"O lady! O wilful Helen! thy soft white hand hath set its mark upon me; the love-sick youth is grown a man, meseemeth. Well, so be it!" Thus saying, he laughed harshly and stooping, drank his fill.
Now as he yet lay beside the brook hearkening to its pretty babel, he was aware of another sound drawing nearer—the slow plodding of a horse's hoofs upon the road below; and glancing whence it came he beheld a solitary knight whose mail gleamed 'neath a rich surcoat and whose shield flamed red with sunset. While Beltane yet watched this solitary rider, behold two figures that crouched in the underbrush growing beside the way; stealthy figures, that flitted from tree to tree and bush to bush, keeping pace with the slow-riding horseman; and as they came nearer, Beltane saw that these men who crouched and stole so swift and purposeful were Walkyn and Black Roger. Near and nearer they drew, the trackers and the tracked, till they were come to a place where the underbrush fell away and cover there was none: and here, very suddenly, forth leapt Roger with Walkyn at his heels; up reared the startled horse, and thereafter the knight was dragged from his saddle and Walkyn's terrible axe swung aloft for the blow, but Black Roger turned and caught Walkyn's arm and so they strove together furiously, what time the knight lay out-stretched upon the ling and stirred not.
"Ha! Fool!" raged Walkyn, "loose my arm—what would ye?"
"Shalt not slay him," cried Roger, "'tis a notch—'tis a notch from my accursed belt—shalt not slay him, I tell thee!"
"Now out upon thee for a mad knave!" quoth Walkyn.
"Knave thyself!" roared Black Roger, and so they wrestled fiercely together; but, little by little, Walkyn's size and bull strength began to tell, whereupon back sprang nimble Roger, and as Walkyn's axe gleamed, so gleamed Roger's sword. But now as they circled warily about each other, seeking an opening for blow or thrust, there came a rush of feet, and Beltane leapt betwixt them, and bestriding the fallen knight, fronted them in black and bitter anger.
"Ha, rogues!" he cried, "art become thieves and murderers so soon, then? Would'st shed each other's blood for lust of booty like any other lawless knaves, forsooth? Shame—O shame on ye both!"
So saying, he stooped, and lifting the unconscious knight, flung him across his shoulder and strode off, leaving the twain to stare upon each other shame-faced.
Scowling and fierce-eyed Beltane descended into the hollow, whereupon up sprang Giles with divers others and would have looked upon and aided with the captive; but beholding Beltane's frown they stayed their questions and stood from his path. So came he to a certain cave hollowed within the hill-side—one of many such—but the rough walls of this cave Black Roger had adorned with a rich arras, and had prepared also a bed of costly furs; here Beltane laid the captive, and sitting within the mouth of the cave—beyond which a fire burned—fell to scowling at the flame. And presently as he sat thus came Roger and Walkyn, who fain would have made their peace, but Beltane fiercely bade them to begone.
"Lord," quoth Walkyn, fumbling with his axe, "we found this knight hard by, so, lest he should disclose the secret of this our haven—I would have slain him—"
"Master," said Roger, "'tis true I had a mind to his horse and armour, since we do such things lack, yet would I have saved him alive and cut from my belt another accursed notch—"
"So art thou a fool, Roger," quoth Walkyn, "for an this knight live, this our refuge is secret no longer."
"Ha!" sneered Beltane, "what matter for that an it shelter but murderers and thieving knaves—"
"Dost name me murderer?" growled Walkyn.
"And me a thief, master?" sighed Roger, "I that am thy man, that would but have borrowed—"
"Peace!" cried Beltane, "hence—begone, and leave me to my thoughts!" Hereupon Walkyn turned and strode away, twirling his axe, but Roger went slow-footed and with head a-droop what time Beltane frowned into the fire, his scowl blacker than ever. But as he sat thus, from the gloom of the cave behind him a voice spake—a soft voice and low, at sound whereof he started and turned him about.
"Meseemeth thy thoughts are evil, messire."
"Of a verity, sir knight: for needs must I think of women and the ways of women! To-night am I haunted of bitter memory."
Now of a sudden, the stranger knight beholding Beltane in the light of the fire, started up to his elbow to stare and stare; then quailing, shivering, shrank away, hiding his face within his mailed hands. Whereat spake Beltane in amaze:
"How now, sir knight—art sick in faith? Dost ail of some wound—?"
"Not so—ah, God! not so. Those fetters—upon thy wrists, messire—?"
"Alack, sir knight," laughed Beltane, "and is it my looks afflict thee so? 'Tis true we be wild rogues hereabout, evil company for gentle knights. Amongst us ye shall find men new broke from the gallows-foot and desperate knaves for whom the dungeon yawns. As for me, these gyves upon my wrists were riveted there by folly, for fool is he that trusteth to woman and the ways of woman. So will I wear them henceforth until my work be done to mind me of my folly and of one I loved so much I would that she had died ere that she slew my love for her."
Thus spake Beltane staring ever into the fire, joying bitterly to voice his grief unto this strange knight who had risen softly and now stood upon the other side of the fire. And looking upon him in a while. Beltane saw that he was but a youth, slender and shapely in his rich surcoat and costly mail, the which, laced close about cheek and chin, showed little of his face below the gleaming bascinet, yet that little smooth-skinned and pale.
"Sir knight," said Beltane, "free art thou to go hence, nor shall any stay or spoil thee. Yet first, hear this: thou art perchance some roving knight seeking adventure to the glory and honour of some fair lady. O folly! choose you something more worthy—a horse is a noble beast, and dogs, they say, are faithful. But see you, a woman's love is a pitiful thing at best, while dogs and horses be a-plenty. Give not thine heart into a woman's hand lest she tear it in her soft, white fingers: set not thine honour beneath her shapely feet, lest she tread it into the shameful mire. So fare thee well, sir knight. God go with thee and keep thee ever from the love of woman!"
So saying Beltane rose, and lifting the bugle-horn he wore, sounded it; whereon came all and sundry, running and with weapons brandished—but Roger first of all.
To all of whom Beltane spake thus:
"Behold here this gentle knight our guest is for the nonce—entreat him courteously therefore; give him all that he doth lack and thereafter set him upon his way—"
But hereupon divers cast evil looks upon the knight, murmuring among themselves—and loudest of all Walkyn.
"He knoweth the secret of our hiding-place!"
"'Tis said he knoweth the causeway through the fen!"
"He will betray us!"
