Six days and nights my Beltane kept his bed, seeing and speaking to no man; and it is like he would have died but for the fostering care of the good Friar Martin who came and went softly about him, who watched and tended and prayed over him long and silently but who, perceiving his heart-sickness, spake him not at all. Day in and day out Beltane lay there, heedless of all but his great sorrow, sleeping little and eating less, his face hid in his pillow or turned to the wall, and in all this time he uttered no word nor shed a single tear.
His wounds healed apace but his soul had taken a deeper hurt, and day and night he sorrowed fiercely for his noble mother, wherefore he lay thus, heeding nought but his great grief. But upon the seventh night, he dreamed she stood beside his couch, tall and fair and gracious, and looked down on him, the mother-love alight within her sweet, sad eyes. Now within her hand she bare his sword and showed him the legend graven upon the bright steel:
And therewith she smiled wondrous tender and put the great weapon into his grasp; then stooped and kissed him, and, pointing upward with her finger, was gone.
And now within his sleep his anguished heart found solacement in slow and burning tears, and, sleeping yet, he wept full bitterly, insomuch that, sobbing, he awoke. And lo! beneath his right hand was the touch of cold steel and his fingers clenched tight upon the hilt of his great sword.
Then my Beltane arose forthwith, and finding his clothes near by, clad himself and did on his mail, and, soft-treading, went forth of his narrow chamber. Thus came he where Friar Martin lay, deep-breathing in his slumber, and waking him not, he passed out into the dawn. And in the dawn was a gentle wind, very cool and grateful, that touched his burning brow and eyes like a caress; now looking up to heaven, where stars were paling to the dawn, Beltane raised the hilt of his sword and pressed it to his lips.
"O blessed mother!" he whispered, "God hath surely found thee worthy to be one of His holy angels, so hast thou stooped from heaven to teach to me my duty. Thus now will I set by my idle grieving for thee, sweet saint, and strive to live thy worthy son—O dear my mother, who, being dead, yet liveth!"
Then Beltane sheathed his sword and went softly up the narrow stair that led to the battlements.
It was a bleak dawn, full of a thick, low-lying mist beyond the walls, but within this mist, to north and south and east and west, was a faint stir, while, ever and anon, rose the distant cry of some sentinel within Duke Ivo's sleeping camp, a mighty camp whose unseen powers held the fair city in deadly grip. In Belsaye nothing stirred and none waked at this dead hour save where, high on the bartizan above the square and mighty keep, the watchman paced to and fro, while here and there from curtain wall and massy tower, spear-head and bascinet gleamed.
Slow and light of foot Beltane climbed the narrow stair that led up to one of the two square towers that flanked the main gate, but, being come thither, he paused to behold Giles, who chancing to be captain of the watch, sat upon a pile of great stones beside a powerful mangonel or catapult and stared him dolefully upon the lightening east: full oft sighed he, and therewith shook despondent head and even thus fell he to soft and doleful singing, groaning to himself 'twixt each verse, on this wise:
"She will not heed her lover's moan,His mopèd tear, his deep-fetched groan,So doth he sit, and here aloneSing willow!
("With three curses on this foul mist!)
"The little fishes fishes woo,Birds blithe on bough do bill and coo,But lonely I, with sad adoSing willow!"
("And may Saint Anthony's fire consume Bernard, the merchant's round, plump son!)
"'Tis sure a maid was made for man,'Twas e'en so since the world began,Yet doleful here, I only canSing willow!"
("And may the blessed saints have an eye upon her tender slumbers!")
Here Giles paused to sigh amain, to fold his arms, to cross his legs, to frown and shake gloomy head; having done the which, he took breath and sang again as followeth:—
"Alack-a-day, alas and woe!Would that Genevra fair might know'Tis for her love Giles of the BowSings willow!"
But now, chancing to turn and espy Beltane, Giles fell suddenly abashed, his comely face grew ruddy 'neath its tan and he sprang very nimbly to his feet:
"Ha, tall brother—good brother," he stammered, "noble lord, God den to ye—hail and good morrow! Verily and in faith, by Saint Giles (my patron saint, brother) I do rejoice to see thee abroad again, as will our surly Rogerkin that doth gloom and glower for thee and hath hung about thy chamber door morn and noon and night, and our noble Sir Benedict and Walkyn—but none more unfeignedly than Giles that doth grow glad because of thee—"
"That is well," quoth Beltane, seating himself upon the battlement, "for verily thy song was vastly doleful, Giles!"
"My song, lord, my song? Ha—hum! O verily, my song is a foolish song or the song of a fool, for fool am I, forsooth—a love-lorn fool; a doleful fool, a very fool of fools, that in my foolish folly hath set his foolish heart on thing beyond reach of such base fool as I. In a word, tall brother, I'm a fool,videlicet—a lover!"
"Truly, hast the speech and outward seeming of your approved lover,Giles," nodded Beltane.
"Aye, verily!" sighed Giles, "aye, verily—behold my beard, I have had no heart to trim it this sennight! Alack, I—I that was so point-de-vice am like to become a second Diogenes (a filthy fellow that never washed and lived in a foul tub!). As for food, I eat no more than the chameleon that doth fill its belly with air and nought else, foolish beast! I, that was wont to be a fair figure of a man do fall away to skin and bone, daily, hourly, minute by minute—behold this leg, tall brother!" And Giles thrust out a lusty, mailed limb. "Here was a leg once—a proper shapely leg to catch a woman's eye—see how it hath shrunk, nay, faith, 'tis hidden in mine armour! But verily, my shanks will soon be no thicker than my bowstave! Lastly I—I that loved company and good cheer do find therein abomination these days, so do I creep, like moulting fowl, brother, to corners dark and dismal and there make much ado—and such is love, O me!"
"Doth the maid know of thy love?"
"Nay lord, good lack, how should she?—who am I to speak of it? She is a fair lady and noble, a peerless virgin, while I—I am only Giles— poor Giles o' the Bow, after all!"
"Truly, love is teaching thee wisdom, Giles," said Beltane, smiling.
"Indeed, my lord, my wisdom teacheth me this—that were I the proudest and noblest in the land yet should I be unworthy!" and Giles shook miserable head and sighed again full deep.
"Who is she, Giles?"
"She is Genevra, daughter to the Reeve! And the Reeve is a great man in Belsaye and gently born, alas! And with coffers full of good broad pieces. O would she were a beggar-maid, the poorest, the meanest, then might I woo her for mine own. As it is, I can but look and sigh—for speak me her I dare not—ha, and there is a plump fellow!" Here Giles clenched bronzed fist. "A round and buxom fellow he, a rich merchant's son doth woo her boldly, may speak with her, may touch her hand! So do I ofttimes keep him shooting at the butts by the hour together and therein do make me some small amend. Yet daily do I mope and pine, and pine and mope—O tall brother, a most accursed thing is this love—and dearer than my life, heigho!"
"Nay, pluck up thy heart, thou'rt a man, Giles."
"Aye, verily, but she is a maid, brother, therein lieth vasty difference, and therefore do I fear her for her very sweetness and purity—fear her? Faith, my knees do knock at sound of her voice, her very step doth set me direly a-tremble. For she is so fair—so pure and nigh the angels, that I—alack! I have ever been a something light fellow in matters of love—forget not I was bred a monk, noble brother! Thus, brother, a moping owl, I—a very curst fellow, gloomy and silent as the grave, saving my breath for sighs and groans and curses fell, wherefore I have builded me a 'mockery' above the wall and there-from do curse our foes, as only a churchman may, brother."
