But now, above the din and tumult of the fight below, shrill and high rose the notes of a horn winded from the woods in the east, that was answered—like an echo, out of the woods in the west; and, down the banks to right and left, behold Sir Pertolepe's archers came leaping and tumbling, pursued by a hissing arrow shower. Whereat up sprang Giles, despite his bonds, shouting amain:
"O, Walkyn o' the Long Legs—a rescue! To us! Arise, I will arise!" Now while he shouted thus, came one of the four archers, and Giles was smitten to his knees; but, as the archer whirled up his quarter-staff to strike again, an arrow took him full in the throat, and pitching upon his face, he lay awhile, coughing, in the dust.
Now as his comrades yet stared upon this man so suddenly dead, down from the bank above leapt one who bore a glittering axe, with divers wild and ragged fellows at his heels; came a sound of shouting and blows hard smitten, a rush of feet and, thereafter, silence, save for the din of battle afar. But, upon the silence, loud and sudden rose a high-pitched quavering laugh, and Giles spake, his voice yet shrill and unsteady.
"'Twas Walkyn—ha, Saint Giles bless Walkyn's long legs! 'Twas Walkyn I saw—Walkyn hath brought down the outlaws—the woods be full of them. Oho! Sir Pertolepe's slow fire shall not roast me yet awhile, nor his dogs mumble the carcase, my Rogerkin!"
"Aye," quoth Roger feebly, "but what of my lord, see how still he lieth!"
"Forsooth," exclaimed the archer, writhing in his bonds to stare upon Beltane, "forsooth, Roger, he took a dour ding upon his yellow pate, look ye; but for his mail-coif he were a dead man this hour—"
"He lieth very still," groaned Roger.
"Yet is he a mighty man and strong, my Rogerkin-never despond, man, for I tell thee—ha!—heard ye that outcry? The outlaws be at work at last, they have Sir Pertolepe out-flanked d'ye see—now might ye behold what well-sped shafts can do upon a close array—pretty work-sweet work! Would I knew where Walkyn lay!"
"Here, comrade!" said a voice from the shade of the great tree.
"How—what do ye there?" cried the archer.
"Wait for Red Pertolepe."
"Why then, sweet Walkyn, good Walkyn—come loose us of our bonds that we may wait with thee—"
"Nay," growled Walkyn, "ye are the bait. When the outlaws have slain enough of them, Pertolepe's men must flee this way: so will Red Pertolepe stay to take up his prisoners, and so shall I slay him in that moment with this mine axe. Ha!—said I not so? Hark I they break already! Peace now—wait and watch." So saying, Walkyn crouched behind the tree, axe poised, what time the dust and roar of battle rolled toward them up the hill. And presently, from out the rolling cloud, riderless horses burst and thundered past, and after them—a staggering rout, mounted and afoot, spurring and trampling each other 'neath the merciless arrow-shower that smote them from the banks above. Horse and foot they thundered by until at last, amid a ring of cowering men-at-arms, Sir Pertolepe galloped, his white horse bespattered with blood and foam, his battered helm a-swing upon its thongs; grim-lipped and pale he rode, while his eyes, aflame 'neath scowling brows, swept the road this way and that until, espying Beltane 'neath the tree, he swerved aside in his career and strove to check his followers' headlong flight.
"Stay," cried he striking right and left. "Halt, dogs, and take up the prisoners. Ha! will ye defy me-rogues, caitiffs! Fulk! Raoul! Denis! Ho, there!"
But no man might stay that maddened rush, wherefore, swearing a great oath, Sir Pertolepe spurred upon Beltane with Beltane's sword lifted for the blow. But, from the shade of the tree a mighty form uprose, and Sir Pertolepe was aware of a hoarse, glad cry, saw the whirling flash of a broad axe and wrenched hard at his bridle; round staggered the white horse, down came the heavy axe, and the great horse, death-smitten, reared up and up, back and back, and crashing over, was lost 'neath the dust of swift-trampling hoofs.
Now presently, Beltane was aware that his bonds cramped him no longer, found Roger's arm about him, and at his parched lips Roger's steel head-piece brimming with cool, sweet water; and gulping thirstily, soon felt the numbness lifted from his brain and the mist from his eyes; in so much that he sat up, and gazing about, beheld himself alone with Roger.
Quoth he, looking down at his swollen wrists:
"Do we go free then, Roger?"
"Aye, master—though ye had a woundy knock upon the head."
"And what of Giles?"
"He is away to get him arrows to fill his quiver, and to fill his purse with what he may, for the dead lie thick in the road yonder, and there is much plunder."
"And Walkyn?"
"Walkyn, master, having slain Sir Pertolepe's horse yonder, followethPertolepe, minded straight to slay him also."
"Yet dost thou remain, Roger."
"Aye, lord; and here is that which thou wilt need again, methinks; I found it hard by Sir Pertolepe's dead horse." So saying, Roger put Beltane's great sword into his hand. Then Beltane took hold upon the sword, and rising to his feet stretched wide his arms, and felt his strength renewed within him. Therefore he sheathed the sword and set his hand on Roger's broad, mail-clad shoulder.
"Roger," said he, "thou faithful Roger, God hath delivered us from shameful death, wherefore, I hold, He hath yet need of these our bodies."
"As how, master?"
"As I went, nigh swooning in my bonds, methought I heard tell that Sir Gilles of Brandonmere had captive certain women; so now must we deliver them, thou and I, an it may be so."
"Lord," quoth Roger, "Sir Gilles marcheth with the remnant of his company, and we are but two. Let us therefore get with us divers of these outlaws."
"I have heard tell that to be a woman and captive to Sir Gilles or Pertolepe the Red is to be brought to swift and dire shame. So now let us deliver these women from shame, thou and I. Wilt go with me, Roger?"
"Aye lord, that will I: yet first pray thee aid me to bind a clout upon my arm, for my wound irketh me somewhat."
And in a while, when Beltane had laved and bound up Roger's wound, they went on down the darkening road together.
It was a night of wind with a flying cloud-wrack overhead whence peeped the pallid moon betimes; a night of gloom and mystery. The woods about them were full of sounds and stealthy rustlings as they strode along the forest road, and so came to that dark defile where the fight had raged. Of what they saw and heard within that place of slaughter it bodeth not to tell, nor of those figures, wild and fierce, that crouched to strip the jumbled slain, or snarled and quarrelled over the work.
"Here is good plunder of weapons and armour," quoth Roger, "'tis seldom the outlaws come by such. Hark to that cry! There died some wounded wight under his plunderer's knife!"
"God rest his soul, Amen!" sighed Beltane. "Come, let us hence!" And forthwith he began to run. So in a little while they passed through that place of horror unseen, and so came out again upon the forest road. Ever and anon the moon sent down a feeble ray 'neath which the road lay a-glimmer 'twixt the gloom of the woods, whence came groans and wailings with every wind-gust, whereat Roger quailed, and fumbling at his sword-hilt, pressed closer upon Beltane.
