"And I tell thee, Beltane, were Ivo twice as strong Belsaye should yet withstand him. So gloom not, lad, Belsaye is safe, the sun shineth and behold my arm—'tis well-nigh healed, thanks to—to skilful nursing—"
"Of the Duchess Helen, Benedict?"
"Ha—so hast found it out—at last, lad—"
"Knew you she was here?"
"Aye, verily."
"And told me not?"
"For that she did so command, Beltane."
"And wherefore came she hither?"
"For thy dear sake in the first place, and—"
"Nay, mock me not, friend, for I do know myself of none account."
"And in the second place, Beltane, to save this fair city of Belsaye."
"Nay, how mean you?"
"I mean that Belsaye cannot fall whiles it holdeth Helen the Proud. And the reason this—now mark me, Beltane! Since her father's death Duke Ivo hath had his glutton eye on fair Mortain, whereof her counsellors did ken, yet, being old men and averse to war, would fain have had her wed with him. Now upon a day word reached me in Thrasfordham bidding me come to her and Waldron of Brand at Winisfarne. So, as thou dost know, stole I from my goodly castle and marched north. But on the way she came to me bedight in mail, and she and I took counsel together. Wherefore came she hither to Belsaye and sent speedy messengers to Sir Jocelyn of Alain and others of her greatest lords and knights, bidding them come down with all their powers—nay, why shake ye gloomy head, fond boy? Body o' me, Beltane, I tell thee this—to-day she—"
"To-day," sighed Beltane, frowning, "to-day she spurneth me! Kneeling at her feet e'en as I was she shrank away as I had leprous been!"
"Aye, lad, and then—didst woo as well as kneel to her, didst clasp her to thee, lift her proud head that needs must she give to thine her eyes—she is in sooth very woman—did you this, my Beltane?"
"Ah, dear Benedict, she that I love was not wont to shrink from me thus! 'Tis true I am unworthy—and yet, she spurned me—so is her love dead, methinks!"
"So art thou but youth, and foolish youth, and belike, foolish, hungry youth—so come, let us break our fast together."
"Not I, Benedict, for if love be dead, no mind have I to food."
"O lad—lad!" sighed Sir Benedict, "would I had one as fair and noble to love me in such sort!" And turning, he gazed sad-eyed towards Belsaye's great minster, and sighing, went his way.
And presently, as Beltane leaned thus, grieving and alone, cometh Giles that way, who, pausing beside him, peered down where the besiegers, but ill-sheltered by battered mantlet and palisades, strove amain to bring up one of their rams, since the causeway across the moat was well-nigh complete.
"Holy saints!" quoth Giles, "the rogues grow bold and venturesome, methinks!" So saying, he strung his powerful bow, and laying arrows to his hand fell to drawing and loosing amain. So swift shot he and with aim so true, that in a while the enemy gave over their attempt and betook them to cover what time their archers and cross-bowmen plied the wall with a storm of shafts and bolts.
Upon this Giles, laying by his bow, seated himself in corner well screened from harm, beckoning Beltane to do the like, since the enemy's missiles whizzed and whistled perilously near. But sighing, Beltane closed his vizor and heedless of flying bolt and arrow strode to the narrow stair that led up to the gate-tower and being come there sat him down beside the great mangonel. But lo! very soon Giles was there also and even as Beltane sighed, so sighed Giles.
"Heigho—a sorry world, brother!" quoth he, "a sorry world!" and forthwith fell to his archery, yet now, though his aim was true as ever, he sighed and murmured plaintively 'twixt every shot: "Alack, a sorry world!" So deep and oft were his sighs, so plaintive his groans, that Beltane, though plunged in bitter thought, must needs at length take heed of him.
"Giles," quoth he, looking up, "a heaven's name, what aileth thee, man?"
"'Tis my eyes, lord."
"Thine eyes are well enough, Giles, and see wondrous well to judge by thy shooting."
"Wondrous well—aye, there it is, tall brother, mine eyes do see wondrous well, mine eyes do see so much, see you, that they do see over-much, over-much, aye—too, too much. Alack, 'tis a sorry and woeful world, brother! beshrew my eyes, I say!"
"And wherefore, Giles?"
"For that these eyes do see what other eyes see not—thine, methinks, saw nought of a fine, lusty and up-standing fellow in a camlet cloak within the Reeve's garden this morning, I'll warrant me now? A tall, shapely rogue, well be-seen, see you, soft-voiced and very debonair?"
"Nay, not I," said Beltane, and sighing he arose and descended to the battlement above the gates. And presently, behold Giles was there also!
"Brother," quoth he, selecting an arrow with portentous care, "'tis an ill thing to be cursed with eyes such as mine, I tell thee!"
"Aye, and wherefore, Giles?" said Beltane, yet intent on his own thoughts.
"For that they do see more than is good for this heart o' mine—as this fellow in the blue camlet cloak—"
"What fellow, Giles?"
"The buxom fellow that was in the Reeve's garden this morning."
"Why then," quoth Beltane, turning away, "go you not to the Reeve's garden, Giles."
All day long Beltane kept the wall, eating not at all, wherefore his gloom waxed the more profound; so spake he to few men and oft exposed himself to shaft and missile. And so, all day long, wheresoever he came, on tower or keep, in corners most remote, there sure was Giles to come also, sighing amain and with brow of heavy portent, who, so oft as he met Beltane's gloomy eye, would shake his head in sad yet knowing fashion. Thus, as evening fell, Beltane finding him at his elbow yet despondent, betook him to speech at last; quoth he:
"Giles, art thou sick?"
"Aye, lord, by reason of this fellow in the blue camlet—"
"What fellow?"
"The tall and buxom fellow in the Reeve's garden."
"Ha!" quoth Beltane, frowning. "In the garden, say you—what manner of man is this?"
"O brother—a shapely man, a comely man—a man of words and cunning phrases—a man shall sing you sweet and melodious as any bird—why, I myself can sing no sweeter!"
"Cometh he there often, Giles?"
"Why lord, he cometh and he goeth—I saw him there this morning!"
"What doeth he there?"
"Nay, who shall say—Genevra is wondrous fair, yet so is she that isGenevra's friend, so do I hope belike 'tis she—"
"Hold thy peace, Giles!"
Now beholding Beltane's fierce eye and how his strong hands clenched themselves, Giles incontinent moved further off and spake in accents soft and soothing:
"And yet, tall brother, and yet 'tis belike but some gentle troubadour that singeth songs to their delectation, and 'tis meet to hark to songs sweet-sung—at moonrise, lord!"
"And wherefore at moonrise?"
"'Tis at this sweet hour your minstrel singeth best. Aye me, and to-night there is a moon!" Hereupon Beltane must needs turn to scowl upon the moon just topping the distant woods. Now as they sat thus, cometh Roger with bread and meat for his lord's acceptance; but Beltane, setting it aside, stared on Roger with baleful eye.
"Roger," said he, "wherefore hast avoided me this day?"
"Avoided thee, master—I?"
"And what did you this morning in the Reeve's garden?"
"Master, in this big world are two beings that I do truly love, and thou art one and the other Sir Fidelis thy right sweet and noble lady— so is it my joy to serve her when I may, thus daily do I go aid her with the sick."