"Nay, how mean you, Giles?" questioned Beltane, staring.
"Follow me, lord, and I will show thee!" So saying, Giles led the way down to the battlement above the great gates, where was a thing like unto a rough pulpit, builded of massy timbers, very stout and strong, and in these timbers stood many arrows and cross-bow bolts.
"Here, lord," quoth Giles, "behold my 'mockery' wherefrom it is my wont and custom to curse our foes thrice daily. The which is a right good strategy, brother, in that my amorous anguish findeth easement and I do draw the enemy's shafts, for there is no man that heareth my contumacious dictums but he forthwith falleth into rageful fury, and an angry fellow shooteth ever wide o' the mark, brother. Thus, thrice daily do we gather a full sheaf of their ill-sped shafts, whereby we shall not lack for arrows an they besiege us till Gabriel's trump— heigho! Thus do I live by curses, for, an I could not curse, then would my surcharged heart assuredly in sunder burst—aye me!"
Now whiles they sat thus in talk, up rose the sun, before whose joyous beams the stealthy mists slunk away little by little, until Beltane beheld Duke Ivo's mighty camp—long lines of tents gay with fluttering pennon and gonfalon, of huts and booths set well out of bowshot behind the works of contravallation—stout palisades and barriers with earthworks very goodly and strong. And presently from among these booths and tents was the gleam and glitter of armour, what time from the waking host a hum and stir arose, with blare and fanfare of trumpet to usher in the day: and in a while from the midst of the camp came the faint ring and tap of many hammers.
Now as the mists cleared, looking thitherward, Beltane stared wide-eyed to behold wooden towers in course of building, with the grim shapes of many powerful war-engines whose mighty flying-beams and massy supporting-timbers filled him with great awe and wonderment.
"Ha!" quoth Giles, "they work apace yonder, and by Saint Giles they lack not for engines; verily Black Ivo is a master of siege tactics— but so is Giles, brother! See where he setteth up his mangonels, trebuchets, perriers and balistae, with bossons or rams, towers and cats, in the use of the which he is right cunning—but so also is Giles, brother! And verily, though your mangonels and trebuchets are well enough, yet for defence the balista is weapon more apt, methinks, as being more accurate in the shooting and therefore more deadly—how think you, lord?"
"Indeed Giles, being a forester I could scarce tell you one from another."
"Ha—then you'll know nought of their nature and use, lord?"
"Nought, Giles. Ne'er have I seen their like until now."
"Say ye so, brother?" cried Giles full eager, his brown eyes a-kindle, "say ye so in very truth? Then—an it be so thy wish—I might instruct thee vastly, for there is no man in the world to-day shall discourse you more fluent and learned upon siege-craft, engines and various tormenta than I. So—an it be thy wish, lord—?"
"It is my wish: say on, Giles."
"Why then firstly, lord, firstly we have the great Mangon or mangonel,fundis fundibula, that some do also termcatapultum, the which worketh by torsion and shall heave you great stones of the bigness of a man fully two hundred yards an it be dry weather; next is the Trebuchet, like to the mangon save that it swingeth by counterpoise; next cometh the Balista or Springald that worketh by tension—a pretty weapon! and shall shoot you dart or javelin so strong as shall transpierce you six lusty fellows at a time, hauberk and shield, like so many fowl upon a spit—very sweet to behold, brother! Then have we the Bore or Cat that some again do namemusculusor mouse for that it gnaweth through thick walls—and some do call this hog, sow,scrofaorsus, brother, and some again,vulpes.
"And this Cat is a massy pole that beareth a great and sharp steel point, the which, being mounted within a pent-house, swingeth merrily to and fro, much like to a ram, brother, and shall blithely pick you a hole through stone and mortar very pleasing to behold. Then we have the Ram,cancer testudo, that battereth; next we have the Tower or Beffroi that goeth on wheels—yonder you shall see them a-building. And these towers, moving forward against your city, shall o'ertop the walls and from them archers and cross-bowmen may shoot into your town what time their comrades fill up and dam your moat until the tower may come close unto your walls. And these towers, being come against the wall, do let fall drawbridges over which the besiegers may rush amain and carry your walls by assault. Lastly, there be Mantlets—stakes wattled together and covered with raw-hide—by the which means the besiegers make their first approaches. Then might I descant at goodly length upon the Mine and Furnace, with divers and sundry other stratagems, devices, engines and tormenta, but methinks this shall mayhap suffice thee for the nonce?"
"Aye, verily—'twill suffice!" said Beltane, rising. "Truly war is even more terrible than I had thought."
"Why lord, 'tis an art—a notable art and—ha! this doth mind me of my heart, heigho! And of all terrible things, of all the woes and ills man-hearts may know is—love. O me, alack and woe!"
"When doth thy watch end, Giles?"
"It ended an hour agone, but to what end? Being a lover I sleep little and pine much, and this is a fair good place and solitary, so will I pine awhile and likewise mope and languish, alack!"
So presently, as Beltane descended the stair, he heard the archer break forth again in doleful song.
Across the wide market-square went Beltane, with brow o'ercast and head low-bowed until he came to one of the many doors of the great minster; there paused he to remove bascinet and mail-coif, and thus bareheaded, entered the cathedral's echoing dimness. The new-risen sun made a glory of the great east window, and with his eyes uplifted to this many-coloured glory, Beltane, soft-treading, crossed dim aisle and whispering transept; but, as he mounted the broad steps of the sanctuary he paused with breath in check, for he heard a sound—a soft sound like the flutter of wings or the rustle of silken draperies. Now as he stood thus, his broad, mail-clad shoulders and golden hair bathed in the refulgence of the great window, it seemed to him that from somewhere near there breathed a sigh, tremulous and very soft, and thereafter was the quick, light tread of feet, and silence.
A while stood Beltane scarce breathing, then, slow and reverent, he approached the high altar; and ever as he went was a fragrance, wonder-sweet, that grew stronger and stronger until he was come behind the high altar where was his mother's grave. And lo! upon that long, white stone lay flowers a-bloom, roses and lilies whose dewy loveliness filled the place with their pure and fragrant sweetness. So looked he round about and upon these flowers with grateful wonder, and sinking to his knees, bowed his head and folded his hands in prayer.
But presently, as he knelt thus, he was roused by the clank of steel and a shuffling step, wherefore he arose and crossing to the shadows of the choir, sat him down within the deeper gloom to wait until his disturber should be gone. Slowly these halting steps advanced, feet that stumbled oft; near they came and nearer, until Beltane perceived a tall figure whose armour gleamed dully and whose shoulders were bowed like one that is feeble or very weary.
"Yolande!" said a voice, a hoarse voice but very tender, "Yolande, beloved!" And on the word the voice broke and ended upon a great sob, swift followed by another and yet another, the fierce sobbing of a man.
Then Beltane clenched his hands and rose up, for behold! this man was Sir Benedict. But now, and very suddenly, Sir Benedict was upon his knees, and bent and kissed that white, smooth stone whereon as yet was no inscription.