"Master," he whispered, "'tis an evil night—methinks the souls of the dead be abroad—hark to those sounds! Master, I like it not!—"
"'Tis but the wind, Roger."
"'Tis like the cries of women wailing o'er their dead, I have heard such sounds ere now; I would my belt bore fewer notches, master!"
"They shall be fewer ere dawn, Roger, I pray God!"
"Master—an I am slain this night, think ye I must burn in hell-fire— remembering these same notches?"
"Nay, for surely God is a very merciful God, Roger. Hark!" quoth Beltane, and stopped of a sudden, and thus above the wailing of the wind they presently heard a feeble groaning hard by, and following the sound, beheld a blotch upon the glimmering road. Now as they drew near the moon peeped out, and showed a man huddled 'neath a bush beside the way, whose face gleamed pale amid the shadows.
"Ha!" cried Roger, stooping, "thou'rt of Brandonmere?"
"Aye—give me water—I was squire to Sir Gilles—God's love—give me— water!"
Then Beltane knelt, and saw this was but a youth, and bidding Roger bring water from a brook near by, took the heavy head upon his knee.
"Messire," said he, "I have heard that Sir Gilles beareth women captive."
"There is—but one, and she—a nun. But nuns are—holy women—so I withstood my lord in his—desire. And my lord—stabbed me—so must I die—of a nun, see you!—Ah—give me—water!"
"Where doth he ride this night, messire?"
"His men—few—very weary—Sir Pertolepe's—men-at-arms—caught us i' the sunken road—Sir Gilles—to Thornaby Mill—beside the ford—O God —water!"
"'Tis here!" quoth Roger, kneeling beside him; then Beltane set the water to the squire's eager lips, but, striving to drink he choked, and choking, fell back—dead.
So in a while they arose from their knees and went their way, while the dead youth lay with wide eyes that seemed to out-stare the pallid moon.
Now as they went on very silently together, of a sudden Black Roger caught Beltane by the arm and pointed into the gloom, where, far before them, small lights winked redly through the murk.
"Yon should be Sir Gilles' watch-fires!" he whispered.
"Aye," nodded Beltane, "so I think."
"Master—what would ye now?"
"Pray, Roger—I pray God Sir Gilles' men be few, and that they be sound sleepers. Howbeit we will go right warily none the less." So saying, Beltane turned aside from the road and led on through underbrush and thicket, through a gloom of leaves where a boisterous wind rioted; where great branches, dim seen, swayed groaning in every fierce gust, and all was piping stir and tumult. Twigs whipped them viciously, thorns dragged at them, while the wind went by them, moaning, in the dark. But, ever and anon as they stumbled forward, guiding themselves by instinct, the moon sent forth a pale beam from the whirling cloud-wrack —a phantom light that stole upon them, sudden and ghost-like, and, like a ghost, was gone again; what time Black Roger, following hard on Beltane's heel, crossed himself and muttered fragments of forgotten prayers. Thus at last they came to the river, that flowed before them vague in the half-light, whose sullen waters gurgled evilly among the willows that drooped upon the marge.
"Master," said Roger, wiping sweat from his face, "there's evil hereabouts—I've had a warning—a dead man touched me as we came through the brush yonder."
"Nay Roger, 'twas but some branch—"
"Lord, when knew ye a branch with—fingers—slimy and cold—upon my cheek here. 'Twas a warning, master—he dead hand! One of us twain goeth to his death this night!"
"Let not thine heart fail therefor, good Roger: man, being dead, liveth forever—"
"Nay, but—the dead hand, master—on my cheek, here—Ah!—" Crying thus, Black Roger sprang and caught Beltane's arm, gripping it fast, for on the air, borne upon the wind, yet louder than the wind, a shrill sound rang and echoed, the which, passing, seemed to have stricken the night to silence. Then Beltane brake from Roger's clasp, and ran on beside the river, until, beyond the sullen waters the watch-fires flared before him, in whose red light the mill loomed up rugged and grim, its massy walls scarred and cracked, its great wheel fallen to ruin.
Now above the wheel was a gap in the masonry, an opening roughly square that had been a window, mayhap, whence shone a warm, mellow light.
"Master," panted Roger, "a God's name—what was it?"
"A woman screamed!" quoth Beltane, staring upon the lighted window. As he spake a man laughed sleepily beside the nearest watch-fire, scarce a bow-shot away.
"Look'ee, master," whispered Roger, "we may not cross by the ford because of the watch-fires—'tis a fair light to shoot by, and the river is very deep hereabouts."
"Yet must we swim it, Roger."
"Lord, the water is in flood, and our armour heavy!"
"Then must we leave our armour behind," quoth Beltane, and throwing back his hood of mail, he began to unbuckle his broad belt, but of a sudden, stayed to point with outstretched finger. Then, looking whither he pointed, Roger saw a tree whose hole leaned far out across the stream, so that one far-flung branch well nigh scraped the broken roof of the mill.
"Yon lieth our way, Roger—come!" said he.
Being come to that side of the tree afar from the watch-fires, Beltane swung himself lightly and began to climb, but hearing a groan, paused.
"Roger," he whispered, "what ails thee, Roger?"
"Alas!" groaned Roger, "'tis my wound irketh me; O master, I cannot follow thee this way!"
"Nay, let me aid thee," whispered Beltane, reaching down to him. But, despite Beltane's strong hand, desperately though he tried, Black Roger fell back, groaning.
"Master," he pleaded, "O master, adventure not alone lest ill befall thee." "Aye, but I must, Roger."
Then Roger leaned his head upon his sound arm, and wept full bitterly.
"O master,—O sweet lord," quoth he, "bethink thee now of the warning— the dead hand—"
"Yet must I go, my Roger."
"Then—an they kill thee, lord, so shall they kill me also; thy man amI, to live or die with thee—"
"Nay, Roger, sworn art thou to redeem Pentavalon: so now, in her name do I charge thee, haste to Sir Jocelyn, an he yet live—seek Giles and Walkyn and whoso else ye may, and bring them hither at speed. If ye find me not here, then hie ye all to Thrasfordham, for by to-morrow Sir Pertolepe and Gui of Allerdale will have raised the country against us. Go now, do even as I command, and may God keep thee, my faithful Roger." Then Beltane began to climb, but being come where the great branch forked, looked down to see Roger's upturned face, pale amid the gloom below.
"The holy angels have thee in their keeping, lord and master!" he sighed, and so turned with head a-droop and was gone. And now Beltane began to clamber out across the swirl of dark waters, while the tough bough swung and swayed beneath him in every gust of wind, wherefore his going was difficult and slow, and he took heed only to his hands and feet.
But, all at once, he heard a bitter, broken cry, and glancing up, it chanced that from his lofty perch he could look within the lighted window, and thus beheld a nun, whose slender, black-robed body writhed and twisted in the clasp of two leathern-clad arms; vicious arms, that bent her back and back across the rough table, until into Beltane's vision came the leathern-clad form of him that held her: a black-haired, shapely man, whose glowing eyes and eager mouth stooped ever nearer above the nun's white loveliness.