"And what of him that singeth; saw you this troubadour within the garden?"
"Troubadour?" quoth Roger, staring.
"Why verily," nodded Giles, "my lord meaneth the tall and goodly fellow in the cloak of blue camlet, Roger."
"Ne'er have I seen one in blue cloak!" said Roger, "and this do I swear!"
"None the less," said Beltane, rising, "I will seek him there myself."
"At moonrise, lord?" questioned Giles.
"Aye," said Beltane grimly; "at moonrise!" and scowling he turned away.
"Aha!" quoth Giles, nudging Roger with roguish elbow, "it worketh,Roger, it worketh!"
"Aye, Giles, it worketh so well that an my master get his hands on this singing fellow—then woe betide this singing fellow, say I."
The moon was already filling the night with her soft splendour when Beltane, coming to a certain wall, swung himself up, and, being there, paused to breathe the sweet perfume of the flowers whose languorous fragrance wrought in him a yearning deep and passionate, and ever as love-longing grew, bitterness and anger were forgot. Very still was it within this sheltered garden, where, fraught by the moon's soft magic, all things did seem to find them added beauties.
But, even as he paused thus, he heard a step approaching, a man's tread, quick and light yet assured, and he beheld one shrouded in a long cloak of blue, a tall figure that hasted through the garden and vanished behind the tall yew hedge.
Down sprang Beltane fierce-eyed, trampling the tender flowers under cruel feet, and as he in turn passed behind the hedge the moon glittered evilly on his dagger blade. Quick and soft of foot went he until, beholding a faint light amid the leaves, he paused, then hasted on and thus came to an arbour bowered in eglantine.
She sat at a table where burned a rushlight that glowed among the splendour of her hair, for her head was bowed above the letter she was writing.
Now as he stood regarding her 'neath frowning brows, she spake, yet lifted not her shapely head.
"Well, my lord?"
"Helen, where is he that came here but now?"
Slowly she lifted her head, and setting white hands 'neath dimpled chin, met his frown with eyes of gentleness.
"Nay, first put up thy dagger, my lord."
"Helen," said he again, grim-lipped, "whom dost wait for?"
"Nay, first put up thy dagger, messire."
Frowning he obeyed, and came a pace nearer.
"What do you here with pen and ink-horn?"
"My lord, I write."
"To whom?"
"To such as it pleaseth me."
"I pray you—show me."
"Nay, for that doth not please me, messire."
"I pray you, who was he that came hither but now—a tall man in a long blue cloak?"
"I saw him not, my lord."
"So needs must I see thy letter."
"Nay, that thou shalt not, my lord," said she, and rose to her stately height.
"Aye, but I shall!" quoth Beltane softly, and came a pace yet nearer.
Now because of the grim and masterful look of him, her heart fell a-fluttering, yet she fronted him scornful-eyed, and curled her red lip at him.
"Messire," said she, "methinks you do forget I am the—"
"I remember thou art woman and thy name—Helen!"
Now at this laughed she softly and thereafter falleth to singing very sweet and blithe and merry withal.
"The letter!" said he, "give me thy letter!"
Hereupon she took up the letter, and, yet singing, crumpled it up within white fingers.
Then Beltane set by the table and reaching out sudden arms, caught her up 'neath waist and knee, and lifting her high, crushed her upon his breast.
"Helen!" said he, low-voiced and fierce, "mine art thou as I am thine, forever, 'twas so we plighted our troth within the green. Now for thy beauty I do greatly love thee, but for thy sweet soul and purity of heart I do reverence and worship thee—but an thou slay my reverent worship then this night shalt thou die and I with thee—for mine art thou and shalt be mine forever. Give me thy letter!"
But now her eyes quailed 'neath his, her white lids drooped, and sighing, she spake small-voiced:
"O my lord, thine arms are so—so tyrannous that I do fear thee— almost! And how may a poor maid, so crushed and helpless thus, gainsay thee? So prithee, O prithee take my poor letter an thou wilt ravish it from one so defenceless—O beseech thee, take it!"
So she gave the crumpled parchment into his hand, yet while he read it, nestled closer in his arms and hid her face against him; for what he read was this:
"Beloved, art thou angered, or sorrowful, or humble in thy foolish jealousy? If angered, then must I woo thee. If sorrowful, cherish thee. But being Beltane, needs must I love thee ever—so write I this, bidding thee come, my Beltane the Smith, for I—"
The crumpled letter fell to the ground.
"Helen!" he whispered, "Beloved, I am all of this, so do I need thy comfort, thy cherishing, and all thy dear love—turn thy head—O Helen, how red is thy sweet mouth!" Then stooped he, and so they kissed each other, such kisses as they ne'er had known, until she sighed and trembled and lay all breathless in his arms.
"O my lord," she whispered, "have mercy, I pray! Dear Beltane, loose me for I—I have much to tell thee."
And because of her pleading eyes he loosed her, and she, sinking upon the bench, leaned there all flushed and tremulous, and looking on him, sighed, and sighing, put up her hands and hid her face from his regard.
"Beltane," she whispered, "how wondrous a thing is this our love, so great and fierce it frighteth me—see how I tremble!" and she held out to him her hands.
Then came he and knelt before her, and kissed those slender fingers amain.
"Dear hands of Fidelis," said he, "but for their tender skill and gentle care I had not lived to know this night—O brave, small hands of Fidelis!"
"Poor Fidelis!" she sighed, "but indeed it wrung my heart to see thy woeful face when I did tell thee Fidelis was lost to thee—Nay, Beltane, stay—O prithee let me speak—"
Quoth Beltane 'twixt his kisses:
"Wherefore wert so cold and strange to me but yesterday?"
"Dear my heart," she murmured, "I needs must make thee suffer a little— just a very little, for that I had known so much of pain and heartache because of thee. But I was glad to see thee bear the wallet of poor Fidelis—and O, 'twas foolish in thee to grieve for him, for he being gone, thy Helen doth remain—unless, forsooth, thou had rather I came to thee bedight again in steel—that did so chafe me, Beltane—indeed, my tender skin did suffer much on thy account—"
"Then soon with my kisses will I seek—" But a cool, soft hand schooled his hot lips to silence and the while he kissed those sweet arresting fingers, she spake 'twixt smiling lips: "Prithee where is my shoe that was Genevra's? Indeed, 'twas hard matter to slip it off for thee, Beltane, for Genevra's foot is something smaller than mine—a very little! Nay, crush me not, messire, but tell me, what of him ye came hither seeking—the man in the long cloak—what of him?"
"Nought!" answered Beltane, "the world to-night doth hold but thee and me—"
"Aye, my Beltane, as when sick of thy wound within the little cave I nursed thee, all unknown. O love, in all thy sickness I was with thee, to care for thee. Teaching good Roger to tend thee and—to drug thee to gentle sleep that I might hold thee to me in the dark and—kiss thy sleeping lips—"
"Ah!" he sighed, "and methought 'twas but a dream! O Helen, sure none ever loved as we?"
"Nay, 'twere thing impossible, Beltane."
"And thou art truly mine?"