"Yolande!" he whispered, "now thou art one among the holy angels, O forget not thy most unworthy Benedict. God—O God! Father to whom all hearts are open, Thou dost know how as child and maid I loved her, how as a wife I loved her still—how, in my madness, I spake my love—and she, being saint and woman, bade me to my duty. So, by her purity, kept she my honour unstained—"
Beltane's long scabbard struck the carven panelling, a soft blow that yet echoed and re-echoed in vaulted arch and dim roof, and, glancing swiftly up, Sir Benedict beheld him.
And kneeling thus beside the grave of the woman he had loved, Sir Benedict looked up into Beltane's face with eyes wide, eyes unflinching but dimmed with great grief and pain.
Quoth he, firm-voiced:
"My lord, thou hast learned my life's secret, but, ere thou dost judge me, hear this! Long ere thy princely father met thy mother, we loved, she and I, and in our love grew up together. Then came the Duke thy father, a mighty lord; and her mother was ambitious and very guileful— and she—but a maid. Thus was she wed. Then rode I to the foreign wars seeking death—but death took me not. So, the wars ended, came I home again, burning ever with my love, and sought her out, and beholding the sadness in her eyes I spake my love; and forgetful of honour and all save her sweet soul and the glory of her beauty, I tempted her—aye, many times!—tempted her in fashion merciless and cruel insomuch that she wept many bitter tears, and, upon a day, spake me thus: 'Benedict, 'tis true I loved thee, for thou wert a noble knight—but now, an thy love for me be so small that thou canst bring me to this shame, then— take me where thou wilt—but—ne'er shall all thy love nor all my tears thereafter cleanse us from the shame of it.' Thus went I from her, nor have I looked on woman since. So followed I thy father in all his warring and all my days have I fought much—fierce foes within me and without, and lived—a very solitary life. And to-day she lieth dead—and I am here, old and worn, a lonely man and sinful, to be judged of as ye will."
Then came Beltane and looked down into Sir Benedict's pale, sad face. And beholding him thus in his abasement, haggard with wounds and bowed with grief, needs must Beltane kneel also and thereafter spake thus:
"Sir Benedict, who am I, to judge of such as thou?"
"I tempted her—I wooed her to shame, I that loved her beyond life—did cause her many bitter tears—alas!"
"Yet in the end, Sir Benedict, because thy love was a great and noble love, thou didst triumph over base self. So do I honour thee and pray that I, in like case, may act as nobly."
"And now—she lieth dead! So for me is life ended also, methinks!"
"She is a saint in heaven, Benedict, living forever. As to thee, on whose skill and valiance the safety of this fair city doth hang—so hath God need of thee here, methinks. So now for thy sake and for her sake needs must I love thee ever and always, thou noble knight. She, being dead, yet liveth and shall go betwixt us henceforth, drawing us together in closer bonds of love and amity—is it not so, dear my friend?" And speaking, Beltane reached out his hands across his mother's narrow grave, and straightway came Sir Benedict's hands, swift and eager, to meet and clasp them.
For a while knelt they thus, hand clasping hand above that long, white stone whence stole to them the mingled fragrance of the flowers, like a silent benediction. And presently, together they arose and went their way; but now, seeing how Sir Benedict limped by reason of his wounds, Beltane set an arm about him. So came they together out of the shadows into the glory of the morning.
Now as they came forth of the minster, the tocsin rang loud in sudden alarm.
Within the market-place all was dire confusion; men hasted hither and thither, buckling on armour as they went, women wept and children wailed, while ever the bell clashed out its fierce summons.
Presently, through the populace cometh Sir Brian of Hartismere, equipped in his armour and leaning on the mailed arm of his brother Eric of the wry neck, but perceiving Sir Benedict and Beltane, they turned and came up forthwith.
"Eric—Brian, what meaneth the tumult?" questioned Sir Benedict, his eye kindling, "are we attacked—so soon?"
"Not so," answered Sir Brian, "at the least—not by Ivo's men."
"'Tis worse than that," sighed Eric, shaking his head, "yonder cometh a churchman, borne on the shoulders of his monks, and with choristers and acolytes attendant."
"Ha!" said Sir Benedict, frowning and rubbing his chin, "I had dreaded this! The citizens do shake and shiver already, I'll warrant me! There is nought like a cowl with bell, book and candle to sap the courage of your citizen soldier. Let us to the walls!"
In a corner hard by the main gate they beheld Giles, holding forth to Roger and Walkyn and Ulf, but perceiving Sir Benedict he ceased abruptly, and advancing, saluted the noble company each in turn, but addressed himself to Sir Benedict.
"My lord," quoth he, eyes a-dance, "yonder cometh a pompous prior that was, not very long since, nought but massy monk that did upon a time (though by dint of some small persuasion) bestow on me a goodly ass. My lord, I was bred a monk, so do I know, by divers signs and portents, he cometh here to ban the city with book, bell and candle, wherefore the townsfolk, fearing greatly, do shiver and shake, especially the women and maids—sweet souls! And, lord, by reason of the matter of the ass, I do know this priest prolific of damnatory pronouncements and curses contumacious (O verily). Yet I, messire (having been bred a monk) shall blithely him out-curse, an the joy be permitted me, thus turning tears to laughter and gloomy fear to loud-voiced merriment—my lord, messires, how say you?"
"'Tis blasphemy unheard!" quoth Sir Brian.
"Save in the greenwood where men do breathe God's sweet air and live free!" said wry-necked Eric.
"And," spake Sir Benedict, stroking his square chin, "there is a fear can be quelled but by ridicule, so may thy wit, sir archer, avail more than our wisdom—an thou canst make these pale-cheeked townsfolk laugh indeed. How think you, my Beltane?"
"That being the wise and valiant knight thou art, Sir Benedict, thy will during the siege is law in Belsaye, henceforth."
Now hereupon Giles made his obeisance, and together with Roger andWalkyn and Ulf, hasted up to the battlement above the gateway.
"Benedict," said Sir Brian as they climbed the turret stair, "blasphemy is a dread and awful thing. We shall be excommunicate one and all— better methinks to let the populace yield up the city and die the death, than perish everlastingly!"
"Brian," quoth Sir Benedict pausing, something breathless by reason of his recent sickness, "I tell thee fire and pillage and ravishment of women is a thing more dread and awful—better, methinks, to keep Innocence pure and unspotted while we may, and leave hereafter in the hands of God and His holy angels!"
Upon the tower there met them the Reeve, anxious of brow, who pointed where the townsfolk talked together in fearful undertones or clustered, mute and trembling, while every eye was turned where, in the open, 'twixt town and camp, a procession of black-robed priests advanced, chanting very solemn and sweet.
"My lords," said the Reeve, looking round with haggard eyes, "an these priests do come to pronounce the Church's awful malediction upon the city—then woe betide! Already there be many—aye, some of our chiefest citizens do fear the curse of Holy Church more than the rapine of Ivo's vile soldiery, fair women shamed, O Christ! Lords—ha, messires, there is talk afoot of seizing the gates, of opening to this churchman and praying his intercession to Ivo's mercy—to Ivo the Black, that knoweth nought of mercy. Alas, my lords, once they do ope the gates—"
"That can they in nowise do!" said Sir Benedict gently, but with face grim and hawk-like. "Every gate is held by stout fellows of my own following, moreover I have good hope yon churchman may leave us yet uncursed." And Sir Benedict smiled his wry and twisted smile. "Be you our tongue, good Reeve, and speak this churchman as thy bold heart dictateth."