"Dogs!" said Beltane, clenching his hands, "will ye defy me then? I say this knight shall go hence and none withstand him. Make way, then—or must I?" But now spake the youthful knight his gaze still bent upon the flame, nor seemed he to heed the fierce faces and eager steel that girt him round. "Nay, messire, for here methinks my quest is ended!" "Thy quest, sir knight—how so?" Then the knight turned and looked upon Beltane. Quoth he: "By thy size and knightly gear, by thy—thy yellow hair, methinks thou art Beltane, son of Beltane the Strong?" "Verily, 'tis so that I am called. What would you of me?" "This, messire." Herewith the stranger knight loosed belt and surcoat and drew forth a long sword whose broad blade glittered in the firelight, and gave its massy hilt to Beltane's grasp. And, looking upon its shining blade, Beltane beheld the graven legend "Resurgam." Now looking upon this, Beltane drew a deep, slow breath and turned upon the youthful knight with eyes grown suddenly fierce. Quoth he softly: "Whence had you this, sir knight?" "From one that liveth but for thee." "Ah!" said Beltane with scornful lip, "know ye such an one, in faith?" "Aye, messire," spake the knight, low-voiced yet eager, "one that doth languish for thee, that hath sent me in quest of thee bearing this thy sword for a sign, and to bid thee to return since without thee life is an emptiness, and there is none so poor, so heart-sick and woeful as Helen of Mortain!" "Ah—liar!" cried Beltane, and reaching out fierce hands crushed the speaker to his knees; but even so, the young knight spake on, soft-voiced and calm of eye: "Greater than thine is her love for thee, methinks, since 'tis changeless and abiding—Slay me an thou wilt, but while I live I will declare her true to thee. Whatever hath chanced, whate'er may chance, despite all doubts and enemies she doth love—love—love thee through life till death and beyond. O my lord Beltane—" "Liar!" spake Beltane again. But now was he seized of a madness, a cold rage and a deadly. "Liar!" said he, "thou art methinks one of her many wooers, so art thou greater fool. But Helen the Beautiful hath lovers a-plenty, and being what she is shall nothing miss thee: howbeit thou art surely liar, and surely will I slay thee!" So saying he swung aloft the great blade, but even so the young knight fronted the blow with eyes that quailed not: pale-lipped, yet smiling and serene; and then, or ever the stroke could fall—an arm, bronzed and hairy, came between, and Roger spake hoarse-voiced: "Master," he cried, "for that thy man am I and love thee, shalt ne'er do this till hast first slain me. 'Tis thus thou did'st teach me—to show mercy to the weak and helpless, and this is a youth, unarmed. Bethink thee, master—O bethink thee!" Slowly Beltane's arm sank, and looking upon the bright blade he let it fall upon the ling and covered his face within his two hands as if its glitter had blinded him. Thus did he stand awhile, the fetters agleam upon his wrists, and thereafter fell upon his knees and with his face yet hidden, spake: "Walkyn," said he, "O Walkyn, but a little while since I named thee 'murderer'! Yet what, in sooth, am I? So now do I humbly ask thy pardon. As for thee, sir knight, grant thy pity to one that is abased. Had I tears, now might I shed them, but tears are not for me. Go you therefore to—to her that sent thee and say that Beltane died within the dungeons of Garthlaxton. Say that I who speak am but a sword for the hand of God henceforth, to smite and stay not until wrong shall be driven hence. Say that this was told thee by a sorry wight who, yearning for death, must needs cherish life until his vow be accomplished." But as Beltane spake thus upon his knees, his head bowed humbly before them all, the young knight came near with mailed hands outstretched, yet touched him not. "Messire," said he, "thou hast craved of me a boon the which I do most full and freely grant. But now would I beg one of thee." "'Tis thine," quoth Beltane, "who am I to gainsay thee?" "Messire, 'tis this; that thou wilt take me to serve thee, to go beside thee, sharing thy woes and perils henceforth." "So be it, sir knight," answered Beltane, "though mine shall be a hazardous service, mayhap. So, when ye will thou shalt be free of it." Thus saying he arose and went aside and sat him down in the mouth of the cave. But in a while came Roger to him, his sword-belt a-swing in his hand, and looked upon his gloomy face with eyes full troubled. And presently he spake, yet halting in his speech and timid: "Master," he said, "suffer me a question." "Verily," quoth Beltane, looking up, "as many as thou wilt, my faithful Roger." "Master," says Roger, twisting and turning the belt in hairy hands, "I would but ask thee if—if I might cut another notch from this my accursed belt—a notch, lord—I—the young knight—?" "You mean him that I would have murdered, Roger? Reach me hither thy belt." So Beltane took the belt and with his dagger cut thence two notches, whereat quoth Roger, staring: "Lord, I did but save one life—the young knight—" "Thou did'st save two," answered Beltane, "for had I slain him, Roger—O, had I slain him, then on this night should'st have hanged me for a murderer. Here be two notches for thee—so take back thy belt and go, get thee to thy rest—and, Roger—pray for one that tasteth death in life." So Roger took the belt, and turning softly, left Beltane crouched above the fire as one that is deadly cold.
Beltane awoke to the shrill notes of a horn and starting to sleepy elbow, heard the call and challenge of sentinel and outpost from the bank above. Thereafter presently appeared Giles (that chanced to be captain of the watch) very joyously haling along a little man placid and rotund. A plump little man whose sober habit, smacking of things ecclesiastic, was at odds with his face that beamed forth jovial and rubicund from the shade of his wide-eaved hat: a pilgrim-like hat, adorned with many small pewter images of divers saints. About his waist was a girdle where hung a goodly wallet, plump like himself and eke as well filled. A right buxom wight was he, comfortable and round, who, though hurried along in the archer's lusty grip, smiled placidly, and spake him sweetly thus: "Hug me not so lovingly, good youth; abate— abate thy hold upon my tender nape lest, sweet lad, the holy Saint Amphibalus strike thee deaf, dumb, blind, and latterly, dead. Trot me not so hastily, lest the good Saint Alban cast thy poor soul into a hell seventy times heated, and 'twould be a sad—O me! a very sad thing that thou should'st sniff brimstone on my account."
"Why, Giles," quoth Beltane, blinking in the dawn, "what dost bring hither so early in the morning?"