"Beltane—thou dost know this! Ah, love—what would you?" For of a sudden his mighty arms were close about her, and rising, he lifted her upon his breast. "What would'st do with me, Beltane?"
"Do?" quoth he, "do? This night, this very hour thou shalt wed me—"
"Nay, dear my lord—bethink thee—"
"It hath been my thought—my dearest dream since first I saw thee within the woods at Mortain—so now shalt wed me—"
"But, Beltane—"
"Shalt wed me!"
"Nay, love, I—I—thou art so sudden!"
"Aye, within this hour shalt call me 'husband'!"
"Wilt force me, my lord?"
"Aye, verily," said Beltane, "as God sees me, I will!"
"Why then," she sighed, "how may I gainsay thee!" and she hid her face against him once more. But, as he turned to leave the arbour, she stayed him:
"I prithee, now, whither dost take me, Beltane?"
"To the minster—anywhere, so that I find good Friar Martin."
"Nay, prithee, Beltane, prithee set me down!"
"What would'st, my Helen?"
"Loose me and shalt see."
So Beltane, sighing, let her go, whereupon she took a small silver whistle that hung at her girdle and sounded it.
"Ah—what do you?" he questioned.
"Wait!" said she, roguish-eyed.
And in a while came the sound of steps from the outer garden, and looking thither, Beltane beheld a tall man in cloak of blue camlet, and when this man drew near, behold! it was Giles.
"Giles!" quoth he, "thou wily rogue—"
"Giles," spake the Duchess softly, "I pray you let them come!"
Then Giles bowed him low, and smiling, hasted joyously away.
"Beltane, dear my lord," said the Duchess a little breathlessly, "because thou art true man and thy love is a noble love, I did lure thee hither to-night that I might give myself to thee in God's holy sight—an so it be thy will, my lord. O Beltane, yonder Giles and Roger do bring—Friar Martin to make me—thy wife—wherefore I do grow something fearful. 'Tis foolish in me to fear thee and yet—I do—a little, Beltane!" So saying, she looked on him with eyes full sweet and troubled, wherefore he would have kissed her, but steps drew nigh and lo! without the arbour stood the white friar with Giles and Roger in the shadows behind.
Now came Beltane and took the friar's hand.
"Holy father," said he, "O good Friar Martin, though I am but what I am, yet hath this sweet and noble lady raised me up to be what I have dreamed to be. To-night, into my care she giveth her sweet body and fair fame, of which God make me worthy."
"Sweet children," spake the friar, "this world is oft-times a hard and cruel world, but God is a gentle God and merciful, wherefore as he hath given to man the blessed sun and the sweet and tender flowers, so hath he given him love. And when two there be who love with soul as well as body, with mind as well as heart, then methinks for them this world may be a paradise. And, my children, because I do love thee for thy sweet lives and noble works, so do I joy now to bind ye one to another."
Then hand in hand, the Duchess and my Beltane knelt together, and because he had no ring, needs must she give to him one of hers; so were they wed.
As one that dreamed, Beltane knelt there murmuring the responses, and thus knelt he so long that he started to feel a soft touch upon his cheek, and looking up, behold! they were alone.
"Dost dream, my lord?" she questioned, tender-voiced.
"Aye, verily," he answered, "of the wonder of our love and thee, beloved, as I did see thee first within the thicket at Mortain, beautiful as now, though then was thy glorious hair unbound. I dream of thine eyes beneath thy nun's veil when I did bear thee in my arms from Thornaby—but most do I dream of thee as Fidelis, and the clasp of thy dear arms within the dark."
"But thou didst leave me in Mortain thicket despite my hair, Beltane!And thou didst tell me mine eyes were not—a nun's eyes, Beltane—"
"Wherefore this night do I thank God!" said he, drawing her close beside him on the bench.
"And for my arms, Beltane, thou didst think them man's arms—because they went bedight in mail, forsooth!"
"So this night shall they go bedight in kisses of my mouth! loose me this sleeve, I pray—"
"Nay, Beltane,—I do beseech thee—"
"Art not my wife?"
"Aye, my lord."
"Then loose me thy sleeve, Helen."
So blushing, trembling, needs must she obey and yield her soft arms to his caresses and hide her face because of their round, white nakedness.
But in a while she spake, low and very humble.
"Dear my lord, the moon doth set already, methinks!"
"Aye, but there is no cloud to dim her glory to-night, Helen!"
"But the hour waxeth—very late, my lord and I—must away."
"Aye, beloved, let us go."
"Nay my lord, I—O dear Beltane—"
"Wife!" said he, "dear my love and wife, have I not waited long enough?"
Hand in hand they walked amid the flowers with eyes only for each other until came they to a stair and up the stair to a chamber, rich with silk and arras and sweet with spicy odours, a chamber dim-lighted by a silver lamp pendent from carven roof-beam, whose soft glow filled the place with shadow. Yet even in this tender dimness, or because of it, her colour ebbed and flowed, her breath came apace and she stood before him voiceless and very still save for the sweet tumult of her bosom.
Then Beltane loosed off his sword and laid it upon the silken couch, but perceiving how she trembled, he set his arm about her and drew her to the open lattice where the moon made a pool of glory at their feet.
"Dost fear me, Helen?"
"Nay, my lord, I—think not."
"Then wherefore dost tremble?"
"Ah, Beltane, thou methinks dost—tremble also?"
Then Beltane knelt him at her feet and looked upon her loveliness with yearning eyes, yet touched her not:
"O beloved maid!" said he, "this is, methinks, because of thy sweet virgin eyes! For I do so love thee, Helen, that, an it be thy will, e'en now will I leave thee until thy heart doth call me!"
Now stooped she and set her white arms about him and her soft cheek to his hot brow.
"Dear my lord and—husband," she whispered, "'tis for this so sweet tenderness in thee that I do love thee best, methinks!"
"And fear me no more?"
"Aye, my lord, I do fear thee when—when thou dost look on me so, but— when thou dost look on me so—'tis then I do love thee most, my Beltane!"
Up to his feet sprang Beltane and caught her to him, breast to breast and lip to lip.
The great sword clattered to the floor; but now, even as she sank in his embrace, she held him off to stare with eyes of sudden terror as, upon the stilly night broke a thunderous rumble, a shock, and thereafter sudden roar and outcry from afar, that swelled to a wild hubbub of distant voices and cries, lost, all at once, in the raving clamour of the tocsin.
Locked thus within each other's arms, eye questioned eye, while ever the bell beat out its fierce alarm. And presently, within the garden below, was the sound of running feet and, coming to the casement, Beltane beheld a light that hovered to and fro, growing ever nearer and brighter, until he saw that he who bore it was Black Roger; and Roger's face shone with sweat and his breath laboured with his running.
"Master!" he panted, "O master—a mine! a mine! They have breached the wall beside the gate—hark, where they storm the city! Come, master, O come ere it be too late!"
Now Beltane clenched his fists and scowled on pale-faced Roger and from him to the radiant sky, yet when he spake his voice was low and even:
"I thank thee, faithful Roger! Go you and summon such of our foresters as ye may, muster them in the market-square, there will I come to thee."