Solemn and sweet rose the chanting voices growing ever more loud, where paced the black-robed priests. First came acolytes swinging censers, and next, others bearing divers symbolic flags and standards, and after these again, in goodly chair borne on the shoulders of brawny monks, a portly figure rode, bedight in full canonicals, a very solid cleric he, and mightily round; moreover his nose was bulbous and he had a drooping lip.
Slow and solemn the procession advanced, and ever as they came the choristers chanted full melodiously what time the white-robed acolytes swung their censers to and fro; and ever as they came, the folk of Belsaye, from wall and turret, eyed these slow-pacing, sweet-singing monks with fearful looks and hearts cold and full of dire misgiving. Beyond the moat over against the main gate, the procession halted, the chair with its portly burden was set down, and lifting up a white, be-ringed hand, the haughty cleric spake thus, in voice high-pitched, mellifluous and sweet:
"Whereas it hath pleased ye, O rebellious people of Belsaye, to deny, to cast off and wantonly repudiate your rightful allegiance to your most just, most merciful and most august lord—Ivo, Duke of Pentavalon (whom God and the saints defend—amen!) and whereas ye have moreover made captive and most barbarously entreated certain of your lord Duke his ambassadors unto you sent; now therefore—and let all ears be opened to my pronouncements, since Holy Church doth speak ye, one and all, each and every through humble avenue of these my lips—list, list, O list, rebellious people, and mark me well. For inasmuch as I, Prior of Holy Cross within Pentavalon City, do voice unto ye, one and all, each and every, the most sacred charge of Holy Church, her strict command or enactment, mandate or caveat, her holy decree,senatus consultum, her writ, edict, precept or decretal, namely and to wit: That ye shall one and all, each and every, return to your rightful allegiance, bowing humbly, each and every, to the will of your lawful lord the Duke (whom God and the saints defend) and shall forthwith make full and instant surrender of this his ancient city of Belsaye unto your lord the Duke (whom God and the saints defend—amen!) Failing the which, I, in the name of Holy Church, by power of papal bull new come from Rome—will, here and now, pronounce this most rebellious city (and all that therein be) damned and excommunicate!"
Now hereupon, from all the townsfolk crowding wall and turret a groan went up and full many a ruddy cheek grew pale at this dire threat. Whereupon the Prior, having drawn breath, spake on in voice more stern and more peremptory:
"Let now your gates unbar! Yield ye unto your lord Duke his mercy! Let the gates unbar, I say, lest I blast this wicked city with the most dread and awful ban and curse of Holy Church—woe, woe in this life, and, in the life to come, torment and everlasting fire! Let the gates unbar!"
Now once again the men of Belsaye sighed and groaned and trembled in their armour, while from crowded street and market-square rose buzz of fearful voices. Then spake the Reeve in troubled tones, his white head low-stooped above the battlement.
"Good Prior, I pray you an we unbar, what surety have we that this our city shall not be given over to fire and pillage and ravishment?"
Quoth the Prior:
"Your lives are your lord's, in his hand resteth life and death, justice and mercy. So for the last time I charge ye—set wide your rebellious gates!"
"Not so!" cried the Reeve, "in the name of Justice and Mercy ne'er will we yield this our city until in Belsaye no man is left to strike for maid and wife and child!"
At the which bold words some few men shouted in acclaim, but for the most part the citizens were mumchance, their hearts cold within them, while all eyes stared fearfully upon the Prior, who, lifting white hand again, rose up from cushioned chair and spake him loud and clear:
"Then, upon this rebellious city and all that therein is, on babe, on child, on youth, on maid, on man, on wife, on the hale, the sick, the stricken in years, on beast, on bird, and on all that hath life and being I do pronounce the church's dread curse and awful ban:—ex—"
The Prior's mellifluous voice was of a sudden lost and drowned in another, a rich voice, strong and full and merry:
"Quit—quit thy foolish babblement, thou fat and naughty friar; too plump art thou, too round and buxom to curse a curse as curses should be cursed, so shall thy curses avail nothing, for who doth heed the fatuous fulminations of a fat man? But as to me, I could have out-cursed thee in my cradle, thou big-bellied thing of emptiness—go to for a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal!"
Thus, from his "mockery" perched high above the battlement, spake Giles, with many and divers knowing gestures of arm, waggings of the head, rollings of the eyes and the like, what time Roger and Walkyn and Ulf, their heads bent close together, busied themselves above a great and bulging wine-skin.
And now on wall and tower and market-square a great silence had fallen, yet a silence broken now and then by sound of stifled laughter, while the Prior, staring in wonder and amaze, suddenly clenched white fist, and, albeit very red and fiery of visage, strove whole-heartedly to curse on:
"Ha—now upon the lewd populace of this most accursed and rebellious city do I call down the—"
"Upon thy round and barrel-like paunch," cried Giles, "do I pronounce this dire and dreadful ban,videlicet, Sir Fatness,nota beneand to wit: may the fiend rend it with gruesome gripings—aye, rend it with claws and beak,unguibus et rostro, most mountainous monk!"
Here, once again came sounds of stifled merriment, what time the Prior, puffing out his fat cheeks, fell to his curses full-tongued:
"Upon this evil city be the malison of Holy Church, her maledictions bitter, her imprecation and anathema. I do pronounce all within this city ex—"
"Abate thee, friar, abate!" roared Giles, "cease thy rumbling, thou empty wine-butt. An thou must deal in curses, leave them to one more apt and better schooled—to Giles, in faith, who shall forthwith curse thee sweet and trippingly as thus—now mark me, monk! Aroint, aroint thee to Acheron dark and dismal, there may the foul fiend seize and plague thee with seven and seventy plaguey sorrows! May Saint Anthony's fire frizzle and fry thee—woe, woe betide thee everlastingly—(bate thy babble, Prior, I am not ended yet!) In life may thou be accursed from heel to head, within thee and without—(save thy wind, Prior, no man doth hear or heed thee!) Be thou accursed in father and in mother, in sister and in brother, in oxen and in asses—especially in asses! Be thou accursed in sleeping and in waking, eating and drinking, standing, sitting, lying—O be thou accursed completely and consumedly! Here now, methinks, Sir Monkish Tunbelly, is cursing as it should be cursed. But now—(hush thy vain babbling, heed and mark me well!)—now will I to dictums contumacious, from cursing thee I will to song of thee, of thy plump and pertinacious person—a song wherein shall pleasant mention be o' thy round and goodly paunch, a song that shall be sung, mayhap, when thee and it are dusty dust, O shaveling—to wit:
"O frater fat and flatulent, full foolish, fatuous FriarA prime plump priest in passion seen, such pleasure doth inspire,That sober souls, 'spite sorrows sad, shall sudden, shout and singBecause thy belly big belittleth baleful ban ye bring.Wherefore with wondrous wit withal, with waggish wanton wiles,I joyful chant to glorify the just and gentle Giles."
And now behold! fear and dread were forgotten quite, and wheresoever Beltane looked were men who bent and contorted themselves in their merriment, and who held their laughter yet in check to catch the archer's final words.