"Lord, 'tis what they call a Pardoner, that dealeth in relics, mouldy bones and the like, see you, whereby they do pretend to divers miracles and wonders—"
"Verily, verily," nodded the little man placidly, "I have here in my wallet a twig from Moses' burning bush, with the great toe of Thomas a' Didymus, the thumb of the blessed Saint Alban—"
"Ha, rogue!" quoth Giles, "when I was a monk we had four thumbs of the good Saint Alban—"
"Why then, content you, fond youth," smiled the Pardoner, "my thumb is number one—"
"Oh, tall brother," quoth Giles, "'tis an irreverent knave, that maketh the monk in me arise, my very toes do twitch for to kick his lewd and sacrilegious carcase—and, lord, he would kick wondrous soft—"
"And therein, sweet and gentle lord," beamed the little buxom man, "therein lieth a recommendation of itself. Divers noble lords have kicked me very familiarly ere now, and finding me soft and tender have, forthwith, kicked again. I mind my lord Duke Ivo, did with his own Ducal foot kick me right heartily upon a time, and once did spit upon my cloak—I can show you the very place—and these things do breed and argue familiarity. Thus have I been familiar with divers noble lords— and there were ladies also, ladies fair and proud—O me!"
"Now, by the Rood!" says Beltane, sitting up and staring, "whence had you this, Giles?"
"My lord, 'twas found by the man Jenkyn snoring within the green, together with a mule—a sorry beast! a capon partly devoured, a pasty— well spiced! and a wine-skin—empty, alas! But for who it is, and whence it cometh—"
"Sweet, courteous lord,—resplendent, youthful sir, I come from north and south, from east and west, o'er land, o'er sea, from village green and market-square, but lately from the holy shrine of the blessed Saint Amphibalus. As to who I am and what—the universal want am I, for I do stand for health, fleshly and spiritual. I can cure your diseases of the soul, mind and body. In very sooth the Pardoner of Pardoners am I, with pardons and indulgences but now hot from the holy fist of His Holiness of Rome: moreover I have a rare charm and notable cure for the worms, together with divers salves, electuaries, medicaments and nostrums from the farthest Orient. I have also store of songs and ballades, grave and gay. Are ye melancholic? Then I have a ditty merry and mirthful. Would ye weep? Here's a lamentable lay of love and languishment infinite sad to ease you of your tears. Are ye a sinner vile and damnèd? Within my wallet lie pardons galore with powerful indulgences whereby a man may enjoy all the cardinal sins yet shall his soul be accounted innocent as a babe unborn and his flesh go without penance. Here behold my special indulgence! The which, to him that buyeth it, shall remit the following sins damned and deadly—to wit: Lechery, perjury, adultery, wizardry. Murders, rapes, thievings and slanders. Then follow the lesser sins, as—"
"Hold!" cried Beltane, "surely here be sins enough for any man."
"Not so, potent sir: for 'tis a right sinful world and breedeth new sins every day, since man hath a rare invention that way. Here is a grievous thing, alas! yet something natural: for, since men are human, and human 'tis to sin, so must all men be sinners and, being sinners, are they therefore inevitably damned!"
"Alas, for poor humanity!" sighed Beltane.
"Forsooth, alas indeed, messire, and likewise woe!" nodded thePardoner, "for thou, my lord, thou art but human, after all."
"Indeed at times, 'twould almost seem so!" nodded Beltane gravely.
"And therefore," quoth the Pardoner, "and therefore, most noble, gentle lord, art thou most assuredly and inevitably—" The Pardoner sighed.
"Damned?" said Beltane.
"Damned!" sighed the Pardoner.
"Along with the rest of humanity!" nodded Beltane.
"All men be more prone to sin when youth doth riot in their veins," quoth the Pardoner, "and alas, thou art very young, messire, so do I tremble for thee."
"Yet with each hour do I grow older!"
"And behold in this hour come I, declaring to thee there is no sin so vile but that through me, Holy Church shall grant thee remission—at a price!"
"A price, good Pardoner?"
"Why, there be sins great and sins little. But, youthful sir, for thine own damnable doings, grieve not, mope not nor repine, since I, Lubbo Fitz-Lubbin, Past Pardoner of the Holy See, will e'en now unloose, assoil and remit them unto thee—"
"At a price!" nodded Beltane.
"Good my lord," spake Giles, viewing the Pardoner's plump person with a yearning eye, "pray thee bid me kick him hence!"
"Not so, Giles, since from all things may we learn—with patience.Here now is one that hath travelled and seen much and should be wise—"
"Forsooth, messire, I have been so accounted ere now," nodded thePardoner.
"Dost hear, Giles? Thus, from his wisdom I may perchance grow wiser than I am. So get thee back to thy duty, Giles. Begone—thy presence doth distract us."
"Aye, base archer, begone!" nodded the Pardoner, seating himself upon the sward. "Thy visage dour accordeth not with deep-seated thought— take it hence!"
"There spake wisdom, Giles, and he is a fool that disobeys. So, Giles —begone!"
Hereupon Giles frowned upon the Pardoner, who lolling at his ease, snapped his fingers at Giles, whereat Giles scowled amain and scowling, strode away.
"Now, messire," quoth the Pardoner, opening his wallet, "now in the matter of sinning, messire, an thou hast some pet and peculiar vice— some little, pretty vanity, some secret, sweet transgression—"
"Nay, first," quoth Beltane, "'tis sure thou hast a tongue—"
"O infallibly, messire; a sweet tongue—a tongue attuned to cunning phrases. God gave to women beauty, to flowers perfume, and to me—a tongue!"
"Good Pardoner, a lonely wight am I, ignorant of the world and of its ways and doings. So for thy tongue will I barter base coin—what can'st tell me for this fair gold piece?"
"That fain would I have the spending on't, noble, generous sir."
"What more?"
"Anything ye will, messire: for since I am the want universal and gold the universal need, needs must want need! And here is a rare-turned phrase, methinks?"
"So thus do I wed need with want," nodded Beltane, tossing him the coin. "Come now, discourse to me of worldly things—how men do trim their beards these days, what sins be most i' the fashion, if Duke Ivo sleepeth a-nights, whether Pentavalon city standeth yet?"
"Aha!" cried the Pardoner (coin safely pouched), "I can tell ye tales a-plenty: sly, merry tales of lovely ladies fair and gay. I can paint ye a tongue picture of one beyond all fair ladies fair—her soft, white body panting-warm for kisses, the lure of her mouth, the languorous passion of her eyes, the glorious mantle of her flame-like hair. I'll tell of how she, full of witching, wanton wiles, love-alluring, furtive fled fleet-footed from the day and—there amid the soft and slumberous silence of the tender trees did yield her love to one beyond all beings blest. Thus, sighing and a-swoon, did Helen fair, a Duchess proud—"
"Ah!" cried Beltane, clenching sudden fist, "what base and lying babble do ye speak? Helen, forsooth—dare ye name her, O Thing?"