Now when Roger's flickering light had vanished he turned, and found Helen close beside him; her cheeks were pale, but in her hand she held his sword.
"'Tis well thou wert not all unarmed, my lord!" she sighed, and forthwith belted the weapon about him. "Kneel down, I prithee, that I may lace for thee thy hood of mail." And when it was done she knelt also, and taking his hand pressed it to her throbbing heart, and holding him thus fell to prayer:
"O God of mercy, have in care those that fight in our defence this night, in especial guard and shield this man of mine that I do love beyond all men—O God of mercy, hear us!"
So they arose, and as he looked on her so looked she on him, and of a sudden clasped him in close and passionate embrace:
"Beltane—Beltane!" she sobbed, "God knoweth I do so love thee that thy dear flesh is mine, methinks, and the steel that woundeth thee shall hurt me also. And—O love—an thou should'st die to-night, then surely will this heart of mine die with thee—no man shall have my love other than thou—so to my grave will I go thy virgin wife for thy dear sake. Fare thee well Beltane, O dear my husband, fare thee well. Tarry no longer, lest I pray thee on my knees to go not to the battle."
So Beltane kissed her once and went forth of the chamber, looking not back. She heard the ring of his armour a-down the stair, the quick tread of his feet, and leaning from the casement watched him go; and he, knowing her there, looked not up, but with teeth hard shut and iron hands clenched, strode fast upon his way.
And now, since he looked not up, it seemed to her she was out of his thoughts already, for his face was stern and set, and in his eyes was the fierce light of battle.
And she, kneeling alone in the failing glory of the moon, hid her face within yearning, desolate arms and wept long and bitterly.
Now as Beltane hasted along he heard the tread of mailed feet, and looking round beheld the white friar, and 'neath his white frock mail gleamed, while in his hand he grasped a heavy sword. Close on his heels came many men, old men these for the most part, grey of beard and white of head, and their armour, even as they, was ancient and rusty; but the faces that stared from casque and mail-hood were grim and sorrow-lined, stern faces and purposeful, and the eyes that gleamed 'neath shaggy brows ere now had looked on sons and brothers done to death by fire and gallows, and wives and daughters shamed and ravished. And ever as they came Friar Martin smote, sword in hand, on door and shuttered window, and cried hoarse and loud:
"Ye men of Belsaye—fathers and husbands, arm ye, arm ye! Ye greybeards that have seen Duke Ivo's mercy, arm ye! Your foes be in, to burn, to loot again and ravish! O ye husbands and fathers, arise, arise—arm, arm and follow me to smite for wife and children!"
So cried the tall white friar, pallid of cheek but dauntless of eye, and ever as he cried, smote he upon door and shutter with his sword, and ever his company grew.
Within the square was Roger, hoarse-voiced, with Beltane's battered war-helm on a pike whereto the foresters mustered—hardy and brown-faced men, fitting on bascinet and buckling belt, yet very quiet and orderly. And beside Roger, Ulf the Mighty leaned him upon his axe, and in the ranks despite their bandages stood Orson the Tall and Jenkyn o' the Ford, even yet in wordy disputation.
Quoth Beltane:
"How many muster ye, Roger?"
"One hundred and nine, master."
"And where is Walkyn—where Giles?"
"With Sir Benedict, hard by the gate, master. My lord, come take thy helm—come take it, master, 'twill be a close and bitter fight—and thou art no longer thine own man—bethink thee of thy sweet wife, Sir Fidelis, master!"
So Beltane did on the great casque and even now came Sir Brian beside whom Sir Hacon limped, yet with sword bloody.
"Ha, my lord," he cried, "mine eyes do joy to see thee and these goodly fellows—'tis hard and fierce business where Benedict and his pikes do hold the gate—"
"Aye, forsooth," quoth Sir Brian, "they press their attack amain, for one that falleth, two do fill his place."
"Verily, and what fighting man could ask more of any foe? And we be fighting men, praise be to Saint Cuthbert—"
"Aye," quoth Roger, crossing himself, "Saint Cuthbert be our aid this night."
Forthwith Beltane formed his column and with Ulf and Roger beside him marched from the square. By narrow streets went they, 'neath dim-lighted casements where pale faces looked down to pray heaven's aid on them.
So came they where torch and lanthorn smoked and gleamed, by whose fitful light they beheld a barricade, rough and hastily contrived, whence Sir Benedict fought and Walkyn smote, with divers of their stout company and lusty fellows from the town. Above, upon the great flanking tower of the gate, was Giles with many archers who plied their whizzing shafts amain where, 'twixt outer and inner wall, the assailants sought to storm the barricade; but the place was narrow, and moreover, beyond the breach stout Eric, backed by his fierce townsmen, fought in desperate battle: thus, though the besiegers' ranks were constantly swelled by way of the breach, yet in that confined space their very numbers hampered them, while from sheltered wall and gate-tower Giles and his archers showered them with whistling shafts very fast and furious; so in that narrow place death was rife and in the fitful torch-glare was a sea of tossing steel and faces fierce and wild, and ever the clamour grew, shouts and screams and cries dreadful to be heard.
Now as Beltane stood to watch this, grim-lipped, for it needed but few to man the barricade, so narrow was it, Roger caught his arm and pointed to the housetops above them; and what he saw, others saw also, and a cry went up of wonder and amaze. For, high upon the roof, his mail agleam, his white robe whiter in the torch-glare, stood Friar Martin, while crouched behind him to left and right were many men in ancient and rusty armour, men grey-bearded and white of head, at sight of whom the roar of battle died down from sheer amaze until all men might hear the friar's words:
"Come, ye men of Belsaye!" he cried, "all ye that do love wife or daughter or little child—all ye that would maintain them innocent and pure—follow me!"
As he ended, his sword flashed, and, even as he sprang, so sprang all those behind him—down, down they leapt upon the close-ranked foemen below, so swift, so sudden and unexpected, that ere they could be met with pike or sword the thing was done. And now from that narrow way, dim-lit by lanthorn and torch-glare, there rose a sound more awful to hear than roar of battle, a hoarse and vicious sound like to the worrying snarl of many great and fierce hounds.
With ancient swords, with axe and dagger and fierce-rending teeth they fought, those fathers of Belsaye; thick and fast they fell, yet never alone, while ever they raved on, a company of madmen, behind the friar's white robe. Back and back the besiegers reeled before that raging fury—twice the white friar was smitten down yet twice he arose, smiting the fiercer, wherefore, because of his religious habit, the deathly pallor of his sunken cheek and the glare of his eyes, panic came, and all men shrank from the red sweep of his sword.
Then Sir Benedict sounded his horn, and sword in hand leapt over the barricade, and behind him Beltane with Roger and Ulf and Walkyn and their serried pikemen, while Sir Brian and Sir Hacon limped in their rear.
"The breach!" cried Sir Benedict, "seize we now the breach!"
"The breach! The breach!" roared a hundred voices. And now within the gloom steel rasped steel, groping hands seized and griped with merciless fingers; figures, dim-seen, sank smitten, groaning beneath the press. But on they fought, slipping and stumbling, hewing and thrusting, up and up over ruined masonry, over forms that groaned beneath cruel feet—on and ever on until within the narrow breach Beltane's long sword darted and thrust and Ulf's axe whirled and fell, while hard by Walkyn's hoarse shout went up in roaring triumph.