And thus it was that my Beltane first looked upon Sir Gilles of Brandonmere. He had laid sword and armour by, but as the nun yet struggled in his arms, her white hand came upon and drew the dagger at his girdle, yet, ere she could strike, Sir Gilles had seen and leapt back out of reach.
Then Beltane clambered on at speed, and with every yard their voices grew more loud—hers proud and disdainful, his low and soft, pierced, now and then, by an evil, lazy laugh.
Now ever as Beltane went, the branch swayed more dizzily, bending more and more beneath his weight, and ever as he drew nearer, between the wind-gusts came snatches of their talk.
"Be thou nun, or duchess, or strolling light-o'-love, art woman—by Venus! fair and passing fair!—captive art thou—aye, mine, I tell thee—yield thee—hast struggled long enough to save thy modesty—yield thee now, else will I throw thee to my lusty rogues without—make them sport—"
"O—beast—I fear thee not! For thy men—how shall they harm me, seeingI shall be dead!"
Down swayed the branch, low and lower, until Beltane's mailed foot, a-swing in mid air, found something beneath—slipped away—found it again, and thereupon, loosing the branch, down he came upon the ruined mill-wheel. Then, standing upon the wheel, his groping fingers found divers cracks in the worn masonry—moreover the ivy was thick; so, clinging with fingers and toes, up he went, higher and higher until his steel-mittened hands gripped the sill: thus, slowly and cautiously he drew himself up until his golden head rose above the sill and he could peer into the room.
Sir Gilles half stood, half sat upon the table, while the nun faced him, cold and proud and disdainful, the gleaming dagger clutched to her quick-heaving bosom; and Sir Gilles, assured and confident, laughed softly as he leaned so lazily, yet ever he watched that gleaming steel, waiting his chance to spring. Now as they stood fronting each other thus, the nun stirred beneath his close regard, turned her head, and on the instant Beltane knew that she had seen him; knew by the sudden tremor of her lips, the widening of her dark eyes, wherein he seemed to read wonder, joy, and a passionate entreaty; then, even as he thrilled to meet that look, down swept languorous lid and curling lash, and, sighing, she laid the dagger on the table. For a moment Sir Gilles stared in blank amaze, then laughed his lazy laugh.
"Ah, proud beauty! 'Tis surrender then?" said he, and speaking, reached for the dagger; but even as he did so, the nun seized the heavy table and thrust with sudden strength, so that Sir Gilles, taken unawares, staggered back and back—to the window. Then Beltane reached up into the room and, from behind, caught Sir Gilles by the throat and gripped him with iron fingers, strangling all outcry, and so, drawing himself over the sill and into the room, dragged Sir Gilles to the floor and choked him there until his eyes rolled upward and he lay like one dead. Then swiftly Beltane took off the belt of Sir Gilles and buckled it tight about the wrists and arms of Sir Gilles, and, rending strips from Sir Gilles' mantle that lay near, therewith fast gagged and bound him. Now it chanced that as he knelt thus, he espied the dagger where it lay, and taking it up, glanced from it to Sir Gilles lying motionless in his bonds. But as he hesitated, there came a sudden knocking on the door and a voice spake without:
"My lord! my lord—'tis I—'tis Lupo. My lord, our men be few and wearied, as ye know. Must I set a guard beyond the ford, think you, or will the four watch-fires suffice?"
Now, glancing up, scarce breathing, Beltane beheld the nun who crouched down against the wall, her staring eyes turned towards the door, her cheeks ashen, her lips a-quiver with deadly fear. Yet, even so, she spake. But that 'twas she indeed who uttered the words he scarce could credit, so soft and sweetly slumberous was her voice:
"My lord is a-weary and sleepeth. Hush you, and come again with the dawn." Now was a moment's breathless silence and thereafter an evil chuckle, and, so chuckling, the man Lupo went down the rickety stair without.
And when his step was died away, Beltane drew a deep breath, and together they arose, and so, speaking no word, they looked upon each other across the prostrate body of Sir Gilles of Brandonmere.
Eyes long, thick-lashed and darkly blue that looked up awhile into his and anon were hid 'neath languorous-drooping lids; a nose tenderly aquiline; lips, red and full, that parted but to meet again in sweet and luscious curves; a chin white, and round, and dimpled.
This Beltane saw 'twixt hood and wimple, by aid of the torch that flickered against the wall; and she, conscious of his look, stood with white hands demurely crossed upon her rounded bosom, with eyes abased and scarlet lips apart, as one who waits—expectant. Now hereupon my Beltane felt himself vaguely at loss, and finding he yet held the dagger, set it upon the table and spake, low-voiced.
"Reverend Mother—" he began, and stopped—for at the word her dark lashes lifted and she stared upon him curiously, while slowly her red lips quivered to a smile. And surely, surely this nun so sweet and saintly in veiling hood and wimple was yet a very woman, young and passing fair; and the eyes of her—how deep and tender and yet how passionate! Now beholding her eyes, memory stirred within him and he sighed, whereat she sighed also and meekly bowed her head, speaking him with all humility.
"Sweet son, speak on—thy reverend mother heareth."
Now did Beltane, my Innocent, rub his innocent chin and stand mumchance awhile, finding nought to say—then:
"Lady," he stammered, "lady—since I have found thee—let us go while yet we may."
"Messire," says she, with eyes still a-droop, "came you in sooth—in quest of me?"
"Yea, verily. I heard Sir Gilles had made captive of a nun, so came I to deliver her—an so it might be."
"E'en though she were old, and wrinkled, and toothless, messire?"
"Lady," says my Innocent, staring and rubbing his chin a little harder, "surely all nuns, young and old, be holy women, worthy a man's reverence and humble service. So would I now bear thee from this unhallowed place—we must be far hence ere dawn—come!"
"Aye, but whither?" she sighed, "death is all about us, messire—how may we escape it? And I fear death no whit—now, messire!"
"Aye, but I do so, lady, since I have other and greater works yet to achieve."
"How, messire, is it so small a thing to have saved a nun—even though she be neither old, nor wrinkled, nor toothless?" And behold, the nun's meek head was high and proud, her humility forgotten quite.
Then she frowned, and 'neath her sombre draperies her foot fell a-tapping; a small foot, dainty and slender in its gaily broidered shoe, so much at variance with her dolorous habit. But Beltane recked nought of this, for, espying a narrow window in the opposite wall, he came thither and thrusting his head without, looked down upon the sleeping camp. And thus he saw that Sir Gilles' men were few indeed, scarce three-score all told he counted as they lay huddled about the smouldering watch-fires, deep-slumbering as only men greatly wearied might. Even the sentinels nodded at their posts, and all was still save for the rush of a sudden wind-gust, or the snort and trampling of the horses. And leaning thus, Beltane marked well where the sentinels lolled upon their pikes, or marched drowsily to and fro betwixt the watch-fires, and long he gazed where the horses were tethered, two swaying, trampling lines dim-seen amid the further shadows. Now being busied measuring with his eye the distances 'twixt sentinel and sentinel, and noting where the shadows lay darkest, he was suddenly aware of the nun close beside him, of the feel of her, soft and warm against him, and starting at the contact, turned to find her hand, small and white, upon his mailed arm.