Now before Beltane's swift and blazing anger the Pardoner's assurance wilted on the instant, and he cowered behind a lifted elbow.
"Nay, nay, most potent lord," he stammered, "spit on me an ye will— spit, I do implore thee, but strike me not. Beseech thee sir, in what do I offend? The story runs that the proud and wilful lady is fled away, none know wherefore, why, nor where. I do but read the riddle thus: wherefore should she flee but for love, and if for love, then with a man, and if with a man—"
"Enough of her!" quoth Beltane scowling, "woman and her wiles is of none account to me!"
"How—how?" gasped the Pardoner, "of no account—! Woman—! But thou'rt youthful—of no account—! Thou'rt a man very strong and lusty—! Of no account, forsooth? O, Venus, hear him! Woman, forsooth! She is man's aim, his beginning and oft-times his end. She is the everlasting cause. She is man's sweetest curse and eke salvation, his slave, his very tyrant. Without woman strife would cease, ambition languish, Venus pine to skin and bone (sweet soul!) and I never sell another pardon and starve for lack of custom; for while women are, so will be pardoners. But this very week I did good trade in fair Belsaye with divers women— three were but ordinary indulgences for certain small marital transgressions; but one, a tender maid and youthful, being put to the torment, had denounced her father and lover—"
"The torment?" quoth Beltane, starting. "The torment, say you?"
"Aye, messire! Belsaye setteth a rare new fashion in torments of late. Howbeit, the father and lover being denounced before Sir Gui's tribunal, they were forthwith hanged upon my lord Gui's new gibbets—"
"O—hanged?" quoth Beltane "hanged?"
"Aye, forsooth, by the neck as is the fashion. Now cometh this woeful wench to me vowing she heard their voices i' the night, and, to quiet these voices besought of me a pardon. But she had but two sorry silver pieces and pardons be costly things, and when she could get no pardon, she went home and that night killed herself—silly wench! Ha! my lord— good messire—my arm—holy saints! 'twill break!"
"Killed herself—and for lack of thy pitiful, accursed pardon! Heard you aught else in Belsaye—speak!" and Beltane's cruel grip tightened.
"Indeed—indeed that will I, good news, sweet news—O my lord, loose my arm!"
"Thine arm, good Pardoner—thine arm? Aye, take it back, it availeth me nothing—take it and cherish it. To part with a pardon for but two silver pieces were a grave folly! So pray you forgive now my ungentleness and speak my thy good, sweet tidings." But hereupon, the Pardoner feeling his arm solicitously, held his peace and glowered sullenly at Beltane, who had turned and was staring away into the distance. So the Pardoner sulked awhile and spake not, until, seeing Beltane's hand creep out towards him, he forthwith fell to volubility.
"'Tis told in Belsaye on right good authority that a certain vile knave, a lewd, seditious rogue hight Beltane that was aforetime a charcoal-burner and thereafter a burner of gibbets—as witness my lord Duke's tall, great and goodly gallows—that was beside a prison breaker and known traitor, hath been taken by the doughty Sir Pertolepe, lord Warden of the Marches, and by him very properly roasted and burned to death within his great Keep of Garthlaxton."
"Roasted, forsooth?" said Beltane, his gaze yet afar off; "and, forsooth, burned to ashes; then forsooth is he surely dead?"
"Aye, that is he; and his ashes scattered on a dung-hill."
"A dung-hill—ha?"
"He was but a charcoal-burning knave, 'tis said—a rogue base-born and a traitor. Now hereupon my lord, the good lord Sir Gui, my lord Duke's lord Seneschal of Belsaye—"
"Forsooth," sighed Beltane, "here be lords a-plenty in Pentavalon!"
"Hereupon the noble Sir Gui set a close watch upon the townsfolk whereby he apprehended divers suspected rogues, and putting them to the torture, found thereby proofs of their vile sedition, insomuch that though the women held their peace for the most part, certain men enduring not, did confess knowledge of a subterraneous passage 'neath the wall. Then did Sir Gui cause this passage to be stopped, and four gibbets to be set up within the market-place, and thereon at sunset every day did hang four men, whereto the towns folk were summoned by sound of tucket and drum: until upon a certain evening some six days since (myself standing by) came a white friar hight Friar Martin—well known in Belsaye, and bursting through the throng he did loud-voiced proclaim himself the traitor that had oped and shown the secret way into the dungeons unto that charcoal-rogue for whose misdeeds so many folk had suffered. So they took this rascal friar and scourged him and set him in the water-dungeons where rats do frolic, and to-night at sunset he dieth by slow fire as a warning to—Ah! sweet, noble, good my lord, what—what would ye—" for Beltane had risen and was looking down at the crouching Pardoner, suddenly haggard, pallid-lipped, and with eyes a-glare with awful menace; but now the Pardoner saw that those eyes looked through him and beyond—living eyes in a face of death.
"Messire—messire!" quavered the Pardoner on trembling knees; but Beltane, as one that is deaf and blind, strode forward and over him, and as he went set his bugle to his lips and sounded a rallying note. Forthwith came men that ran towards him at speed, but now was there no outcry or confusion and their mail gleamed in the early sun as they fell into their appointed rank and company.
Then Beltane set his hands unto his eyes and thereafter stared up to the heavens and round about upon the fair earth as one that wakes from a dream evil and hateful, and spake, sudden and harsh-voiced:
"Now hither to me Walkyn, Giles and Roger. Ye do remember how upon a time we met a white friar in the green that was a son of God—they call him Brother Martin? Ye do remember brave Friar Martin?"
"Aye, lord, we mind him!" quoth the three.
"Ye will remember how that we did, within the green, aid him to bury a dead maid, young and fair and tender—yet done to shameful death?"
"Verily master—a noble lady!" growled Walkyn.
"And very young!" said Roger.
"And very comely, alas!" added Giles.
"So now do I tell thee that, as she died—snatched out of life by brutal hands—so, at this hour, even as we stand idle here, other maids do suffer and die within Belsaye town. To-day, as we stand here, good Friar Martin lieth within the noisome water-dungeons where rats do frolic—"
"Ha! the pale fox!" growled Walkyn. "Bloody Gui of Allerdale that I do live but to slay one day with Pertolepe the Red—"
"Thou dost remember, Roger, how, within the Keep at Belsaye I sware an oath unto Sir Gui? So now—this very hour—must we march on Belsaye that this my oath may be kept." But here a murmur arose that hummed from rank to rank; heads were shaken and gruff voices spake on this wise:
"Belsaye? 'Tis a long day's march to Belsaye—"
"'Tis a very strong city—very strongly guarded—"
"And we muster scarce two hundred—"
"The walls be high and we have no ladders, or engines for battery and storm—"
"Forsooth, and we have here much booty already—"
"Ha—booty!" cried Beltane, "there spake tall Orson, methinks!"