"Thus, thou poor and pitiful Prior, for thy rude speech and curses canonical we do requite thee with song sweet-sung and of notable rhyme and metre. Curse, and Belsaye shall out-curse thee; laugh, and Belsaye laugheth at thee—"
"Sacrilege!" gasped the Prior, "O 'tis base sacrilege! 'Tis a vile, unhallowed city and shall go up in flame—"
"And thou," cried Giles, "thou art a fiery churchman and shall be cooled. Ho, Rogerkin—loose off!"
Came the thudding crash of a powerful mangonel, whose mighty beam, swinging high, hurled aloft the bulging wine-skin, the which, bursting in mid-air, deluged with water all below—prior and monk, acolyte and chorister; whereat from all Belsaye a shout went up, that swelled to peal on peal of mighty laughter, the while, in stumbling haste, the dripping Prior was borne by dripping monks back to Duke Ivo's mighty camp. And lo! from this great camp another sound arose, a roar of anger, fierce and terrible to hear, that smote Belsaye to silence. But, out upon the battlement, plain for all folk to see, sprang Giles flourishing his six-foot bow.
"Archers!" he cried, "archers, ye hear the dogs bay yonder—fling back their challenge!
"Ho, archers! shout and rend the skies,Bold archers shout amainBelsaye, Belsaye—arise, arise!Pentavalon—Beltane!"
Then from tower and turret, from wall and keep and market-square a great and joyous shout was raised—a cry fierce and loud and very purposeful, that rolled afar:
"Arise, arise!—ha, Beltane—Pentavalon!"
"Beltane," quoth Sir Benedict, smiling his wry smile as he turned to descend the tower, "methinks yon roguish archer's wit hath served us better than all our wisdom. Belsaye hath frighted away fear with laughter, and her men, methinks, will fight marvellous well!"
A fair and strong city was Belsaye, for (as hath been said) to north and east of it the river flowed, a broad stream and deep, while south and west it was fortified by a goodly moat; wherefore it was to south and west that the besiegers mustered their chief force and set up their mightiest engines and towers. Day in, day out, mangonel, trebuchet and balista whirred and crashed from keep and tower and curtain-wall, while from every loophole and crenelle long-bows twanged and arrows flew; yet with each succeeding dawn the besiegers' fence-works crept nearer, closing in upon the city until, within close bowshot of the walls, they set up earthworks and stockades and from these strong barriers plied the defenders with cloth-yard shaft and cross-bow bolt what time their mighty engines advanced, perriers and rams wherewith to batter and breach the city's massy walls.
So day in, day out, Eric's chosen men plied trebuchet and balista, and Beltane, beholding the dire havoc wrought by heavy stone and whizzing javelin among the dense ranks of the besiegers despite their mantlets and stout palisades, grew sick at times and was fain to look otherwhere. But the besiegers were many and Duke Ivo had sworn swift destruction on Belsaye; thus, heedless of all else, he pushed on the attack until, despite their heavy losses, his men were firmly established close beyond the moat; wherefore my Beltane waxed full anxious and was for sallying out to destroy their works: at the which, gloomy Sir Hacon, limping in his many bandages, grew suddenly jovial and fain was to call for horse and lance forthwith.
Quoth Sir Benedict placidly:
"Nay, let them come, messires; they are a sea, but Belsaye is a rock. Duke Ivo is cunning in war, but is, mark me! a passionate man, and he who fighteth in blind anger, fighteth ill. So let them come, I say the time for us to beware is when Ivo's hot temper shall have cooled. Ha, look yonder!" and Sir Benedict pointed where a great wooden tower, urged forward by rope and pulley and winch, was creeping near and nearer the walls, now stopping jerkily, now advancing, its massy timbers protected from fire by raw hides, its summit bristling with archers and cross-bow men, who from their lofty post began to sweep wall and turret with their whizzing shafts.
"Now mark yon tower," said Sir Benedict, closing his vizor, "here shall be good sport for Eric's perriers—watch now!" and he nodded where on the battlement below, crouched Eric with Walkyn and Roger who laboured at the winches of a great trebuchet hard by. To left and right on wall and turret, Eric glanced, then blew a blast upon the horn he carried; and immediately, from wall and turret mangonels, trebuchets and balistae unknown of until now crashed and whirred, and the tall tower shook and quivered 'neath the shock of great stones and heavy bolts, its massy timbers were split and rent, insomuch that it was fain to be withdrawn.
Thereafter the besiegers brought up a long pent-house or cat unto the edge of the moat, and sheltered within this cat were many men who fell to work filling up the moat with bags of earth and stone werewith to form a causeway across which they might assault the wall with bore and ram; and because this cat was builded very strong, Eric's engines battered it in vain, wherefore he presently desisted; thus, hour by hour the causeway grew and lengthened. So needs must Beltane seek Sir Benedict and point this out with anxious finger.
"Let them come, Beltane!" quoth Sir Benedict, placid as was his wont, "once they are close against the wall with ram a-swing, I will make their labour of no avail; you shall see me burn them with a devil's brew I learned of in the foreign wars. So, let them come. Beltane!"
Thus, day in, day out, was roar of conflict about the walls of Belsaye town, and ever Sir Benedict, with Beltane beside him, went to and fro, quick of eye and hand, swift to foresee and counteract the tactics of the besiegers, meeting cunning artifice with crafty strategem; wheresoever was panic or pressing need there was Sir Benedict, calm-voiced and serene. And Beltane, watching him thus, came to understand why this man had withstood the powers of Duke Ivo all these years, and why all men trusted to his judgment.
Thus, all day was rage of battle, but with the night peace came, since in the dark men might not see to aim and slay each other. And by night the folk of Belsaye made good their battered walls what time the besiegers prepared fresh devices of attack. Every morning at sunrise it was Beltane's custom to steal to the great minster and, soft-treading despite his armour, come to his mother's grave to hold communion with her in his prayers. And lo! upon that hallowed stone there always he found fragrant flowers, roses and lilies, new-gathered, upon whose sweet petals the dew yet sparkled, and ever his wonder grew.
More than once he had thought to hear again that indefinable stir and whisper the which had thrilled him on that first morning, and, starting up, he would peer into the vague shadows. Twice he had thought to see a draped figure bending above that long, white stone, a veiled figure slender and graceful, that upon his approach, soft though it was, flitted swiftly into the dark recesses of the choir. Once he had followed, and stood amazed to see it vanish through the carven panelling, though door could he find none. Therefore was he sore perplexed and oft would touch the dewy flowers as half expecting they should vanish also. Now upon a certain dawn he had hid himself within the shadows and waited with bated breath and heart strangely a-throb. And with the day-spring she came again, tall and gracious in her clinging draperies and long green veil. Then, even as she bent to lay the flowers upon the grave came Beltane, soft of foot, and spake ere she was 'ware of him.
"Lady—!" now though his voice was very low and gentle she started, the flowers fell from her loosened clasp, and, after a moment, she turned and fronted him, proud head up-flung beneath her veil. So stood they within that place of silence, while high above, the great window grew luminous with coming day.
"Lady," said he again, "for thy sweet flowers, for thy sweeter thought for one that is—gone, fain would I thank thee, for she who lieth here I found, and loved, and have lost again a while. She did love all fair things, so loved she the flowers, methinks; yet I, who have grieved for my noble mother, ne'er thought to bring her flowers—this did need a woman's gentle soul. So, for thy flowers, I do most truly thank thee."