"Sweet son," said she soft-voiced, from the shadow of her sombre hood, "thy reverend mother now would chide thee, for that having but short while to live, thou dost stand thus mumchance, staring upon vacancy— for, with the dawn, we die."
Quoth Beltane, deeply conscious of the slender hand:
"To die, nay—nay—thou'rt too young and fair to die—"
Sighed she, with rueful smile:
"Thou too art neither old nor cold, nor bent with years, fair son. Come then, till death let us speak together and comfort each other. Lay by thy melancholy as I now lay by this hood and wimple, for the night is hot and close, methinks."
"Nay, lady, indeed 'tis cool, for there is much wind abroad," says Beltane, my Innocent. "Moreover, while standing here, methinks I have seen a way whereby we may win free—"
Now hereupon she turned and looked on him, quick-breathing and with eyes brim-full of fear.
"Messire!" she panted, "O messire, bethink thee. For death am I prepared—to live each moment fully till the dawn, then when they came to drag me down to—to shame, then should thy dagger free me quite— such death I'd smile to meet. But ah! should we strive to flee, and thou in the attempt be slain—and I alive—the sport of that vile rabblement below—O, Christ,—not that!" and cowering, she hid her face.
"Noble lady," said Beltane, looking on her gentle-eyed, "indeed I too had thought on that!" and, coming to the table, he took thence the dagger of Sir Gilles and would have put it in her hand, but lo! she shrank away.
"Not that, messire, not that," she sighed, "thy dagger let it be, since true knight art thou and honourable, I pray you give me thine. It is thy reverend mother asks," and smiling pale and wan, she reached out a white, imperious hand. So Beltane drew his dagger and gave it to her keeping; then, having set the other in his girdle, he crossed to the door and stood awhile to hearken.
"Lady," said he, "there is no way for us but this stair, and meseemeth 'tis a dangerous way, yet must we tread it together. Reach me now thy hand and set it here in my girdle, and, whatsoe'er befall, loose not thy hold." So saying, Beltane drew his sword and set wide the door. "Look to thy feet," he whispered, "and tread soft!" Then, with her trailing habit caught up in her left hand and with her right upon his belt, the nun followed Beltane out upon the narrow stair. Step by step they stole downwards into the dark, pausing with breath in check each time the timbers creaked, and hearkening with straining ears. Down they went amid the gloom until they spied an open door below, beyond which a dim light shone, and whence rose the snoring of wearied sleepers. Ever and anon a wind-gust smote the ancient mill and a broken shutter rattled near by, what time they crept a pace down the creaking stair until at last they stood upon the threshold of a square chamber upon whose broken hearth a waning fire burned, by whose uncertain light they espied divers vague forms that stirred now and then and groaned in their sleep as they sprawled upon the floor: and Beltane counted three who lay 'twixt him and the open doorway, for door was there none. Awhile stood Beltane, viewing the sleepers 'neath frowning brows, then, sheathing his sword, he turned and reached out his arms to the nun in the darkness and, in the dark, she gave herself, warm and yielding, into his embrace, her arms clung soft about him, and he felt her breath upon his cheek, as clasping his left arm about her, he lifted her high against his breast. And now, even as she trembled against him, so trembled Beltane also yet knew not why; therefore of a sudden he turned and stepped into the chamber. A man started up beside the hearth, muttering evilly; and Beltane, standing rigid, gripped his dagger to smite, but even then the muttering ceased, and falling back, the man rolled over and fell a-snoring again. So, lightly, swiftly, Beltane strode over the sprawling sleepers—out through the open doorway—out into the sweet, cool night beyond—out into the merry riot of the wind. Swift and sure of foot he sped, going ever where the shadows lay deepest, skirting beyond reach of the paling watch-fires, until he was come nigh where the horses stamped and snorted. Here he set the nun upon her feet, and bidding her stir not, crept towards the horses, quick-eyed and watchful. And thus he presently espied a man who leaned him upon a long pike, his face set toward the nearest watch-fire: and the man's eyes were closed, and he snored gently. Then Beltane shifted his dagger to his left hand, and being come within reach, drew back his mailed fist and smote the sleeper betwixt his closed eyes, and catching him as he fell, laid him gently on the grass.
Now swift and silent came Beltane to where the horses champed, and having made choice of a certain powerful beast, slipped off his chain mittens and rolled back sleeve of mail and, low-stooping in the shadow, sought and found the ropes whereto the halters were made fast, and straightway cut them in sunder. Then, having looked to girth and bridle, he vaulted to the saddle, and drawing sword, shouted his battle-cry fierce and loud: "Arise! Arise!" and, so shouting, smote the frighted horses to right and left with the flat of the long blade, so that they reared up whinnying, and set off a-galloping in all directions, filling the air with the thunder of their rushing hoofs.
And now came shouts and cries with a prodigious confusion and running to and fro about the dying watch-fires. Trumpets blared shrill, hoarse voices roared commands that passed unheeded in the growing din and tumult that swelled to a wild clamour of frenzied shouting:
"Fly! fly! Pertolepe is upon us! 'tis the Red Pertolepe!"
But Beltane, riding warily amid the gloom, came to that place where he had left the nun, yet found her not, and immediately was seized of a great dread. But as he stared wildly about him, he presently heard a muffled cry, and spurring thitherwards, beheld two dim figures that swayed to and fro in a fierce grapple. Riding close, Beltane saw the glint of mail, raised his sword for the blow, felt a shock—a searing smart, and knew himself wounded; but now she was at his stirrup, and stooping, he swung her up to the withers of his horse, and wheeling short about, spurred to a gallop; yet, as he rode, above the rush of wind and thud of hoofs, he heard a cry, hoarse and dolorous. On galloped Beltane all unheeding, until he came 'neath the leafy arches of the friendly woods, within whose gloom needs must he ride at a hand's pace. Thus, as they went, they could hear the uproar behind—a confused din that waxed and waned upon the wind.
But Beltane, riding slow and cautious within the green, heeded this not at all, nor the throb of his wounded arm, nor aught under heaven save the pressure of this slender body that lay so still, so warm and soft within his arm; and as he went, he began to wish for the moon that he might see her face.
Blue eyes, long and heavy-lashed! Surely blue eyes were fairest in a woman? And then the voice of her, liquid and soft like the call of merle or mavis. And she was a nun! How white and slim her hands, yet strong and resolute, as when she grasped the dagger 'gainst Sir Gilles; aye—resolute hands, like the spirit within her soft and shapely body. And then again—her lips; red and full, up-curving to sweet, slow smile, yet withal tinged with subtle mockery. With such eyes and such lips she might—aye, but she was a nun—a nun, forsooth!
