullis raised, and the gates flung wide to admit the fugitives; even at that distance he thought to recognise the Abbess, who paused to turn and gaze towards him, as, last of all, she rode to safety into the city. Then my Beltane sighed, and, closing his vizor, turned to find Ulf beside him with Roger and Walkyn, who stood to watch the while Sir Benedict rode to and fro, ordering his company for their perilous retreat across the plain. Swift and silent his war-worn veterans fell to their appointed ranks; his trumpets blew and they began to fall back on Belsaye town. Grimly silent they marched, and ever Beltane gazed where, near and ever more near, flashed and flickered Duke Ivo's hard-riding van-ward.
And now from the forest-road Sir Pertolepe's company marched, and forming in the open, spurred down upon them.
"Stand firm, pikes!" roared Cnut.
"Aim low, archers!" squealed small Prat, and forthwith the battle joined.
The weary rear-guard rocked and swayed beneath the onset, but Prat and his archers shot amain, arrows whistled while pike and gisarm thrust and smote, as, encompassed now on three sides, they fell back and back towards the yawning gates of Belsaye; and ever as he fought, Beltane by times turned to watch where Duke Ivo's threatening van-ward galloped—a long line of gleaming shields and levelled lances gay with the glitter of pennon and banderol.
Back and back the rear-guard staggered, hewing and smiting; twice Beltane reeled 'neath unseen blows and with eyes a-swim beheld Roger and Ulf, who fought at either stirrup: heard of a sudden shrieks and cries and the thunder of galloping hooves; was aware of the flash of bright armour to his left, rank upon rank, where charged Duke Ivo's van-ward before whose furious onset Sir Benedict's weary pikemen were hurled back—their centre swayed, broke, and immediately all was dire uproar and confusion.
"Ah, Beltane—these be fresh men on fresh horses," cried Sir Benedict, "but hey—body o' me—all's not lost yet—malediction, no! And 'tis scarce half a mile to the gates. Ha—yonder rides lusty Hacon to stay their rush—in upon them. Beltane—Ho, Pentavalon!"
Shouting thus, Sir Benedict plunged headlong into the raging fury of the battle; but, as Beltane spurred in after him, his weary charger, smitten by an arrow, reared up, screaming, yet ere he fell, Beltane, kicking free of the stirrups, rolled clear; a mighty hand plucked him to his feet and Ulf, roaring in his ear, pointed with his dripping axe. And, looking whither he pointed, Beltane beheld Sir Benedict borne down beneath a press of knights, but as he lay, pinned beneath his squealing charger, Beltane leapt and bestrode him, sword in hand.
"Roger!" he shouted, "Ulf—Walkyn—to me!"
All about him was a swaying trample of horses and men, an iron ring that hemmed him in, blows dinted his long shield, they rang upon his helmet, they battered his triple mail, they split his shield in sunder; and 'neath this hail of blows Beltane staggered, thrice he was smitten to his knees and thrice he arose, and ever his long blade whirled and darted.
"Yield thee, sir knight—yield thee!" was the cry.
"Ho, Roger!" he shouted hoarsely, "Ulf—Walkyn, to me!"
An axe bit through his great helm, a sword bent against his stout mail, a knight spurred in upon him, blade levelled to thrust again, but Beltane's deadly point darted upward and the snorting charger plunged away—riderless.
But now, as he fought on with failing arm, came a joyous roar on his right where Ulf smote direly with bloody axe, upon his left hand a broad-sword flickered where Roger fought silent and grim, beyond him again, Walkyn's long arms rose and fell as he whirled his axe, and hard by Tall Orson plied goring pike. So fought these mighty four until the press thinned out and they had cleared them a space amid the battle, the while Beltane leaned him, spent and panting, upon his reeking sword.
Now, as he stood thus, from a tangle of the fallen near by a bent and battered helm was lifted and Sir Benedict spake, faint and short of breath:
"'Twas nobly done—sweet lad! 'Tis enough, methinks—there be few of us left, I fear me, so—get thee hence—with such as be alive—hence, Beltane, for—thy sweet mother's sake. Nay, heed not—old Benedict, I did my best and—'tis a fitting couch, this—farewell to thee, my Beltane—" So saying, Sir Benedict sank weakly to an elbow and from elbow upon his face, and lay there, very still and mute.
"Master—master!" cried Roger, "we shall win to Belsaye yet, see—see, Giles hath out-flanked them with his pikes and archers, and—ha! yonder good Eric o' the Noose chargeth them home!"
But Beltane leaned him upon his sword very spent and sick, and stared ever upon Sir Benedict's motionless form, his harness bent and hacked, his proud helm prone in the trampled ling. Slowly, and with fumbling hands, Beltane sheathed his sword, and stooping, raised Sir Benedict upon his shoulder and strove to bear him out of the fight, but twice he staggered in his going and would have fallen but for Roger's ready arm.