So within this narrow gap, where shapeless things stirred and whimpered in the dark, Beltane leaned breathless upon his sword and looked down upon the watch-fires of Duke Ivo's great camp. But, even as he gazed, these fires were blotted out where dark figures mounted fresh to the assault, and once again sword and axes fell to their dire work.
And ever as he fought Beltane bethought him of her whose pure lips voiced prayers for him, and his mighty arm grew mightier yet, and he smote and thrust untiring, while Walkyn raged upon his left, roaring amain for Red Pertolepe, and Ulf the strong saved his breath to ply his axe the faster.
Now presently as they fought thus, because the breach was grown very slippery, Beltane tripped and fell, but in that instant two lusty mailed legs bestrode him, and from the dimness above Roger's voice hailed:
"Get thee back, master—I pray thee get back and take thy rest awhile, my arm is fresh and my steel scarce blooded, so get thee to thy rest— moreover thou art a notch, lord—another accursed notch from my belt!"
Wherefore Beltane presently crept down from the breach and thus beheld many men who laboured amain beneath Sir Benedict's watchful eye to build a defence work very high and strong where they might command the breach. And as Beltane sat thus, finding himself very spent and weary, cometh Giles beside him.
"Lord," said he, leaning him on his bow, "the attack doth languish, methinks, wherefore I do praise the good God, for had they won the town—ah, when I do think on—her—she that is so pure and sweet—and Ivo's base soldiery—O sweet Jesu!" and Giles shivered.
"Forsooth, thou didst see fair Belsaye sacked—five years agone,Giles?"
"Aye, God forgive me master, for I—I—O, God forgive me!"
"Thou once did show me a goodly chain, I mind me, Giles."
"Aye, but I lost it—I lost it, master!" he cried eagerly, "O verily I did lose it, so did it avail me nothing."
"Moreover, Giles, thou didst with knowing laugh, vaunt that the women of Belsaye town were marvellous fair—and methinks didst speak truly, Giles!"
Now at this Giles bowed his head and turning him about, went heavily upon his way. Then, sighing, Beltane arose and came where stood Sir Benedict who forthwith hailed him blithely:
"Can we but hold them until the dawn, Beltane—and mark me, we can, here is a work shall make us strong 'gainst all attacks," and he pointed to the growing barricade. "But what of our noble Friar Martin? But for him, Beltane, but for him and his ancient company we had been hard put to it, lad. Ha, 'neath that white gown is saint and friar, and, what is better—a man! Now God be praised, yonder cometh the dawn at last! Though forsooth this hath been a sorry wedding-night for thee, dear lad—and for her, sweet maid—"
"Thou dost know then, Benedict?"
"Think ye not good Roger hasted to tell me, knowing thy joy is my joy— ha! list ye to those blessed joy-bells! glory be to God, there doth trusty Eric tell us he hath made an end of such as stormed the breach. But who cometh here? And by this hand, in tears!"
Already in the east was a roseate glory by whose soft light Beltane beheld Tall Orson, who grasped a bloody sword in one hand and wiped away his tears with the other. He, perceiving Beltane and Sir Benedict, limped to them forthwith and spake, albeit hoarse and brokenly.
"Lords, I do be bid hither to bring ye where he lieth a-dying—the noblest as do be in this world alive—his white robe all bloodied, lords, yet his face do be an angel's face!"
"Ah," sighed Beltane rising, "is it the noble Friar Martin, Orson?"
"Aye, lord, it do be he—as blessed me wi' his poor hand as do be so faint and feeble."
So saying, Orson brought them to a house beside the wall, wherein, upon a pallet, the white friar lay with Jenkyn beside him, and the white-haired Reeve and many other of the sturdy townsfolk about him.
Now came Beltane to kneel beside the friar, who, opening swooning eyes, smiled and spake faint-voiced:
"My lord Beltane—noble son, my work on earth is ended, methinks—so doth God call me hence—and I do go right gladly. These dying eyes grow dim—but with the deathless eyes of the soul I do see many things most plainly—so, dear and valiant children, hear ye this! The woes of Belsaye are past and done—behold, thy deliverance is at hand! I see one that rideth from the north—and this I give thee for a sign—he is tall, this man, bedight in sable armour and mounted upon a great white horse. And behind him marcheth a mighty following—the woods be bright with the gleam of armour! O ye valiant men—O children of Belsaye that I have loved so well, let now your hearts be glad! O Belsaye town, thy shames and sorrows be passed away forever. I see thee through the years a rich city and a happy, thy gates ever open to the woeful and distressed! Rejoice, rejoice—thy sorrows are past and done—even as mine. Ah, list—list ye to those bells! Hear ye not their joyful clamour—hearken!"
But indeed, silence had fallen upon Belsaye, and no sound brake the quiet save the distant hum and stir of conflict upon the broken wall. Nevertheless the friar's dying face waxed bright with a wondrous happiness.
"O blessed—blessed sound!" he whispered. Of a sudden he rose up from his pillow with radiant eyes uplifted, and stretched up arms in eager welcome.
"Sweet Jesu!" he whispered. Slowly his arms sank, the thin hands strove to fold themselves—fell apart, and, sighing rapturously, Friar Martin sank back upon his pillows like one that is weary, and, with the sigh, was dead. And lo! in that same moment, from tower and belfry near and far, rose a sudden wild and gladsome clamour of bells ringing out peal on peal of rapturous joy, insomuch that those who knelt beside that couch of death lifted bowed heads—eye questioning eye in a wonder beyond words.
And now, all at once was the ring and tramp of mailed feet coming swiftly, and in the doorway stood Roger, his riven mail befouled with battle.
"Lords!" he panted, "rejoice—rejoice! our woes and sorrows be past and done—hark ye to the bells! Our deliverance cometh from the north—you shall see the woods alight with—the gleam of their armour!"
Nothing saying, Beltane arose and went soft-treading from the chamber, past the blood and horror of the breach, and climbing the flanking tower beside the gate, looked to the north. And there he beheld a mighty company that marched forth of the woods, rank upon rank, whose armour, flashing in the early sun, made a dazzling splendour against the green. Company by company they mustered on the plain, knights and men-at-arms with footmen and archers beyond count.
And presently, before this deep array, two standards were advanced—a white banner whereon was a red lion and a banner on whose blue ground black leopards were enwrought.
Now as Beltane gazed upon this glorious host he felt a gentle hand touch him and turning, beheld the Duchess Helen, and her cheek showed pale with her long night vigil.
"My Beltane," said she, flushing 'neath his regard, "lord Duke of Mortain, behold yonder thy goodly powers of Mortain that shall do thy bidding henceforth—look yonder, my lord Duke!"
"Duke!" quoth Beltane, "Duke of Mortain—forsooth, and am I so indeed?I had forgot this quite, in thy beauty, my Helen, and did but know thatI had to wife one that I do love beyond all created things. And now,beloved, thy sweet eyes do tell me thy night was sleepless."