"Aye," cried another voice, loud and defiant, "and we be no soldiers, master, to march 'gainst walled cities; look'ee. Foresters are we, to live secure and free within the merry greenwood. Is't not so, good fellows?"
"And there spake Jenkyn o' the Ford!" quoth Beltane. "Stand forth Orson, and Jenkyn with thee—so. Now hearken again. Within Belsaye men —aye, and women too! have endured the torment, Orson. To-day, at sundown, a noble man doth burn, Jenkyn."
"Why, look'ee, master," spake Jenkyn, bold-voiced yet blenching from Beltane's unswerving gaze, "look'ee, good master, here is no matter for honest woodsmen, look'ee—"
"Aye," nodded tall Orson, "'tis no matter of ours, so wherefore should us meddle?"
"And ye have swords, I see," quoth Beltane, "and thereto hands wherewith to fight, yet do ye speak, forsooth, of booty, and fain would lie hid secure within the green? So be it! Bring forth the record, Giles, and strike me out the names of Orson and Jenkyn, the which, being shaped like men, are yet no men. Give therefore unto each his share of booty and let him go hence." So saying, Beltane turned and looked upon the close-drawn ranks that murmured and muttered no more. Quoth he:
"Now, and there be any here among us so faint-hearted—so unworthy as this Orson and Jenkyn, that do hold treasure and safety above flesh and blood—if there be any here, who, regarding his own base body, will strike no blow for these distressed—why, let him now go forth of this our company. O men! O men of Pentavalon, do ye not hear them, these woeful ones—do ye not hear them crying to us from searing flame, from dungeon and gibbet—do ye not hear? Is there one, that, remembering the torments endured of groaning bodies, the dire wrongs of innocence shamed and trampled in the mire—lives there a man that will not adventure life and limb and all he doth possess that such things may be smitten hence and made an end of for all time? But if such there be, let him now stand forth with Orson here, and Jenkyn o' the Ford!"
Thus spake Beltane quick and passionate and thereafter paused, waiting their answer; but no man spake or moved, only from their grim ranks a growl went up ominous and deep, and eyes grown bright and fierce glared upon tall Orson and Jenkyn o' the Ford, who shuffled with their feet and fumbled with their hands and knew not where to look.
"'Tis well, 'tis well, good comrades all!" spake Beltane in a while, "this night, mayhap, shall we, each one, achieve great things. Go now, dig ye a pit and therein hide such treasure as ye will and thereafter arm ye at points, for in the hour we march. Eric, see each doth bear with him food, and Giles, look that their quivers be full."
So saying, Beltane turned and coming to his sleeping-place, forthwith began to don his armour. And presently he was aware of Orson and Jenkyn standing without the cave and each with look downcast; and eke they fumbled with their hands and shuffled with their feet and fain were to speak yet found no word. But at last spake Jenkyn humbly and on this wise:
"Master, here come I, look'ee, with Orson that is my comrade, look'ee—"
"Nay, go get thee to thy 'booty'!" says Beltane, busied with his armour.
"Nay, but look'ee master, we be—"
"No men!" quoth Beltane, "thus would I be free of ye both—so get you hence."
"But good master," spake Orson, "we do ha' changed our minds—it do be a direful thing to burn, and if they do ha' tormented maids—"
"'Tis no matter of thine," quoth Beltane. "So go thy ways and meddle not."
"But master, look'ee now, we be stout men, and look'ee, we be full of lust to fight—O master, let us go! Kneel, Orson, bend—bend thy long shanks, look'ee—" and forthwith on their knees fell Jenkyn and tall Orson with pleading eyes and eager hands outstretched.
"O master, look'ee, let us go!"
"Aye, we do ha' changed our minds, master!"
"Then be it so!" said Beltane, "and I pray ye be ever faithful to your minds!" Then took they Beltane's hand to kiss and thereafter up they sprang and went rejoicing to their company.
And, within the hour, mail and bascinet agleam, the two hundred and twenty and four marched forth of the hollow with step blithe and free, and swung away through the green till the sound of voice and laughter, the ring and clash of their going was died away and none remained, save where, cross-legged upon the sward, his open wallet on his knee, the round and buxom Pardoner sat to cherish a bruised arm and to stare from earth to heaven and from heaven to earth with eyes wider and rounder even than was their wont and custom.
Through broad glades deep-hid within the wild; by shady alleyway and leafy track they held their march south and by east, a close, well-ordered company striding long and free and waking the solitudes to a blithe babblement of laughing echoes. And who among them all so merry as Giles o' the Bow at the head of his sturdy archers? Oft trolling some merry stave or turning with some quip or jape upon his tongue, but with eyes quick to mark the rhythmic swing of broad, mail-clad shoulders, eyes critical, yet eyes of pride. Who so grimly eager as mighty Walkyn, his heavy axe lightly a-swing, his long legs schooling themselves to his comrade's slower time and pace? Who so utterly content as Black Roger, oft glancing from Beltane's figure in the van to the files of his pike-men, their slung shields agleam, their spears well sloped? And who so gloomy and thoughtful as Beltane, unmindful of the youthful knight who went beside him, and scarce heeding his soft-spoke words until his gaze by chance lighted upon the young knight's armour that gleamed in the sun 'neath rich surcoat; armour of the newest fashion of link, reinforced by plates of steel, gorget and breast, elbow and knee, and with cunningly jointed sollerets. Moreover, his shield was small and light according with the new fashion, and bare the blazon of two hands, tight clasped, and the legend: "Semper Fidelis."
Now viewing all this with a smith's knowledgful eye, quick to note the costly excellence of this equipment, Beltane forthwith brake silence:
"How do men name thee, sir knight?"
Hereupon, after some delay, the young knight made answer:
"Messire, the motto I bear upon my shield is a good motto methinks. So shalt call me Fidelis an ye will, my lord."
"So be it, Sir Faithful," saying which Beltane fell to deep thought again.
"I pray you, my lord," quoth Fidelis, "wherefore so sad, so full of gloom and thought?"
"I seek how we may win through the gates of Belsaye, Sir Fidelis, for they go strongly guarded night and day; yet this day, ere sunset, ope to us they must. But how—how?"