"Messire!" Beltane started from his reverie. "Art cold, messire?"
"Cold!" stammered Beltane, "cold? Indeed no, lady."
"Yet dost thou tremble!"
"Nathless, I am not cold, lady."
"Then wherefore tremble?"
"Nay, I—I know not. In sooth, do I so, lady?"
"Verily, sir, and therewith sigh, frequent and O, most dolorous to hear!"
Now at this, my Beltane finding naught to say, straightway sighed again; and thus they rode awhile, speaking nothing.
"Think you we are safe, messire?" she questioned him at last.
"Tis so I pray, lady."
"Thou hast done right valiantly to-night on my behalf," says she. "How came you in at the window?"
"By means of a tree, lady."
"Art very strong, messire, and valiant beyond thought. Thou hast this night, with thy strong hand, lifted me up from shameful death: so, by right, should my life be thine henceforth." Herewith she sighed, leaning closer upon his breast, and Beltane's desire to see her face grew amain.
"Messire," said she, "methinks art cold indeed, or is it that I weary thee?"
"Nay, thou'rt wondrous easy to bear thus, lady."
"And whither do ye bear me, sir—north or south? And yet it mattereth nothing," says she, soft-voiced, "since we are safe—together!" Now hereafter, as Beltane rode, he turned his eyes full oft to heaven— yearning for the moon.
"What woods be these, messire?" she questioned.
"'Tis the wilderness that lieth betwixt Pentavalon and Mortain, lady."
"Know ye Mortain, sir?"
"Yea, verily," he answered, and sighed full deep. And as he sighed, lo, in that moment the moon peeped forth of a cloud-rift and he beheld the nun looking up at him with eyes deep and wistful, and, as she gazed, her lips curved in slow and tender smile ere her lashes drooped, and sighing, she hid her face against him in the folds of her mantle, while Beltane must needs bethink him of other eyes so very like, and yet so false, and straightway—sighed.
"Messire," she murmured, "pray now, wherefore do ye sigh so oft?"
"For that thine eyes do waken memory, lady."
"Of a woman?"
"Aye—of a woman."
"And thou dost—love her, messire?"
"Unto my dole, lady."
"Ah, can it be she doth not love thee, messire?"
"Indeed, 'tis most certain!"
"Hath she then told thee so—of herself?"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "not in so many words, lady, and yet—"
"And yet," quoth the nun, suddenly erect, "thou must needs run away and leave her—poor sweet wretch—to mourn for thee, belike, and grieve— aye, and scorn thee too for a faint-heart!"
"Nay, lady, verily I—"
"O, indeed me thinks she must contemn thee in her heart, poor, gentle soul—aye, scorn and despise thee woefully for running away; indeed, 'tis beyond all doubt, messire!"
"Lady," quoth Beltane, flushing in the dark, "you know naught of the matter—"
"Why then shalt thou tell me of it, messire—lo, I am listening." So saying, she settled herself more aptly within his encircling arm.
"First, then," said Beltane, when they had ridden awhile in silence, "she is a duchess, and very proud."
"Yet is she a woman, messire, and thou a man whose arms be very strong!"
"Of what avail strong arms, lady, 'gainst such as she?"
"Why, to carry her withal, messire."
"To—to carry her!" quoth Beltane in amaze.
"In very truth, messire. To lift her up and bear her away with thee—"
"Nay—nay, to—bear her away? O, 'twere thing impossible!"
"Is this duchess so heavy, messire?" sighed the nun, "is she a burden beyond even thy strength, sir knight?"
"Lady, she is the proud Helen, Duchess of Mortain!" quoth Beltane, frowning at the encompassing shadows. Now was the nun hushed awhile, and when at last she spake her voice was low and wondrous gentle.
"And is it indeed the wilful Helen that ye love, messire?"
"Even she, unto my sorrow."
"Thy sorrow? Why then, messire—forget her."
"Ah!" sighed Beltane, "would I might indeed, yet needs must I love her ever."
"Alack, and is it so forsooth," quoth the nun, sighing likewise. "Ah me, my poor, fond son, now doth thy reverend mother pity thee indeed, for thou'rt in direful case to be her lover, methinks."
Now did my Beltane frown the blacker by reason of bitter memory and the pain of his wound. "Her lover, aye!" quoth he, bitterly, "and she hath a many lovers—"
"Lovers!" sighed the nun, "that hath she, the sad, sweet soul! Lovers! —O forsooth, she is sick of a very surfeit of lovers,—so hath she fled from them all!"
"Fled from them?" cried Beltane, his wound forgot, "fled from them— from Mortain? Nay, how mean you—how—fled?"
"She hath walked, see you, run—ridden—is riding—away from Mortain, from her lords, her counsellors, her varlets, her lovers and what not— in a word, messire, she is—gone!"
"Gone!" quoth Beltane, breathless and aghast, "gone—aye—but whither?"
"What matter for that so long as her grave counsellors be sufficiently vexed, and her lovers left a-sighing? O me, her counsellors! Bald-pates, see you, and grey-beards, who for their own ends would have her wed Duke Ivo—meek, unfortunate maid!"
"Know you then the Duchess, lady?"
"Aye, forsooth, and my heart doth grieve for her, poor, sweet wretch, for O, 'tis a sad thing to be a duchess with a multitude of suitors a-wooing in season and out, vaunting graces she hath not, and blind to the virtues she doth possess. Ah, messire, I give thee joy that, whatsoever ills may be thine, thou can ne'er be—a duchess!"
"And think you she will not wed with Ivo, lady—think you so in truth?"
"Never, while she is Helen."
"And—loveth—none of her lovers?"
"Why—indeed, messire—I think she doth—"
"Art sure? How know you this?"
"I was her bedfellow betimes, and oft within the night have heard her speak a name unto her pillow, as love-sick maids will."
Now once again was Beltane aware of the throb and sting of his wounded arm, yet 'twas not because of this he sighed so deep and oft.
"Spake she this name—often?" he questioned.
"Very oft, messire. Aye me, how chill the wind blows!"
"Some lord's name, belike?"
"Nay, 'twas no lord's name, messire. 'Tis very dark amid these trees!"
"Some knight, mayhap—or lowly squire?"
"Neither, messire. Heigho! methinks I now could sleep awhile." So she sighed deep yet happily, and nestled closer within his shielding arm.