"Master," quoth he, "master, let me aid thee with him!" But nothing saying, Beltane stumbled on until they came where stood Ulf holding a riderless horse, on the which he made shift to mount with Roger's aid; thereafter Ulf lifted Sir Benedict to his hold.
"And, pray you," said Beltane, slow and blurred of speech, "pray you what of noble Sir Hacon?"
"Alack, lord," growled Ulf, "yonder is he where they lie so thick, and slain, methinks,—yet will I bring him off—"
"Aye, lord," cried Tall Orson, great tears furrowing the grime of his cheeks, "and little Prat do be killed—and lusty Cnut do be killed wi' him—and my good comrade Jenkyn do lie smitten to death—O there do be none of us left, methinks, lord!"
So, faint and heart-sick, with Sir Benedict limp across his saddle bow, Beltane rode from that place of death; beside him went Roger, stumbling and weary, and behind them strode mighty Ulf with Sir Hacon upon his shoulder. In a while, as they went thus, Beltane, glancing back at the fight, beheld stout Eric with the men of Belsaye, well mounted and equipped, at fierce grapple with Duke Ivo's van-ward, what time Giles and his archers supported by lusty pikemen, plied Sir Pertolepe's weary forces with whizzing shafts, drawing and loosing marvellous fast.
So came they at last unto the gates of Belsaye town that were already a-throng with many wounded and divers others of Sir Benedict's company that had won out of the affray; now upon the drawbridge Beltane paused and gave Sir Benedict and brave Hacon into kindly, eager hands, then, wheeling, with Ulf and Roger beside him, rode back toward the battle. And ever as they went came scattered groups of Sir Benedict's stout rear-guard, staggering with weariness and limping with wounds, the while, upon the plain beyond, Eric with his men-at-arms and Walkyn with the survivors of the foresters and Giles with his archers and pikemen, holding the foe in play, fell back upon the town, compact and orderly. Thus, they in turn began to cross the drawbridge, archers and pikemen, and last of all, the men-at-arms, until only Eric o' the Noose and a handful of his horsemen, with Beltane, Roger and Ulf remained beyond the drawbridge, whereon the enemy came on amain and 'neath their furious onset brave Eric was unhorsed; then Beltane drew sword and with Roger and Ulf running at either stirrup, spurred in to the rescue.
A shock of hard-smitten steel—a whirl and flurry of blows—a shout of triumph, and, reeling in his saddle, dazed and sick, Beltane found himself alone, fronting a bristling line of feutred lances; he heard Roger shout to him wild and fearful, heard Walkyn roar at him—felt a sudden shock, and was down, unhelmed, and pinned beneath his stricken charger. Half a-swoon he lay thus, seeing dimly the line of on-rushing lance-points, while on his failing senses a fierce cry smote:
"'Tis Beltane—the Outlaw! Slay him! Slay him!"
But now of a sudden and as one that dreamed, he beheld a tender face above him with sad-sweet eyes and lips that bent to kiss his brow, felt soft arms about him—tender arms that drew his weary head upon a gentle bosom to hide and pillow it there; felt that enfolding embrace tighten and tighten in sudden shuddering spasm, as, sighing, the lady Abbess's white-clad arms fell away and her proud head sank beside his in the dust.
And now was a rush and roar of fierce voices as over them sprang Roger and Giles with Ulf and Eric, and, amid the eddying dust, axe and sword swung and smote, while came hands strong yet tender, that bare Beltane into the city.
Now beyond the gate of the city was a well and beside the well they laid Beltane and bathed him with the sweet cool water, until at length the mist vanished from his sight and thus he beheld the White Abbess who lay upon a pile of cloaks hard by. And beholding the deadly pallor of lip and cheek, the awful stains that spotted her white robe and the fading light in those sad-sweet eyes, Beltane cried aloud—a great and bitter cry, and fell before her on his knees.
"Mother!" he groaned, "O my mother!"
"Dear my Beltane," she whispered faintly, striving to kiss his hand, "death is none so—painful, so grieve not thine heart for me, sweet son. And how may a mother—die better than for her own—beloved son? Beltane, if God—O if God in His infinite mercy—shall think me worthy —to be—one of His holy angels, then will I be ever near thee when thy way proveth dark—to comfort thee—to aid thee. O dear my son—I sought thee so long—so long—'tis a little hard to leave thee—so soon. But—God's will—fare thee well, I die—aye—this is death, methinks. Beltane, tell thy father that I—O—dear my—my Beltane—"
So died the gracious lady Abbess that had been the proud Yolande, Duchess of Pentavalon, wept and bemoaned by full many who had known her tender care; and, in due season, she was laid to rest within the fair Minster of Belsaye. And thereafter, Beltane took to his bed and abode there many days because of his wounds and by reason of his so great sorrow and heart-break.
But, that night, through the dark hours was strange stir and hum beyond the walls of Belsaye, and, when the dawn broke, many a stout heart quailed and many a cheek blanched to see a great camp whose fortified lines encompassed the city on all sides, where lay Ivo the Black Duke to besiege them.