"Mine eyes—ah, look not on them, Beltane, for well I know these poor eyes be all red and swollen with weeping for thee—though indeed I bathed them ere I sought thee—"
"Sweet eyes of love!" said he, setting his arm about her, "come let me kiss them!"
"Ah, no, Beltane, look yonder—behold where salvation cometh—"
"I had rather look where my salvation lieth, within these dear eyes— nay, abase them not. And didst weep for me, and wake for me, my Helen?"
"I was so—so fearful for thee, my lord."
"Aye, and what more?"
"And very sorrowful—"
"Aye, and what more?"
"And—heartsick—"
"Aye, sweet my wife—but what more?"
"And—very lonely, Beltane—"
Then my Beltane caught her close and kissed her full long, until she struggled in his embrace and slipping from him, stood all flushed and breathless and shy-eyed. But of a sudden she caught his hand and pointed where, before the glittering ranks of Mortain's chivalry, a herald advanced.
"Look, Beltane," she said, "oh, look and tell me who rideth yonder!"
Now behind this herald two knights advanced, the one in glittering armour whose shield was resplendent with many quarterings, but beholding his companion, Beltane stared in wondering awe; for lo! he saw a tall man bedight in sable armour who bore a naked sword that flashed in the sun and who bestrode a great, white charger. And because of Friar Martin's dying words, Beltane stood awed and full of amaze.
Nearer and nearer they came until all men might read the cognizance upon the first knight's resplendent shield and know him for one Sir Jocelyn, lord of Alain, but his companion they knew not, since neither charge nor blazon bore he of any sort. Of a sudden the herald set clarion to lip and blew a challenge that was taken up and answered from within the camp, and forth came Duke Ivo, bare-headed in his armour and with knights attendant, who, silencing the heralds with a gesture, spake loud and fierce.
"Sir Jocelyn, lord of Alain, why come ye against me in arms and so ungently arrayed, wherefore come ye in such force, and for what?"
Then answered Sir Jocelyn:
"My lord Ivo, thou wert upon a time our honoured guest within Mortain, thou didst with honeyed word and tender phrase woo our fair young Duchess to wife. But—and heed this, my lord!—when Helen the Beautiful, the Proud, did thy will gainsay, thou didst in hearing of divers of her lords and counsellors vow and swear to come one day and seek her with flaming brands. So here to-day stand I and divers other gentles of Mortain—in especial this right noble lord—to tell thee that so long as we be men ne'er shalt set foot across our marches. Lastly, we are hither come to demand the safe conduct from Belsaye of our lady Duchess Helen, and such of the citizens as may choose to follow her."
"So!" quoth Duke Ivo, smiling and fingering his long, blue chin, "'tis war ye do force on me, my lord of Alain?"
"Nay, messire," answered Sir Jocelyn, "that must be asked of this sable knight—for he is greater than I, and leadeth where I do but follow."
Now hereupon the black knight paced slowly forward upon his great, white horse nor stayed until he came close beside Duke Ivo. Then reining in his charger, he lifted his vizor and spake in voice deep and strong.
"O thou that men call Ivo the Duke, look upon this face—behold these white hairs, this lined brow! Bethink thee of the innocent done to cruel death by thy will, the fair cities given to ravishment and flame— and judge if this be just and sufficient cause for war, and bitter war, betwixt us!"
Now beholding the face of the speaker, his proud and noble bearing, his bold eyes fierce and bright and the grim line of nose and chin, Duke Ivo blenched and drew back, the smile fled from his lip, and he stared wide of eye and breathless.
"Beltane!" quoth he at last, "Beltane—ha! methought thee dusty bones these many years—so it is war, I judge?"
For answer Duke Beltane lifted on high the long sword he bore.
"Ivo," said he, "the cries and groans of my sorrowful and distressed people have waked me from my selfish griefs at last—so am I come for vengeance on their innocent blood, their griefs and wrongs so long endured of thee. This do I swear thee, that this steel shall go unsheathed until I meet thee in mortal combat—and ere this sun be set one of us twain shall be no more."
"Be it so," answered Black Ivo, "this night belike I shall hang thee above the ruins of Belsaye yonder, and thy son with thee!" So saying, he turned about and chin on fist rode into his camp, where was mounting and mustering in hot haste.
"Beltane," spake the Duchess, clasping Beltane's hand, "dost know at last?"
"Aye," answered he with eyes aglow, "But how cometh my noble father yonder?"
"I sought him out in Holy Cross Thicket, Beltane. I told him of thy valiant doings and of thy need of instant aid, and besought him to take up arms for thee and for me and for dear Mortain, and to lead my army 'gainst—"
But Beltane, falling before her on his knee spake quick and passionate:
"O Helen—Helen the Beautiful! without thee I had been nought, and less than nought! Without thee, Pentavalon had groaned yet 'neath cruel wrong! Without thee—O without thee, my Helen, I were a thing lost and helpless in very truth!"
Now hereupon, being first and foremost a woman, young and loving and passionate, needs must she weep over him a little and stoop to cherish his golden head on her bosom, and holding it thus sweetly pillowed, to kiss him full oft and thereafter loose him and blush and sigh and turn from his regard, all sweet and shy demureness like the very maid she was.
Whereat Beltane, forgetful of all but her loveliness, heedful of nought in the world but her warm young beauty, rose up from his knees and, trembling-mute with love, would have caught her to his eager arms; but of a sudden cometh Giles, breathless—hasting up the narrow stair and, all heedless of his lord, runneth to fling himself upon his knees before the Duchess, to catch her robe and kiss it oft.
"O dear and gracious lady!" he cried, "Genevra hath told me! And is it true thou hast promised me a place within thy court at fair Mortain—is it true thou wilt lift me up that I may wed with one so much o'er me in station—is it true thou wilt give me my Genevra, my heart's desire— all unworthy though I be—I—O—" And behold! Giles's ready tongue faltered for very gratitude and on each tanned cheek were bright, quick-falling tears.
"Giles," said she, "thou wert true and faithful to my lord when his friends were few, so methinks thou should'st be faithful and true to thy sweet Genevra—so will I make thee Steward and Bailiff of Mortain an my lord is in accord—"
"Lord," quoth Giles brokenly, "ere thou dost speak, beseech thee hear this. I have thought on thy saying regarding my past days—and grieved sorely therefore. Now an ye do think my shameful past beyond redemption, if these arms be too vile to clasp her as my wife, if my love shall bring her sorrow or shame hereafter, then—because I do truly love her—I will see her no more; I will—leave her to love one more worthy than I. And this I do swear thee, master—on the cross!"
Quoth Beltane:
"Giles, he that knoweth himself unworthy, if that his love be a true love, shall by that love make himself, mayhap, worthier than most. He that loveth so greatly that in his love base self is forgot—such a man, methinks, doth love in God-like fashion. So shall it be as my lady hath said."
Then Giles arose, and wiping off his tears strove to speak his thanks but choked upon a sob instead, and turning, hasted down the turret stair.
Now presently within the city Sir Benedict's trumpets Hew, and looking from the battlement Beltane beheld Sir Hacon mustering their stout company, knights and men-at-arms, what time Roger and Walkyn and Ulf ordered what remained of their pikemen and archers.