But Beltane, my Innocent, rode stiff in the saddle, staring sad-eyed into the gloom, nor felt, nor heeded the yielding tenderness of the shapely young body he held, but plodded on through the dark, frowning blacker than the night. Now as he rode thus, little by little the pain of his wound grew less, a drowsiness crept upon him, and therewith, a growing faintness. Little by little his head drooped low and lower, and once the arm about the nun slipped its hold, whereat she sighed and stirred sleepily upon his breast. But on he rode, striving grimly against the growing faintness, his feet thrust far within the stirrups, his mailed hand tight clenched upon the reins. So, as dawn broke, he heard the pleasant sound of running water near by, and as the light grew, saw they were come to a grassy glade where ran a small brook—a goodly place, well-hidden and remote. So turned he thitherward, and lifting up heavy eyes, beheld the stars paling to the dawn, for the clouds were all passed away and the wind was gone long since. And, in a while, being come within the boskage of this green dell, feebly and as one a-dream, he checked the great horse that snuffed eagerly toward the murmuring brook, and as one a-dream saw that she who had slumbered on his breast was awake—fresh and sweet as the dawn.
"Lady," he stammered, "I—I fear—I can ride—no farther!"
And now, as one a-dream, he beheld her start and look at him with eyes wide and darkly blue—within whose depths was that which stirred within him a memory of other days—in so much he would have spoken, yet found the words unready and hard to come by.
"Lady,—thine eyes, methinks—are not—nun's eyes!"
But now behold of a sudden she cried out, soft and pitiful, for blood was upon him, upon his brow, upon his golden hair. And still as one a-dream he felt her slip from his failing clasp, felt her arms close about him, aiding him to earth.
"Thou'rt hurt!" she cried. "O, thou'rt wounded! And I never guessed!"
"'Tis but my arm—in sooth—and—"
But she hushed him with soft mother-cries and tender-spoke commands, and aiding him to the brook, laid him thereby to lave his hurt within the cool, sweet water; and, waking with the smart, Beltane sighed and turned to look up at her. Now did she, meeting his eyes, put up one white hand, setting back sombre hood and snowy wimple, and stooping tenderly above him, behold, in that moment down came the shining glory of her lustrous hair to fall about the glowing beauty of her face, touching his brow like a caress.
Then, at last, memory awoke within him, and lifting himself upon a feeble elbow, he stared upon her glowing loveliness with wide, glad eyes.
"Helen!" he sighed, "O—Helen!" And, so sighing, fell back, and lay there pale and wan within the dawn, but with a smile upon his pallid lips.
Beltane yawned prodigiously, stretched mightily, and opening sleepy eyes looked about him. He lay 'neath shady willows within a leafy bower; before him a brook ran leaping to the sunshine and filling the warm, stilly air with its merry chatter and soft, laughing noises, while beyond the rippling water the bank sloped steeply upward to the green silence of the woods.
Now as Beltane lay thus 'twixt sleeping and waking, it seemed to him that in the night he had dreamed a wondrous dream, and fain he would have slept again. But now from an adjacent thicket a horse whinnied and Beltane, starting at the sound, felt his wound throb with sudden pain, and looking down, beheld his arm most aptly swathed in bandages of fair, soft linen. Now would he have sat up, but marvelled to find it so great a matter, and propping himself instead upon a weak elbow glanced about him expectantly. And lo, in that moment, one spake near by in voice rich and soft like the call of merle or mavis:
"Beltane," said the voice, "Beltane the Smith!"
With heart quick-beating, Beltane turned and beheld the Duchess Helen standing beside him, her glorious hair wrought into two long braids wherein flowers were cunningly entwined. Straightway he would have risen, but she forbade him with a gesture and, coming closer, sank beside him on her knees, and being there blushed and sighed, yet touched him not.
"Thou'rt hurt," said she, "so must we bide here awhile, thou to win thy strength again, and I to—minister unto thee."
Mutely awhile my Beltane gazed upon her shy, sweet loveliness, what time her bosom rose and fell tempestuous, and she bowed her head full low.
"Helen!" he whispered at last, "O, art thou indeed the Duchess Helen?"
"Not so," she murmured, "Helen was duchess whiles she was in Mortain, but I that speak with thee am a lonely maid—indeed a very lonely maid —who hath sighed for thee, and wept for thee, and for thee hath left her duchy of Mortain, Beltane."
"For me?" quoth Beltane, leaning near, "was it for me—ah, was it so in very sooth?"
"Beltane," said she, looking not toward him, "last night did'st thou bear a nun within thine arms, and, looking on her with love aflame within thine eyes, did yet vow to her you loved this duchess. Tell me, who am but a lonely maid, is this so?"
"Thou knowest I love her ever and always," he answered.
"And yet," quoth she, shaking her head and looking up with eyes of witchery, "thou did'st love this nun also? Though 'tis true thou did'st name her 'reverend mother'! O, wert very blind, Beltane! And yet thou did'st love her also, methinks?"
"Needs must I—ever and always!" he answered.
"Ah, Beltane, but I would have thee love this lonely maid dearest of all henceforth an it may be so, for that she is so very lonely and hath sought thee so long—"
"Sought me?" he murmured, gazing on her wide-eyed, "nay, how may this be, for with my kisses warm upon thy lips thou did'st bid me farewell long time since at Mortain, within the green."
"And thou," she sighed, "and thou did'st leave me, Beltane! O, would thou had kissed me once again and held me in thine arms, so might we have known less of sorrow. Indeed methinks 'twas cruel to leave me so. Beltane."
"Cruel!" says my Beltane, and thereafter fell silent from sheer amaze the while she sighed again, and bowed her shapely head and plucked a daisy from the grass to turn it about and about in gentle fingers.
"So, Beltane," quoth she at last, "being young and cruel thou did'st leave the Duchess a lonely maid. Yet that same night did she, this tender maid, seek out thy lowly dwelling 'mid the green to yield herself joyfully unto thee thenceforth. But ah, Beltane! she found the place a ruin and thou wert gone, and O, methinks her heart came nigh to breaking. Then did she vow that no man might ever have her to his love —save only—thou. So, an thou love her not, Beltane, needs must she— die a maid!"
Now Beltane forgot his weakness and rose to his knees and lifted her bowed head until he might look deep within the yearning tenderness of her eyes. A while she met his look, then blushing, trembling, all in a moment she swayed toward him, hiding her face against him; and, trembling also, Beltane caught her close within his arms and held her to his heart.
"Dost thou love me so, indeed, my lady? Art thou mine own henceforth,Helen the Beautiful?"
"Ah, love," she murmured, "in all my days ne'er have I loved other man than thou, my Beltane. So now do I give myself to thee; in life and death, in joy and sorrow, thine will I be, beloved!"
Quoth Beltane:
"As thou art mine, so am I thine, henceforth and forever."
And thus, kneeling together within the wilderness did they plight their troth, low-voiced and tremulous, with arms that clasped and clung and eager lips that parted but to meet again.
"Beltane," she sighed, "ah, Beltane, hold me close! I've wearied for thee so long—so long; hold me close, beloved. See now, as thou dost hate the pomp and stir of cities, so, for thy sake have I fled hither to the wilderness, to live with thee amid these solitudes, to be thy love, thy stay and comfort. Here will we live for each other, and, hid within the green, forget the world and all things else—save only our great love!"