Very still she stood, nor spake nor moved, save for the sweet hurry of her breathing; and beholding her thus, of a sudden Beltane's heart leapt and he fell a-trembling though wherefore he knew not, only yearned he mightily to look beneath her veil. And now it seemed to him that, in the stillness, she must needs hear the passionate throbbing of his heart; twice would he have spoken yet could not; at last:
"Beseech thee," he whispered, "O beseech thee unveil, that I may behold the face of one so tender to her that was my dear-loved mother—O beseech thee!"
As he spake, he drew a swift pace nearer, hand outstretched in supplication, but, because this hand shook and quivered so, he clenched it, whereat the unknown shrank back and back and, turning swift and sudden, was gone.
A while stood my Beltane, his head a-droop, and fell to wonderment because of the so painful throbbing of his heart. Then knelt he above his mother's grave with hands tight-clasped.
"Dear mother in heaven," he sighed, "being an angel, thou dost know all my heart, its hopes and fears—thou hast seen me tremble—thou dost know wherefore this my heart doth yearn so bitterly. O sweet mother with God, plead thou on my behalf that I may be worthy her love—meet to her embracements—fit for so great happiness. Angel of God, thou dost know how great is my desire—how empty life without her—O mother—aid me!"
In a while he arose and immediately beheld that which lay beyond his mother's grave full in the radiance of the great east window—a thing small and slender and daintily wrought; and stooping, he picked up a little shoe. Of soft leather it was fashioned, cunningly pinked, and sewn, here and there, with coloured silks; and as he stared down at it, so small-seeming in his mailed hand, his heart leapt again, and again his strong hand fell a-trembling. Of a sudden he raised his eyes to heaven, then, coming to his mother's grave, very reverently took thence a single great bloom and thrusting the shoe in the wallet at his girdle (that same wallet Sir Fidelis had borne) went out into the golden dawn.
Like one in a dream went Beltane, heedless of his going; by silent street and lane where none stirred at this early hour, thus he wandered on until he was stayed by a high wall wherein was set a small, green door.
As he stood, staring down at the rose he held and lost in pleasant dream, he was aroused by a scrambling sound near by, and, glancing up, beheld a mailed head and shoulders rise suddenly above the wall and so looked into the face of Giles o' the Bow. Now in his teeth Giles bare a great red rose—even as that which Beltane held.
"Giles," quoth he, sharp and stern, "whence had ye that flower?"
For answer, Giles, straddling the wall, laid finger to lip, then dropping cat-like to his feet, drew Beltane down an adjacent lane.
"Lord," said he, "yonder is the Reeve's garden and in the Reeve's garden cometh the Reeve to taste the sweet dawn, wherefore Giles doth incontinent vanish him over the Reeve's wall because of the Reeve; nevertheless needs must I bless the Reeve because of the Reeve's daughter—though verily, both in my speech and in the Reeve's garden is too much Reeve, methinks. As to this rose, now—ha!"
"How came you by the rose, Giles?"
"Why, in the first place, tall brother, I stole it—"
"Stole it!" repeated Beltane, and behold! his frown was gone completely.
"But, in the second place, brother, 'twas given to me—"
"Given to thee—by whom?" and immediately Beltane's frown was back again.
"And therefore, in the third place, brother, Giles this day would not change skins with any lord, duke, archduke, pope or potentate that e'er went in skin—"
"Who gave it thee?—speak, man!"
"Faith, lord, I had it from one as pure, as fair, as—"
"Aye, but what like is she?"
"Like unto this flower for sweetness, lord, and—ha, saints and martyrs! whence had ye that bloom, tall brother—speak!" and Giles pointed to the rose in Beltane's fingers.
"What like is she—answer me!"
"Alack!" sighed Giles, shaking gloomy head, "she is very like a woman, after all, methinks—"
"Mean ye the Reeve's daughter?"
"Even so, lord!"
"Doth she wear ever a—a green veil, Giles?"
"Verily, lord, and with a most sweet grace—"
"And her shoes—"
"Her shoes, tall brother, O methinks her sweet shoe doth kiss the earth so sweet and light poor earth must needs love and languish as doth poor Giles! Her shoe—"
"Is it aught like to this, Giles?" and forthwith Beltane took out the little shoe.
"Aye, 'tis her very own, master!" groaned Giles. "Ah, woe is me, for if she hath given to thee rose and therewith her pretty shoe—thou hast, belike, her heart also, and with her heart—"
"Nay, take it, Giles,—take it!" quoth Beltane, sighing. "I did but find it in my going, and this rose—I found also, but this will I keep. Methinks thy love is what thy heart telleth thee—a maid very gentle and sweet—so God prosper thy wooing, Giles!"
So saying, Beltane thrust the shoe upon bewildered Giles and, turning swiftly about, hasted away. But even then, while the archer yet stared after him, Beltane turned and came striding back.
"Giles," quoth he, "how tall is the Reeve's daughter?"
"Lord, she is better than tall—"
"Ha—is she short of stature, good Giles?"
"Messire, God hath shaped her lovely body no higher and no lower than my heart. Small is she and slender, yet in her sweet and slender shapeliness is all the beauty of all the women that all men have ever loved—"
"Small, say you, Giles—small? Then give me back yon lovely thing!"
Saying the which, Beltane caught the shoe from Giles's hold and strode away blithe and debonair, leaving the garrulous archer dumb for once and beyond all words amazed.
Now as Beltane went very deep in thought there met him Friar Martin, who bore upon his arm a great basket full of green vegetables and sweet herbs. Quoth Beltane:
"Good friar, what do ye abroad so early?"
"Sweet son, I praise the good God for His mercies and pant by reason of this my weighty basket."
"Indeed 'tis a something well-laden basket," said Beltane, relieving the friar of his burden with gentle force.
"Why, verily, my children are hungry children and clamour to be filled. And see you, my son, I have a secret of a certain broth whereof these lentils and these sweet herbs do so tickle their palates that to satisfy them is a hard matter—more especially Orson and Jenkyn—who being nigh cured of their hurts do eat like four men and vaunt my cooking full-mouthed, insomuch that I must needs grow heedful of vain pride."
"Fain would I see these children of thine an I may, good friar, so willI bear thy burden for thee."
"Verily they shall rejoice to see thee," quoth the friar, "but for my basket, methinks 'tis better suited to my habit than thy knightly mail—"
For answer Beltane slipped the basket on his arm and they went on together talking whole-heartedly of many things. Thus the gentle friar brought him at last to a low-arched portal within a narrow lane, and pushing open the door, ushered him into the great refectory of the abbey, where Beltane set down the basket, and Friar Martin, rolling up his sleeves, brought pot and pannikin but paused to smile and shake his head, as from a stone-flagged passage hard by came the sound of voices raised in altercation.
"My children do grow a little fractious at times," quoth he, "as is but natural, methinks. Yonder you shall hear Orson and Jenkyn, who having saved each other's life in battle and loving like brothers, do oft contend together with tongues most ungentle; go you, my son, and quiet me the naughty rogues."