"Beloved!" sighed Beltane, drawing his Duchess within his arm, "see yonder, 'tis horse and saddle—soon must I leave thee again."
Now did she sigh amain, and cling to him and droop her lovely head, yet when she spake her words were brave:
"My Beltane, this love of mine is such that I would not have thee fail in duty e'en though this my heart should break—but ah! husband, stay yet a little longer, I—I have been a something lonely wife hitherto, and I—do hate loneliness, Beltane—" A mailed foot sounded upon the stone stair and, turning about, they beheld a knight in resplendent armour, blazoned shield slung before.
"Greeting to thee, my lord Duke of Mortain, and to thy lovely lady wife," spake a cheery voice, and the speaker, lifting his vizor, behold! it was Sir Benedict. "I go in mine own armour to-day, Beltane, that haply thy noble father shall know me in the press. Ha, see where he ordereth his line, 'twas ever so his custom, I mind me—in four columns with archers betwixt. Mark me now lad, I have brought thee here a helm graced with these foolish feathers as is the new fashion—white feathers, see you—that my lady's sweet eyes may follow thee in the affray."
"For that, dear Benedict," cried she, "for that shalt kiss me, so off with thy great helm!" Forthwith Sir Benedict did off his casque, and stooping, kissed her full-lipped, and meeting Beltane's eye, flushed and laughed and was solemn all in a moment.
"Ah, Beltane, dear lad," quoth he, "I envy thee and grieve for thee! To possess such a maid to wife—and to leave her—so soon! May God bring thee safe again to her white arms. Ah, youth is very sweet, lad, and love—true love is youth's fair paradise and—body o' me, there sound our tuckets! See where Ivo formeth his main battle—and yonder he posteth a goodly company to shut us up within the city. So must we wait a while until the battle joins—thy noble father is wondrous wise in war—O verily he hath seen, behold how he altereth his array! O wise Beltane!"
Now Duke Ivo threw out a screen of archers and horsemen to harass the powers of Mortain what time he formed his battle in three great companies, a deep and formidable array of knights and men-at-arms whose tall lances rose, a very forest, with pennons and banderols a-flutter in the gentle wind of morning. Far on the left showed the banner of his marshal Sir Bors; above his right battle flew the Raven banner of Sir Pertolepe the Red, and above his main battle rose his own standard— a black lion on a red field. So mustered he his powers of Pentavalon, gay with stir of pennons and rich trappings; the sun flashed back from ponderous casques and bascinets innumerable and flamed on blazoned shields. And beholding their might and confident bearing, Beltane clenched nervous hands and his mouth grew hard and grim, so turned he from this formidable host to where, just beyond the woods, his father's banner flew beside the leopards of Mortain. Conspicuous upon his white charger he beheld Duke Beltane, a proud and warlike figure, who sat his stamping war-horse deep in converse with Sir Jocelyn, while behind were the dense ranks of Mortain. Suddenly, Sir Jocelyn wheeled his charger and galloped along Mortain's front, his rich armour glittering, until he halted at the head of that knightly company posted upon the left.
Meantime, Black Ivo's archers advancing, fell into arrow formation and began to ply the Mortain ranks with clouds of shafts and bolts 'neath which divers men and horses fell—what time Black Ivo's massed columns moved slowly forward to the attack—yet Duke Beltane, sitting among his knights, stirred not, and the army of Mortain abode very silent and still. But of a sudden Duke Beltane wheeled his horse, his sword flashed on high, whereat trumpets brayed and on the instant Sir Jocelyn wheeled off to the left, he and all his company, and gathering speed began to skirt Duke Ivo's advanced pikemen and archers, and so rode down upon those men of Pentavalon who were drawn up against Belsaye. Hereupon Black Ivo would have launched a counter-charge to check Sir Jocelyn's attack, but his advanced lines of cross-bowmen and archers hampered him. Once again Duke Beltane's sword flashed up, the first line of Mortain's great array leapt forward and with levelled lances thundered down upon Black Ivo's ranks, scattering and trampling down his archers; but as they checked before the serried pikes behind, forth galloped Duke Beltane's second line and after this a third— o'erwhelming Ivo's pikemen by their numbers, and bursting over and through their torn ranks, reformed, and, spurring hard, met Ivo's rank with crashing shock in full career. And, behind this raging battle, Duke Beltane rode at the head of his reserves, keen-eyed and watchful, what time Sir Jocelyn was hotly engaged upon the left, nigh unto the town itself.
"Ah, Beltane!" sighed the Duchess, shivering and covering her face— "'tis horrible, horrible—see how they fall!"
"Nay, my brave Fidelis, heed rather how valiant Sir Jocelyn and his knights drive in their advanced lines—ha! Benedict, see how he breaks their array—an he can but turn their flank—"
"Nay, Beltane—yonder cometh the Raven banner where Pertolepe spurreth in support—"
"Aye, but yonder doth my father launch yet another charge—ha! Benedict, let us out and aid them—the way lieth open beyond the drawbridge an we can but turn Ivo's flank!" quoth Beltane looking ever upon the battle, "O, methinks the time is now, Benedict!"
With Helen's soft hand a-tremble in his, Beltane hasted down from the tower and Sir Benedict followed, until they were come to the square where, amid the joyful acclaim of the populace, their small and hardy following were drawn up; and, as they came, from townsfolk and soldiery a shout arose:
"Beltane—the Duke—the Duke!"
"My lord Duke of Mortain," quoth Sir Benedict, "I and thy company do wait thee to lead us."
But Beltane smiled and shook his head.
"Not so, my lord of Bourne, thou art so cunning in war and hast led us so valiantly and well—shalt lead us to this battle, the which I pray God shall be our last! As for me, this day will I march with the foresters—so mount, my lord."
Hereupon, from foresters, from knights and men-at-arms another shout arose what time Sir Benedict, having knelt to kiss the Duchess Helen's white hand, found it woefully a-tremble.
"Alas, my lady Helen," said he, "methinks thine is the harder part this day. God strengthen thy wifely heart, for God, methinks, shall yet bring him to thine embrace!" So saying, Sir Benedict mounted and rode to the head of his lances, where flew his banner. "Unbar the gates!" he cried. And presently the great gates of Belsaye town swung wide, the portcullis clanked up, the drawbridge fell, and thus afar off they beheld where, 'mid swirling dust-cloud the battle raged fierce and fell.
And behold a sorry wight who hobbled toward them on a crutch, so begirt and bandaged that little was to see of him but bright eyes.
"O Sir Hacon!" cried the Duchess, "did I not bid thee to thy bed?"
"Why truly, dear my lady, but since I may not go forth myself, fain would I see my good comrades ride into the battle—faith, methinks I might yet couch a lance but for fear of this thy noble lady, my lord Beltane—aye me, this shall be a dismal day for me, methinks!"
"Nay, then I will keep thee company, good Sir Hacon!" smiled the Duchess a little tremulously, "shalt watch with me from the bartizan and tell me how the day goeth with us."