"My lord," spake Sir Fidelis, "I have heard say that few may go where many oft-times may not. Let first some two or three adventure it, hid 'neath some close disguise—"
"A disguise!" cried Beltane, "Ha—a disguise. 'Tis well bethought, good Fidelis. Forsooth, a disguise! And 'twill be market day!" Thereafter Beltane strode on, head bent in frowning thought, nor spake again for a space. And ever the files swung along behind in time to a marching song carolled blithe in the rich, sweet voice of Giles. At length Beltane raised his head and beholding the sun well-risen, halted his company beside a stream that flowed athwart their way, and sitting thereby, summoned to him the four—namely, Walkyn and Roger, Giles and Eric of the wry neck; and while they ate together, they held counsel on this wise:
BELTANE. "How think ye of this our adventure, comrades all?"
GILES. "Forsooth, as a man do I think well of it. Ho! for the twang of bowstrings! the whirr and whistle of well-sped shafts loosed from the ear! Ha! as an archer and a man 'tis an adventure that jumpeth with my desire. But—as a soldier, and one of much and varied experience, as one that hath stormed Belsaye ere now—with divers other towns, cities, keeps, and castles beyond number—as a soldier, I do think it but a gloomy business and foredoomed to failure—"
BELTANE. "And wherefore?"
GILES. "Method, tall brother, method precise and soldier-like. War is a very ancient profession—an honourable profession and therefore to be treated with due reverence. Now, without method, war would become but a scurvy, sorry, hole-and-corner business, unworthy your true soldier. So I, a soldier, loving my profession, do stand for method in all things. Thus, would I attack a city, I do itmodo et forma:first, I set up my mantelets for my archers, and under cover of their swift shooting I set me up my mangonels, my trebuchets and balistae: then, pushing me up, assault the walls with cat, battering-ram and sap, and having made me a breach, would forthwith take me the place by sudden storm."
ROGER. "Ha, bowman! here is overmuch of thee, methinks! And dost speak like a very archer-like fool—and forsooth, a foolish archer to boot. Sure, well ye know that engines for the battery have we none—"
GILES. "Verily! So shall we none of Belsaye, methinks. Lacking engines, we lack for all—no method, no city! Remember that, dolt Rogerkin!"
ROGER. "Nay, I remember Garthlaxton aflame, the gallows aflare, and the empty dungeon. So, an we go up 'gainst Belsaye again, shall we surely take it. Remember these, long-winded Giles, and being a soldier, be ye also—a man."
BELTANE. "What think you, Walkyn?"
WALKYN. (patting his axe) "Of Gui of Allerdale, master."
BELTANE. "And you, Eric?"
ERIC. "That where thou dost go, messire, we follow."
BELTANE. "'Tis well. Now here beside me sitteth Sir Fidelis, who though methinks the most youthful of us all, hath a head in council wiser than us all. For he hath spoke me that whereby though few in number and lacking engines for battery, Giles—we yet may win through the walls of Belsaye ere sun-down. Know you this country, Walkyn?"
WALKYN. "As my hand, lord."
BELTANE. "Is there a village hereabouts?"
WALKYN. "Aye, five miles west by south is Brand-le-Dene. But there is a mill scarce a mile down stream, I wot."
BELTANE. "A mill? 'Twill serve—go ye thither. Here is money—buy therewith four hats and smocks the like that millers wear, and likewise four meal-sacks well stuffed with straw."
WALKYN. (rising) "Smocks, master? Straw and meal-sacks?"
BELTANE. "And haste, Walkyn. We must be far hence within the hour."
Forthwith up rose Walkyn and summoning divers of his company strode away down stream, what time Giles, staring after him in wonderment, thereafter shook his head at Roger. Quoth he:
"Tall brother and lord, now do I see that our Roger burneth for knowledge, panteth for understanding, and fain would question thee but that his mouth is full-crammed of meat. Yet do his bulging eyes supplicate the wherefore of smocks, and his goodly large ears do twitch for the why of sacks. O impatient Rogerkin, bolt thy food, man, gulp— swallow, and ask and importune my lord thyself!"
"Not I—not I!" quoth Roger, "an my master lacketh for a smock or a sack, for me is no question of wherefore or why, so long as he doth get them!"
"But the straw, Roger," said Giles, glancing askew at Beltane, "an thou should'st plague my lord with questions, how think ye then he shall answer of this straw?"
"Thus, thou crafty Giles," answered Beltane. "Belsaye is strong, but strength may be, perchance, beguiled. So may a miller's smock hide a shirt of mail, and straw, I have heard, will burn." "Oho, a wile!" cried Giles, "Aha! some notable wile! What more?"
"More shalt thou know, mayhap, in Belsaye market-place."
And when Beltane had handled the well-worn smocks, had viewed the bulging meal-sacks that Walkyn and his fellows brought him, he arose. At his word the company fell to their ranks and forthwith swung off again south and by east, what time Giles carolled blithely, and divers chorused lustily: while Roger whistled and even grim Walkyn (bethinking him of Gui of Allerdale) rumbled hoarsely in his hairy throat.
So the miles passed unheeded until, as the sun declined, they left the wild country behind; wherefore Beltane commanded all men to a strict silence and thus came they betimes to the edge of the woods, and halting within the green, beheld afar across the plain, the walls of fair Belsaye town.
"We are well to time," quoth Beltane, glancing from sinking sun to lengthening shadow, "we have yet an hour to sunset, but in this hour much have we to do! Hark ye now!" and drawing the four about him, he spake them thus: "Walkyn and Roger and Eric shall into the town with me in miller's guise, each bearing his sack of flour, what time you, Giles, with Sir Fidelis and all our power bide here well hid till such time as ye shall see a smoke within Belsaye. And when ye see this smoke, rise up and make you ready one and all, yet stir not from the green till that ye hear my bugle-horn sound our rallying-note. Then come ye on amain, and being within the city, charge ye where my horn shall sound. How now, is't agreed?"
"Aye, lord!" nodded Giles, "'tis an excellent strategy in faith, and yet 'twere wiser methinks to suffer me in Roger's place: for being guileful in war, so should I be a very beguiling miller, whereas Roger, an we plastered him with flour, would ne'er be other than Rogerkin the Black."
"Nay Giles, thy post is here. Let your bows be strung and ready, but set your pikes to the fore—and Giles, watch! Walkyn, bring now the smocks."
So saying, Beltane tightened his belt, drew on his hood of mail and laced it close, and turning, found Sir Fidelis close by to aid him with the hooded smock; and Beltane wondered to see him so pale and his slender hands a-tremble.