So saying, Friar Martin fell to washing and preparing his herbs and vegetables whiles Beltane, hasting down the passage, opened a certain door and entered a cool and airy dormitory, where upon pallets neat and orderly lay divers fellows whose hurts were swathed in fair white linen, and who, despite their bandages, started up on hand or elbow to greet Beltane right gladly. And behold! beside each man's couch was a bowl wherein roses bloomed.
"Master," quoth Tall Orson, "us do be glad to see thee—in especial me— and Jenkyn that I did save the carcase of and as do be a liar as do say my roses do be a-fading, master, and as his roses do bloom fairer than my roses and—"
"And look'ee master, so they be, for I ha' watered mine wi' Orson's drinking-water, while he snored, look'ee—" "So Jenkyn do be thief as well, master—"
"Nay," said Beltane smiling, and seating himself on Orson's bed, "stint now your angers and tell me who gave ye flowers so fair?"
"Master, she do be an angel!"
"Heed him not, lord, for look'ee, she is a fair and lovely woman, and look'ee, a good woman is better than an angel, look'ee!"
"And what like is she?" questioned Beltane.
"She do be like to a stag for grace o' body, and wi' the eyes of a stag—"
"Nay, master, her eyes do be maid's eyes, look'ee, very soft and sweet, and her hair, look'ee—"
"Her hair do be like a forest-pool brim-full o' sunset—"
"Not so, master, her hair is red, look'ee—"
"And each day she do bring us flowers, master—"
"And suckets, look'ee, very sweet and delicate, master."
In a while Beltane arose and going from bed to bed spake with each and every, and went his way, leaving Orson and Jenkyn to their recriminations.
Being come back into the refectory, he found Friar Martin yet busied with the preparations of his cooking, and seating himself upon the great table hard by, fell to a profound meditation, watched ever and anon by the friar's kindly eyes: so very silent and thoughtful was he that the friar presently looked up from slicing and cutting his vegetables and spake with smile wondrous tender:
"Wherefore so pensive, my son?"
"Good father, I think and dream of—red roses!"
Friar Martin cut and trimmed a leek with great care, yet surely here was no reason for his eyes to twinkle within the shadow of his white cowl.
"A sweet and fragrant thought, my son!" quoth he.
"As sweet, methinks, holy father, as pure and fragrant as she herself!"
"'She,' my son?"
"As Helen, good friar, as Helen the Beautiful, Duchess of Mortain!"
"Ah!" sighed the friar, and forthwith popped the leek into the pot. "I prithee, noble son, reach me the salt-box yonder!"
Next morning, ere the sun was up, came Beltane into the minster and hiding within the deeper gloom of the choir, sat there hushing his breath to listen, trembling in eager anticipation. Slowly amid the dimness above came a glimmer from the great window, a pale beam that grew with dawn until up rose the sun and the window glowed in many-hued splendour.
And in a while to Beltane's straining senses came the faint creak of a door, a soft rustle, the swift light tread of feet, and starting forth of his lurking place he stepped forward with yearning arms outstretched—then paused of a sudden beholding her who stood at gaze, one slender foot advanced and white hands full of roses and lilies, one as fair, as sweet and pure as the fragrant blooms she bore. Small was she and slender, and of a radiant loveliness, red of lip and grey-eyed: now beholding Beltane thus suddenly, she shrank and uttered a soft cry.
"Nay," quoth he, "fear me not, sweet maid, methought thee other than thou art—I grieve that I did fright thee—forgive me, I pray," so saying, he sighed and bowing full humbly, turned, but even so paused again: "Thou art methinks the Reeve's fair daughter—thou art the lady Genevra?" he questioned.
"Aye, my lord."
"Then, an thou dost love, gentle maid, heaven send thee happier in thy love than I." At the which Genevra's gentle eyes grew softer yet and her sweet mouth full pitiful and tender.
"Art thou so unhappy, lord Beltane?"
"Aye, truly!" he sighed, and drooped mournful head.
"Ah, messire, then fain would I aid thee an I might!" said she, soft-voiced.
"Then where, I pray you, is she that came here yesterday?"
"Nay, lord, how may I tell thee this? There be many women in Belsaye town."
"For me," quoth Beltane, "in all the world there is but one and to this one, alas! thou canst not aid me, yet for thy kind intent I thank thee, and so farewell, sweet maid." Thus saying, he took three steps away from her, then turning, came back in two. "Stay," quoth he, slipping hand in wallet, "know you this shoe?"
Now beholding this, Genevra's red lips quivered roguishly, and she bowed her little, shapely head:
"Indeed, my lord, 'tis mine!" said she.
"Then pray you, who was she did wear it yesterday—?"
"Aye, messire, 'twas yesterday I—missed it, wilt not give it me therefore? One shoe can avail thee nothing and—and 'tis too small for thee to wear methinks—"
"Did she—she that lost this yesterday, send thee to-day in her stead?"
"Wilt not give a poor maid her shoe again, messire?"
"O Genevra, beseech thee, who was she did wear it yesterday—speak!"
"Nay, this—this I may not tell thee, lord Beltane."
"And wherefore?"
"For that I did so promise—and yet—what seek you of her, my lord?"
"Forgiveness," said Beltane, hot and eager, "I would woo her sweet clemency on one that hath wrought her grievous wrong. O sweet Genevra, wilt not say where I may find her?"
A while stood the maid Genevra with bowed head as one in doubt, then looked on him with sweet maiden eyes and of a sudden smiled compassionate and tender.
"Ah, messire," said she, "surely thine are the eyes of one who loveth greatly and well! And I do so love her that fain would I have her greatly loved—so will I tell thee despite my word—hearken!" And drawing him near she laid white finger to rosy lip and thereafter spake in whispers. "Go you to the green door where yesterday thou didst meet with Gi—with the captain of the archers—O verily we—she and I, my lord, did see and hear all that passed betwixt you—and upon this door knock you softly three times. Go—yet, O prithee say not 'twas Genevra told thee this!" and again she laid white finger to roguish, pouting lip.
Then Beltane stooped, and catching that little hand kissed it, and thereafter hasted blithely on his way.
Swift of foot went he and with eyes a-dance, nor paused in his long stride until he was come to a certain high wall wherein was set the small, green door, whereon he knocked three times. And presently he heard the bar softly raised, the door was opened slow and cautiously, and stooping, Beltane stepped beneath the lintel and stood suddenly still, staring into the face of Black Roger. And even as Beltane stared thus amazed, so stared Roger.
"Why, master—" quoth he, pushing back his mail-coif to rumple his black hair, "why, master, you—you be early abroad—though forsooth 'tis a fair morning and—"
"Roger," quoth Beltane, looking round upon a fair garden a-bloom with flowers, "Roger, where is the Duchess Helen?"
"Ha, so ye do know, master—who hath discovered it—?"
"Where is she, Roger?"
"Lord," quoth Roger, giving a sudden sideways jerk of his head, "how should Roger tell thee this?" Now even as he spake, Roger must needs gesture again with his head and therewith close one bright, black eye, and with stealthy finger point to a certain tall hedge hard by; all of which was seen by one who stood beyond the hedge, watching Beltane with eyes that missed nought of him, from golden spur to golden head; quick to note his flushing cheek, his parted lips and the eager light of his blue eyes; one who perceiving him turn whither Roger's sly finger pointed, gathered up her flowing robe in both white hands that she might flee the faster, and who, speeding swift and light, came to a certain leafy bower where stood a tambour frame, and sitting there, with draperies well ordered, caught up silk and needle, yet paused to close her eyes and set one hand upon rounded bosom what time a quick, firm step drew near and ever nearer with clash and ring of heavy mail until Beltane stood before her. And how was he to know of the eyes that had watched him through the hedge, or that the hand that held the needle had paused lest he should see how direfully it trembled: how should my Beltane know all this, who was but a very man?