But now it chanced that, raising his head, Beltane beheld his long sword leaning against a tree hard by, and beholding it thus, he bethought him straightway of the Duke his father, of Pentavalon and of her grievous wrongs; and his clasping hands grew lax and fell away and, groaning, he bowed his head; whereat she started anxious-eyed, and questioned him, soft and piteous:
"Is it thy wound? I had forgot—ah, love, forgive me! See here a pillow for thy dear head—" But now again he caught her to him close and fierce, and kissed her oft; and holding her thus, spake:
"Thou knowest I do love thee, my Helen? Yet because I love thee greatly, love, alas, must wait awhile—"
"Wait?" she cried, "ah, no—am I not thine own?"
"'Tis so I would be worthy of thee, beloved," he sighed, "for know that I am pledged to rest not nor stay until my task be accomplished or I slain—"
"Slain! Thou?"
"O, Helen, 'tis a mighty task and desperate, and many perchance must die ere this my vow be accomplished—"
"Thy vow? But thou art a smith, my Beltane,—what hath humble smith to do with vows? Thou art my love—my Beltane the Smith!"
"Indeed," sighed Beltane, "smith was I aforetime, and therewithal content: yet am I also son of my father, and he—"
"Hark!" she whispered, white hand upon his lips, "some one comes— through the leaves yonder!" So saying she sprang lightly to her feet and stood above him straight and tall: and though she trembled, yet he saw her eyes were fearless and his dagger gleamed steady in her hands.
"Beltane, my love!" she said, "thou'rt so weak, yet am I strong to defend thee against them all."
But Beltane rose also and, swaying on unsteady feet, kissed her once and so took his sword, marvelling to find it so heavy, and drew it from the scabbard. And ever upon the stilly air the rustle of leaves grew louder.
"Beltane!" she sighed, "they be very near! Hearken! Beltane—thine am I, in life, in death. An this be death—what matter, since we die together?"
But, leaning on his sword, Beltane watched her with eyes of love yet spake no word, hearkening to the growing stir amid the leaves, until, of a sudden, upon the bank above, the underbrush was parted and a man stood looking down at them; a tall man, whose linked mail glinted evilly and whose face was hid 'neath a vizored casque. Now of a sudden he put up his vizor and stepped toward them down the sloping bank.
Then the Duchess let fall the dagger and reached out her hands.
"Godric!" she sighed, "O Godric!"
Thus came white-haired old Godric the huntsman, lusty despite his years, bright-eyed and garrulous with joy, to fall upon his knees before his lady and to kiss those outstretched hands.
"Godric!" she cried, "'tis my good Godric!" and laughed, though with lips a-tremble.
"O sweet mistress," quoth he, "now glory be to the kind Saint Martin that I do see thee again hale and well. These many days have I followed hard upon thy track, grieving for thee—"
"Yet here am I in sooth, my Godric, and joyful, see you!"
"Ah, dear my lady, thy wilfulness hath e'en now brought thee into dire perils and dangers. O rueful day!"
"Nay, Godric, my wilfulness hath brought me unto my heart's desire. O most joyful day!"
"Lady, I do tell thee here is an evil place for thee: they do say the devil is abroad and goeth up and down and to and fro begirt in mail, lady, doing such deeds as no man ever did. Pentavalon is rife with war and rumours of war, everywhere is whispered talk of war—death shall be busy within this evil Duchy ere long—aye, and even in Mortain, perchance—nay, hearken! Scarce was thy flight discovered when there came messengers hot-foot to thy guest, Duke Ivo, having word from Sir Gui of Allerdale that one hath arisen calling himself son of Beltane the Strong that once was Duke of Pentavalon, as ye know. And this is a mighty man, who hath, within the week, broke ope my lord Duke Ivo's dungeon of Belsaye, slain divers of my lord Duke's good and loyal subjects, and burnt down the great gallows of my lord Duke."
"Ah!" sighed the Duchess, her brows knit thoughtfully, "and what saidDuke Ivo to this, Godric?"
"Smiled, lady, and begged instant speech with thee; and, when thou wert not to be found, then Duke Ivo smiled upon thy trembling counsellors. 'My lords,' said he, 'I ride south to hang certain rogues and fools. But, when I have seen them dead, I shall come hither again to woo and wed the Duchess Helen. See to it that ye find her, therefore, else will I myself seek her through the length and breadth of Mortain until I find her—aye, with lighted torches, if need be!"
"And dare he threaten us?" cried the Duchess, white hands clenched.
"Aye, doth he, lady," nodded Godric, garrulous and grim. "Thereafter away he rode, he and all his company, and after them, I grieving and alone, to seek thee, dear my lady. And behold, I have found thee, the good Saint Martin be praised!"
"Verily thou hast found me, Godric!" sighed the Duchess, looking uponBeltane very wistfully.
"So now will I guide thee back to thine own fair duchy, gentle mistress, for I do tell thee here in Pentavalon shall be woeful days anon. Even as I came, with these two eyes did I behold the black ruin of Duke Ivo's goodly gallows—a woeful sight! And divers tales have I heard of this gallows-burner, how that he did, unaided and alone, seize and bear off upon his shoulders one Sir Pertolepe—called the 'Red'— Lord Warden of the Marches. So hath Duke Ivo put a price upon his head and decreed that he shall forthright be hunted down, and thereto hath sent runners far and near with his exact description, the which have I heard and can most faithfully repeat an you so desire?"
"Aye me!" sighed the Duchess, a little wearily.
"As thus, lady. Item: calleth himself Beltane, son of Beltane, Duke ofPentavalon that was: Item—"
"Beltane!" said the Duchess, and started.
"Item: he is very tall and marvellous strong. Item: hath yellow hair—"
"Yellow hair!" said the Duchess, and turned to look upon Beltane.
"Item: goeth in chain-mail, and about his middle a broad belt of gold and silver. Item: beareth a great sword whereon is graven the legend— lady, dost thou attend?—Ha! Saint Martin aid us!" cried Godric, for now, following the Duchess's glance, he beheld Beltane leaning upon his long sword. Then, while Godric stared open-mouthed, the Duchess looked on Beltane, a new light in her eyes and with hands tight clasped, while Beltane looking upon her sighed amain.
"Helen!" he cried, "O Helen, 'tis true that I who am Beltane the Smith, am likewise son of Beltane, Duke of Pentavalon. Behold, the sword I bear is the sword of the Duke my father, nor must I lay it by until wrong is vanquished and oppression driven hence. Thus, see you, I may not stay to love, within my life it must not be—yet-a-while," and speaking, Beltane groaned and bowed his head. So came she to him and looked on him with eyes of yearning, yet touched him not.
"Dear my lord," said she, tender-voiced, "thou should'st make a noble duke, methinks: and yet alas! needs must I love my gentle Beltane the Smith. And I did love him so! Thou art a mighty man-at-arms, my lord, and terrible in war, meseemeth, O—methinks thou wilt make a goodly duke indeed!"