So the smocks were donned, with straw about their legs bound by withies as was the custom, and taking the sacks upon their shoulders, they turned aside into the green and were gone.
Sir Gui of Allerdale, lord Seneschal of Belsaye town, rode hawk on fist at the head of divers noble knights and gentle esquires with verderers and falconers attendant. The dusty highway, that led across the plain to the frowning gates of Belsaye, was a-throng with country folk trudging on foot or seated in heavy carts whose clumsy wheels creaked and groaned city-wards; for though the sun was far declined, it was market-day: moreover a man was to die by the fire, and though such sights were a-plenty, yet 'twas seldom that any lord, seneschal, warden, castellan or—in fine, any potent lord dowered with right of pit and gallows—dared lay hand upon a son of the church, even of the lesser and poorer orders; but Sir Gui was a bold man and greatly daring. Wherefore it was that though the market-traffic was well nigh done, the road was yet a-swarm with folk all eager to behold and watch how a white friar could face death by the flame. So, on horse and afoot, in creaking cart and wain, they thronged toward the goodly city of Belsaye.
Sir Gui rode at a hand-pace, and as he rode the folk drew hastily aside to give him way, and bent the knee full humbly or stood with bowed heads uncovered to watch him pass; but 'neath bristling brows, full many an eye glared fiercely on his richly-habited, slender figure, marking his quick, dark glance, the down-curving, high-bridged nose of him with the thin lips and the long, pointed chin below.
Thus rode he, assured in his might and confident, heedless alike of the glory of day fast drawing into evening, of the green world whose every blade and leaf spake of life abundant, and of these trampling folk who bent so humbly at his passing, their cheeks aglow with health; thus, heeding but himself and his own most dear desires, how should he mark the four tall and dusty miller's men whose brawny backs were stooped each beneath its burden? And how should he, confident in his strength and might, hale and lusty in his body, come to think on death sharp and swift? Thus Sir Gui of Allerdale, lord Seneschal of Belsaye town, rode upon his way, with eyes that glowed with the love of life, and tongue that curled 'twixt smiling lips as one that savoured its sweetness or meditated coming joys. Perceiving the which, two youthful esquires that rode near by nudged elbows, and set their heads together.
"I know yon look—aha! 'tis the goldsmith's fair young wife. There have been lovers who loved love ere now—Pan, see you, and Jove himself they say: but Pan was coy, and Jove—"
"Hist, he beckons us!"
So came these young esquires beside Sir Gui who, tapping the dust from his habit with soft white hand, spake soft-voiced and sweet.
"Ride on, sirs, and bid our careful warden stay awhile the execution of this traitorous friar. Let the square be lined with pikes as is our custom: let the prisoner be chained unto his stake see you, but let all things stay until I be come. There will be many folk in Belsaye, meseemeth, well—let them wait, and stare, and whisper, and—wait, till I be come!"
Forward spurred the young esquires to do as was commanded, joyful to see the confusion that marked their swift career and making good play of their whips on the heads and shoulders of such as chanced to be within reach; in especial upon a mighty fellow in floured smock that bare a sack on his shoulder and who, stung with the blow, cried a curse on them in voice so harsh and bold that folk shrank from his neighbourhood, yet marvelled at his daring. Being come anon within the city Sir Gui dismounted beside the gate, and giving horse and falcon to an esquire, beckoned to him a grizzled man-at-arms; now as he did so, a tall miller passed him by, and stumbling wearily, set down his sack against the wall and panted.
"Bare you the letter as I commanded, Rolf?"
"Aye, my lord."
"What said she?"
"Wept, my lord."
"Spake she nought?"
"Nought, my lord."
"Lieth the goldsmith deep?"
"Above the water-dungeons, my lord."
"And she wept, say you? Methinks the goldsmith shall go free to-morrow!"
So saying, Sir Gui went on into the city, and as he went, his smile was back again, and his tongue curved red betwixt his lips. And presently the tall miller hoisted his burden and went on into the city also; turned aside down a narrow passage betwixt gloomy houses, and so at last out into the square that hummed with a clamour hushed and expectant. But my lord Seneschal, unheeding ever, came unto a certain quiet corner of the square remote and shady, being far removed from the stir and bustle of the place; here he paused at an open doorway and turned to look back into the square, ruddy with sunset—a careless glance that saw the blue of sky, the heavy-timbered houses bathed in the warm sunset glow, the which, falling athwart the square, shone red upon the smock of a miller, who stooping 'neath his burden, stumbled across the uneven cobble-stones hard by. All this saw Sir Gui in that one backward glance; then, unheeding as ever, went in at the doorway and up the dark and narrow stair. But now it chanced that the miller, coming also to this door, stood a while sack on shoulder, peering up into the gloom within; thereafter, having set down his burden in stealthy fashion, he also turned and glanced back with eyes that glittered in the shadow of his hat: then, setting one hand within his smock, he went in at the door and, soft-footed began to creep up that dark and narrow stair. She sat in a great carven chair, her arms outstretched across the table before her, her face bowed low between, and the setting sun made a glory of her golden hair. Of a sudden she started, and lifting her head looked upon Sir Gui; her tears, slow-falling and bitter, staining the beauty of her face.
"My lord—ah, no!" she panted, and started to her feet.
"Dear and fair my lady—fear not. Strong am I, but very gentle—'tis ever my way with beauty. I do but come for my answer." And he pointed to a crumpled parchment that lay upon the table.
"O, good my lord," she whispered, "I cannot! If thou art gentle indeed —then—"
"He lieth above the water-dungeons, lady!" sighed Sir Gui.
"Ah, the sweet Christ aid me!"
"To-morrow he goeth to death, or lieth in those round, white arms. Lady, the choice is thine: and I pray you show pity to thy husband who loveth thee well, 'tis said." Now hereupon she sobbed amain and fell upon her knees with arms outstretched in passionate appeal—but lo! she spake no word, her swimming eyes oped suddenly wide, and with arms yet outstretched she stared and stared beyond Sir Gui in so much that he turned and started back amazed—to behold one clad as a dusty miller, a mighty man whose battered hat touched the lintel and whose great bulk filled the doorway—a very silent man who looked and looked with neck out-thrust, yet moved not and uttered no word. Hereupon Sir Gui spake quick and passion-choked:
"Fool—fool! hence, thou blundering fool. For this shalt be flayed alive. Ha!—hence, thou dusty rogue!" But now this grim figure stirred, and lifting a great hand, spake hoarse and low:
"Peace, knight! Hold thy peace and look!" The wide-eaved hat was tossed to the floor and Sir Gui, clenching his hands, would have spoken but the harsh voice drowned his words: "How, knight, thou that art Bloody Gui of Allerdale! Dost thou not know me, forsooth? I am Waldron, whose father and mother and sister ye slew. Aye, Waldron of Brand am I, though men do call me Walkyn o' the Dene these days. Brand was a fair manor, knight—a fair manor, but long since dust and ashes—ha! a merry blaze wherein father and mother and sister burned and screamed and died—in faith, a roguish blaze! Ha! d'ye blench? Dost know me, forsooth?"