A while stood he, viewing her with eyes aglow with yearning tenderness, and she, knowing this, kept her face down-bent, therefore. Now beholding all the beauty of her, because of her gracious loveliness, his breath caught, then hurried thick and fast, insomuch that when he would have spoken he could not; thus he worshipped her in a look and she, content to be so worshipped, sat with head down-bent, as sweetly demure, as proud and stately as if—as if she ne'er in all her days had fled with hampering draperies caught up so high!
So Beltane stood worshipping her as she had been some young goddess in whose immortal beauty all beauty was embodied.
At last he spake, hoarse and low and passionate:
"Helen!" said he, "O Helen!"
Slowly, slowly the Duchess lifted stately head and looked on him: but now, behold! her glance was high and proud, her scarlet mouth firm-set like the white and dimpled chin below and her eyes swept him with look calm and most dispassionate.
"Ah, my lord Beltane," she said, sweet-voiced, "what do you here within the privacy of Genevra's garden?"
Now because of the sweet serenity of her speech, because of the calm, unswerving directness of her gaze, my Beltane felt at sudden loss, his outstretched arms sank helplessly and he fell a-stammering.
"Helen, I—I—O Helen, I have dreamed of, yearned for this hour! To see thee again—to hear thy voice, and yet—and yet—"
"Well, my lord?"
Now stood Beltane very still, staring on her in dumb amaze, and the pain in his eyes smote her, insomuch that she bent to her embroidery and sewed three stitches woefully askew.
"O surely, surely I am mad," quoth he wondering, "or I do dream. For she I seek is a woman, gentle and prone to forgiveness, one beyond all women fair and brave and noble, in whose pure heart can nothing evil be, in whose gentle eyes her gentle soul lieth mirrored, whose tender lips be apt and swift to speak mercy and forgiveness. Even as her soft, kind hands did bind up my wounds, so methought she with gentle sayings might heal my grieving heart—and now—now—"
"O my lord," she sighed, bending over idle fingers, "methinks you came seeking an angel of heaven and find here—only a woman."
"Yet 'tis this woman I do love and ever must—'tis this woman I did know as Fidelis—"
"Alas!" she sighed again, "alas, poor Fidelis, thou didst drive him from thee into the solitary wild-wood. So is poor Fidelis lost to thee, methinks—"
"Nay, Helen—O Helen, be just to me—thou dost know I loved Fidelis—"
"Yet thou didst spurn and name him traitor and drave him from thee!"
Now of a sudden he strode towards her, and as he came her bosom swelled, her lashes drooped, for it seemed he meant to clasp her to his heart. But lo! being only man, my Beltane paused and trembled, and dared not touch her, and sinking before her on his knees, spake very humbly and with head low-bowed.
"Helen—show me a little mercy!" he pleaded. "Would'st that I abase myself? Then here—here behold me at thy feet, fearing thee because of my unworthiness. But O believe—believe, for every base doubt of thee this heart hath known, now doth it grieve remorseful. For every harsh and bitter word this tongue hath spoke thee, now doth it humbly crave thy pitiful forgiveness! But know you this, that from the evil hour I drave thee from me, I have known abiding sorrow and remorse, for without thee life is indeed but an empty thing and I a creature lost and desolate—O Helen, pity me!"
Thus spake he, humble and broken, and she, beholding him thus, sighed (though wondrous softly) and 'neath her long lashes tears glittered (though swift dashed away) but—slowly, very slowly, one white hand came out to him, faltered, stopped, and glancing up she rose in haste and shrank away. Now Beltane, perceiving only this last gesture, sprang up, fierce-eyed:
"How?" quoth he, "am I then become a thing so base my presence doth offend thee—then, as God liveth, ne'er shalt see me more until thou thyself do summon me!"
Even as he spake thus, swift and passionate, Giles clambered the adjacent wall and dropping softly within the garden, stared to behold Beltane striding towards him fierce-eyed, who, catching him by the arm yet viewing him not, spun him from his path, and coming to the green door, sped out and away.
Now as Giles stood to rub his arm and gape in wonderment, he started to find the Duchess beside him; and her eyes were very bright and her cheeks very red, and, meeting her look, poor Giles fell suddenly abashed.
"Noble lady—" he faltered.
"Foolish Giles!" said she, "go, summon me my faithful Roger." But as she spake, behold Roger himself hasting to her through the roses.
"Roger," said she, frowning a little, "saw you my lord go but now?"
"Aye, verily, dear my lady," quoth he, ruffling up his hair, "but wherefore—"
"And I," said Giles, cherishing his arm, "both saw and felt him—"
"Ha," quoth Roger, "would'st have him back, sweet mistress?"
"Why truly I would, Roger—"
"Then forsooth will I go fetch him."
"Nay—rather would I die, Roger."
"But—dear lady—an thou dost want him—"
"I will bring him by other means!" said the Duchess, "aye, he shall come despite himself," and her red lips curved to sudden roguish smile, as smiling thus, she brought them to a certain arbour very shady and remote, and, seating herself, looked from one tanned face to the other and spake them certain matters, whereat the archer's merry eyes grew merrier yet, but Roger sighed and shook his head; said he:
"Lady, here is tale shall wring his noble heart, methinks, wherefore the telling shall wring mine also—"
"Then speak not of it, Roger. Be this Giles's mission."
"Aye, Rogerkin, leave it to me. In faith, noble lady, I will with suggestion soft and subtle, with knowing look and wily wag of head, so work upon my lord that he shall hither hot-foot haste—"
"At moonrise," said the Duchess softly, "this evening at moonrise!"
"Verily, lady, at moonrise! And a blue camlet cloak, say you?"
"Come, Giles, and I will give it thee."
Meanwhile, Beltane, hurt and angry, betook him to the walls where bow and perrier had already begun their deadly morning's work; and coming to a quiet corner of the battlement, he leaned him there to watch where the besiegers, under cover of the cat that hourly crept more nigh, worked amain to dam the moat.
Now as he leaned thus, a hand slipped within his arm, and turning, he beheld Sir Benedict.
"A right fair morning, my Beltane," quoth he.
"Aye, truly, Benedict," sighed Beltane, "though there be clouds to the west. And the causeway across the moat groweth apace; I have watched yon cat creep a full yard—"
"Aye, verily, by mid-day, Beltane, 'twill reach our wall, then will they advance their ram to the battery, methinks."
"And what then, Benedict?"
"Then shall we destroy their ram forthwith with devil-fire, dear lad!"
"Aye, and how then, Benedict?"
"Then, belike will they plant ladders on the causeway and attempt the wall by storm, so shall we come to handstrokes at last and beset them with pitch and boiling oil and hew their ladders in sunder."
"And after, Benedict?"
"Hey-day, Beltane, here be a many questions—"
"Aye, Benedict, 'tis that I do look into the future. And what future can there be? Though we maintain our walls a year, or two, or three, yet in the end Belsaye must fall."