And now Sir Benedict lifted aloft his lance, the trumpet sounded, and with ring and tramp he with his six hundred knights and men-at-arms rode forth of the market-square, clattering through the narrow street, thundering over the drawbridge, and, forming in the open, spurred away into the battle.
Then Beltane sighed, and kneeling, kissed his lady's white hands:
"Beloved," spake he low-voiced, "e'en now must I go from thee, but howsoever fortune tend—thine am I through life—aye, and beyond."
"Beltane," she whispered 'twixt quivering lips, "O loved Beltane, take heed to thy dear body, cover thee well with thy shield since thy hurts are my hurts henceforth and with thee thou dost bear my heart—O risk not my heart to death without good cause!" So she bent and kissed him on the brow: but when he would have risen, stayed him. "Wait, my lord!" she whispered and turning, beckoned to one behind her, and lo! Genevra came forward bearing a blue banner.
"My lord," said the Duchess, "behold here thy banner that we have wrought for thee, Genevra and I."
So saying, she took the banner and gave it into Beltane's mailed hand. But as he arose, and while pale-cheeked Genevra, hands clasped upon the green scarf at her bosom, looked wet-eyed where the archers stood ranked, forth stepped Giles and spake quick and eager.
"Lord!" said he, "to-day methinks will be more hard smiting than chance for good archery, wherefore I do pray let me bear thy standard in the fight—ne'er shall foeman touch it whiles that I do live—lord, I pray thee!"
"Be it so, Giles!" So Giles took the banner whiles Beltane fitted on his great, plumed helm; thereafter comes Roger with his shield and Ulf leading his charger whereon he mounted forthwith, and wheeling, put himself at the head of his pikemen and archers, with Roger and Ulf mounted on either flank and Giles bestriding another horse behind.
Yet now needs must he turn to look his last upon the Duchess standing forlorn, and beholding the tender passion of her tearless eyes he yearned mightily to kiss them, and sighed full deep, then, giving the word, rode out and away, the blue standard a-dance upon the breeze; but his heart sank to hear the clash and clang of gate and portcullis, shutting away from him her that was more to him than life itself.
Now when they had gone some way needs must he look back at Belsaye, its battered walls, its mighty towers; and high upon the bartizan he beheld two figures, the one be-swathed in many bandages, and one he knew who prayed for him, even then; and all at once wall and towers and distant figures swam in a mist of tears wherefore he closed his bascinet, yet not before Giles had seen—Giles, whose merry face was grim now and hard-set, and from whose bright bascinet a green veil floated.
"Lord," said he, blinking bright eyes, "we have fought well ere now, but to-day methinks we shall fight as ne'er we fought in all our days."
"Aye," nodded Beltane, "verily, Giles, methinks we shall!"
Thus saying, he turned and looked upon the rolling battle-dust and settling his feet within the stirrups, clenched iron fingers upon his long sword.
All day long the din and thunder of battle had roared upon the plain; all day the Duchess Helen with Sir Hacon at her side had watched the eddying dust-clouds rolling now this way, now that, straining anxious eyes to catch the gleam of a white plume or the flutter of the blue banner amid that dark confusion. And oft she heard Sir Hacon mutter oaths half-stifled, and oft Sir Hacon had heard snatches of her breathless prayers as the tide of battle swung to and fro, a desperate fray whence distant shouts and cries mingled in awful din. But now, as the sun grew low, the close-locked fray began to roll southwards fast and ever faster, a mighty storm of eddying dust wherein armour gleamed and steel glimmered back and forth, as Duke Ivo and his proud array fell back and back on their last stronghold of Pentavalon City. Whereupon Sir Hacon, upon the bartizan, cursed no more, but forgetful of his many wounds, waxed jubilant instead.
"Now, by Holy Rood!" he cried, "see, lady—they break—they break! 'Twas that last flanking onset! None but Beltane the Strong could have marshalled that last charge—drawing on Black Ivo to attempt his centre, see you, and crushing in his flanks—so needs must their main battle fall back or meet attack on two sides! Oho, a wondrous crafty leader is Duke Beltane the Strong! See—ha, see now how fast he driveth them—and southward—southward on Pentavalon town!"
"So do I thank God, but see how many—O how many do lie fallen by the way!"
"Why, in battle, most gentle lady, in battle men must needs fall or wherefore should battles be? Much have I seen of wars, lady, but ne'er saw eyes sterner fray than this—"
"And I pray God," spake the Duchess, shivering, "these eyes may ne'er look upon another! O 'tis hateful sight—see—look yonder!" and she pointed where from the awful battle-wrack reeled men faint with wounds while others dragged themselves painfully across the trampled ground.
"Why, 'twas a bloody business!" quoth the knight, shaking his bandaged head.
"Sir Hacon," said the Duchess, frowning and pale, "I pray you summon me the Reeve, yonder." And when the Reeve was come, she spake him very soft and sweet:
"Messire, I pray you let us out and aid the poor, stricken souls yonder."
"But lady, the battle is not yet won—to open our gates were unwise, methinks."
"Good Reeve, one died but lately whom all men loved, but dying, Friar Martin spake these words—'I see Belsaye rich and happy, her gates ever open to the woeful and distressed.' Come, ope the gates and let us out to cherish these afflicted."
Thus presently forth from Belsaye rode the Duchess Helen, with Sir Hacon beside her and many of the townsfolk, hasting pale-cheeked and trembling to minister unto the hurt and dying, and many there were that day who sighed out their lives in blessings on her head.
But meantime the battle roared, fierce and furious as ever, where Black Ivo's stubborn ranks, beset now on three sides, gave back sullenly, fighting step by step.
And amid the blood and dust, in the forefront of that raging tumult, a torn and tattered blue banner rocked and swayed, where Beltane with Giles at his right hand led on his grim foresters, their ranks woefully thinned and with never a horse among them. But Roger was there, his face besmeared with blood that oozed 'neath his dinted bascinet, and Ulf was there, foul with slaughter, and there was Walkyn fierce and grim, while side by side amid the trampling pikemen behind, Jenkyn and Tall Orson fought. And presently to Beltane came Walkyn, pointing eagerly to their left.
"Master," he cried, "yonder flaunteth Pertolepe's banner, beseech thee let us make thitherward—"
"Not so," quoth Beltane, stooping 'neath the swing of a gisarm, "O forget thy selfish vengeance, man, and smite but for Pentavalon this day—her foes be many enow, God wot! Ho!" he roared, "they yield! they yield! Close up pikes—in, in—follow me!" Forward leapt he with Roger beside him and the blue banner close behind, and forward leapt those hardy foresters where the enemy's reeling line strove desperately to stand and re-form. So waxed the fight closer, fiercer; griping hands fumbled at mailed throats and men, locked in desperate grapple, fell and were lost 'neath the press; but forward went the tattered banner, on and on until, checking, it reeled dizzily, dipped, swayed and vanished; but Roger had seen and sprang in with darting point.
"Up, man," he panted, covering the prostrate archer with his shield, "up, Giles, an ye can—we're close beset—"
"But we be here, look'ee Roger—'tis we, look'ee!" cried a voice behind.
"Aye, it do be us!" roared another voice, and Roger's assailants were borne back by a line of vicious-thrusting pikes.
"Art hurt, Giles?"