"Mayhap," he answered heavily, "mayhap, an God spare me long enough.But now must I leave thee—"
"Aye, but wherefore?"
"Thou hast heard—I am a hunted man with a price upon my head, by my side goeth death—"
"So will I go also," she murmured, "ever and always beside thee."
"Thou? Ah, not so, beloved. I must tread me this path alone. As for thee—haste, haste and get thee to Mortain and safety, and there wait for me—pray for me, O my love!"
"Beltane—Beltane," she sighed, "dost love me indeed—and yet would send me from thee?"
"Aye," he groaned, "needs must it be so."
"Beltane," she murmured, "Beltane, thou shalt be Duke within the week, despite Black Ivo."
"Duke—I? Of Pentavalon?"
"Of Mortain!" she whispered, "an thou wilt wed me, my lord."
"Nay," stammered Beltane, "nay, outcast am I, my friends very few—to wed thee thus, therefore, were shame—"
"To wed me thus," said she, "should be my joy, and thy joy, andPentavalon's salvation, mayhap. O, see you not, Beltane? Thou should'stbe henceforth my lord, my knight-at-arms to lead my powers 'gainst DukeIvo, teaching Mortain to cringe no more to a usurper—to freePentavalon from her sorrows—ah, see you not, Beltane?"
"Helen!" he murmured, "O Helen, poor am I—a beggar—"
"Beltane," she whispered, "an thou wed this lonely maid within the forest, then will I be beggar with thee; but, an thou take to wife the Duchess, then shalt thou be my Duke, lord of me and of Mortain, with her ten thousand lances in thy train."
"Thou would'st give me so much," he sighed at last, "so much, myHelen?"
"Nay," said she, with red lips curved and tender, "for this wide world to me is naught without thee, Beltane. And I do need thy mighty arm—to shelter me, Beltane, since Ivo hath defied me, threatening Mortain with fire and sword. So when he cometh, instead of a woman he shall find a man to withstand him, whose sword is swift and strong to smite and who doeth such deeds as no man ever did; so shalt thou be my love, my lord, my champion. Wilt not refuse me the shelter of thy strength, Beltane?"
Now of a sudden Beltane lifted his head and seized her in his arms and held her close.
Quoth he:
"So be it, my Helen. To wife will I take thee so soon as may be, to hold thee ever in love and reverence, to serve thee ever, to live for thee and for thee to die an needs be."
But now strode Godric forward, with hands outstretched in eager protest.
"Lady," he cried, "O dear lady bethink thee, now, bethink thee, thy choice is a perilous choice—"
"Yet is it my choice, Godric."
"But, O, dear my mistress—"
"O my faithful Godric, look now upon lord Beltane, my well-beloved who shall be Duke of Mortain ere the moon change. Salute thy lord, Godric!"
So, perforce, came old Godric to fall upon his knee before Beltane, to take his hand and swear the oath of fealty.
"Lord Beltane," said he, "son art thou of a mighty Duke; God sendMortain find in thee such another!"
"Amen!" said Beltane.
Thereafter Godric rose and pointed up to the zenith.
"Behold, my lady," said he, "it groweth to noon and there is danger hereabouts—more danger e'en than I had dreamed. Let us therefore haste over into Mortain—to thy Manor of Blaen."
"But Godric, see you not my lord is faint of his wound, and Blaen is far, methinks."
"Not so, lady, 'tis scarce six hours' journey to the north, nay, I do know of lonely bridle-paths that shall bring us sooner."
"To Blaen?" mused the Duchess. "Winfrida is there—and yet—and yet— aye, let us to Blaen, there will I nurse thee to thy strength again, my Beltane, and there shalt thou—wed with me—an it be so thy pleasure in sooth, my lord."
So, in a while, they set off through the forest, first Godric to guide them, then Beltane astride the great war-horse with the Duchess before him, she very anxious for his wound, yet speaking oft of the future with flushing cheek and eyes a-dream.
Thus, as the sun declined, they came forth of the forest-lands and beheld that broad sweep of hill and dale that was Mortain.
"O loved Mortain!" she sighed, "O dear Mortain! 'Tis here there lived a smith, my Beltane, who sang of and loved but birds and trees and flowers. 'Tis here there lived a Duchess, proud and most disdainful, who yearned for love yet knew naught of it until—upon a day, these twain looked within each other's eyes—O day most blissful! Ah, sweet Mortain!"
By pleasant ways they went, past smiling fields and sleepy villages bowered 'mid the green. They rode ever by sequestered paths, skirting shady wood and coppice where birds sang soft a drowsy lullaby, wooing the world to forgetfulness and rest; fording prattling brook and whispering stream whose placid waters flamed to the glory of sunset. And thus they came at last to Blaen, a cloistered hamlet beyond which rose the grey walls of the ancient manor itself.
Now as they drew near, being yet sheltered 'mid the green, old Godric halted in his stride and pointed to the highway that ran in the vale below.
"Lady," quoth he, "mine eyes be old, and yet methinks I should know yon horseman that rideth unhelmed so close beside the lady Winfrida—that breadth of shoulder! that length of limb! Lady, how think ye?"
"'Tis Duke Ivo!" she whispered.
"Aye," nodded Godric, "armed, see you, yet with but two esquires—"
"And with Winfrida!" said the Duchess, frowning. "Can it indeed be as I have thought, betimes? And Blaen is a very solitary place!"
"See!" whispered Godric, "the Duke leaveth her. Behold him kiss her hand! Ha, he summoneth his esquires. Hey now, see how they ride—sharp spur and loose bridle, 'tis ever Ivo's way!"
Now when the Duke and his esquires were vanished in the dusk and the sound of their galloping died away, the Duchess sprang lightly to the sward and bidding them wait until she summoned them, hasted on before.
Thus, in a while, as Winfrida the Fair paced slowly along upon her ambling palfrey, her blue eyes a-dream, she was suddenly aware of a rustling near by and, glancing swiftly up, beheld the Duchess Helen standing before her, tall and proud, her black brows wrinkled faintly, her eyes stern and challenging.
"Lady—dear my lady!" stammered Winfrida—"is it thou indeed—"
"Since when," quoth the Duchess, soft-voiced yet menacing, "since when doth Winfrida hold sly meeting with one that is enemy to me and to Mortain?"
"Enemy?—nay, whom mean you—indeed I—O Helen, in sooth 'twas but by chance—"
"Is this treason, my lady Winfrida, or only foolish amourette?"
"Sweet lady—'twas but chance—an you mean Duke Ivo—he came—I saw—"
"My lady Winfrida, I pray you go before, we will speak of this anon.Come, Godric!" she called.
Then the lady Winfrida, her beauteous head a-droop, rode on before, sighing deep and oft yet nothing speaking, with the Duchess proud and stern beside her while Beltane and Godric followed after.
And so it was they came to the Manor of Blaen.