Then Sir Gui stepped back, drawing his sword; but, even so, death leapt at him. A woman, wailing, fled from the chamber, a chair crashed to the floor; came a strange, quick tapping of feet upon the floor and thereafter rose a cry that swelled louder to a scream—louder to a bubbling shriek, and dying to a groaning hiss, was gone.
And, in a while, Walkyn, that had been Waldron of Brand, rose up from his knees, and running forth of the chamber, hasted down the dark and narrow stair.
The market-place was full of the stir and hum of jostling crowds; here were pale-faced townsfolk, men and women and children who, cowed by suffering and bitter wrong, spake little, and that little below their breath; here were country folk from village and farmstead near and far, a motley company that talked amain, loud-voiced and eager, as they pushed and strove to see where, in the midst of the square beyond the serried ranks of pike-men, a post had been set up; a massy post, grim and solitary, whose heavy chains and iron girdle gleamed ominous and red in the last rays of sunset. Near by, upon a dais, they had set up a chair fairly gilded, wherein Sir Gui was wont to sit and watch justice done upon the writhing bodies of my lord Duke's enemies. Indeed, the citizens of Belsaye had beheld sights many and dire of late, wherefore now they blenched before this stark and grisly thing and looked askance; but to these country folk such things were something newer, wherefore they pushed and strove amid the press that they might view it nearer—in especial two in miller's hooded smocks, tall and lusty fellows these, who by dint of shoulder and elbow, won forward until they were stayed by the file of Sir Gui's heavy-armed pikemen. Thereupon spake one, close in his fellow's ear:—
"Where tarries Walkyn, think you?" said Beltane below his breath.
"Master, I know not—he vanished in the press but now—"
"And Eric?"
"He watcheth our meal-sacks. Shall I not go bid him strike flint and steel? The time were fair, methinks?"
"Not so, wait you until Sir Gui be come and seated in his chair of state: then haste you to bold Eric and, the sacks ablaze, shout 'fire;' so will I here amid the press take up the cry, and in the rush join with ye at the gate. Patience, Roger."
And now of a sudden the throng stirred, swayed and was still; but from many a quivering lip a breath went up to heaven, a sigh—a whispered groan, as, through the shrinking populace, the prisoner was brought. A man of Belsaye he, a man strong and tender, whom many had loved full well. Half borne, half dragged betwixt his gaolers, he came on stumbling feet—a woeful shivering thing with languid head a-droop; a thing of noisome rags that told of nights and days in dungeon black and foul; a thing whose shrunken nakedness showed a multitude of small wounds, slow-bleeding, that spoke of teeth little yet vicious, bold with hunger in the dark; a miserable, tottering thing, haggard and pinched, that shivered and shook and stared upon all things with eyes vacant and wide.
And thus it was that Beltane beheld again Friar Martin, the white friar that had been a man once, a strong man and a gentle. They brought him to the great post, they clasped him fast within the iron band and so left him, shivering in his chains with head a-droop. Came the sound of muffled weeping from the crowd, while high above, in sky deepening to evening, a star twinkled. Now in a while the white friar raised his heavy head and looked round about, and lo! his eyes were vacant no longer, and as folk strove to come more nigh, he spake, hoarse-voiced and feeble.
"O children, grieve not for me, for though this body suffer a little, my soul doth sit serene. What though I stand in bonds, yet doth my soul go free. Though they burn my flesh to ashes yet doth my soul live on forever. So grieve not your hearts for me, my children, and, for yourselves, though ye be afflicted even as I—fear ye nothing—since I, that ye all do know for a truthful man, do tell ye 'tis none so hard to die if that our hearts be clean. What though ye suffer the grievous horror of a prison? Within the dark ye shall find God. Thus I amid the dreadful gloom of my deep dungeon did lie within the arms of God, nothing fearing. So, when the fire shall sear me, though this my flesh may groan, God shall reach down to me through smoke and flame and lift my soul beyond. O be ye therefore comforted, my children: though each must die, yet to the pure in heart death is none so hard—"
Thus spake Friar Martin, shivering in his bonds, what time the crowd rocked and swayed, sobbing aloud and groaning; whereat Sir Gui's pikemen made lusty play with their spear-shafts.
Then spake Beltane, whispering, to Roger, who, sweating with impatience, groaned and stared and gnawed upon his fingers:
"Away, Roger!" And on the instant Roger had turned, and with brawny shoulders stooped, drove through the swaying press and was gone.
Now with every moment the temper of the crowd grew more threatening; voices shouted, fists were clenched, and the scowling pike-men, plying vicious spear-butts, cursed, and questioned each other aloud: "Why tarries Sir Gui?"
Hereupon a country fellow hard by took up the question:
"Sir Gui!" he shouted, "Why cometh not Sir Gui?"
"Aye!" cried others, "where tarries Sir Gui?" "Why doth he keep us?""Where tarries Sir Gui?"
"Here!" roared a voice deep and harsh, "Way—make way!" And suddenly high above the swaying crowd rose the head and shoulders of a man, a mighty man in the dusty habit of a miller, upon whose low-drawn hood and be-floured smock were great gouts and stains evil and dark; and now, beholding what manner of stains these were, all men fell silent and blenched from his path. Thus amid a lane of pallid faces that stared and shrank away, the tall miller came unto the wondering pike-men —burst their ranks and leapt upon the dais where stood the gilded chair.
"Ho! soldiers and men-at-arms—good people of Belsaye—call ye for Gui in sooth? hunger ye for sight of Bloody Gui of Allerdale in faith? Why then—behold!" and from under his be-dabbled smock he drew forth a head, pale as to cheek and hair, whose wide eyes stared blindly as it dangled in his hairy hand; and now, staring up at this awful, sightless thing—that brow at whose frown a city had trembled, those pallid lips that had smiled, and smiling, doomed men and women to torment and death—a hush fell on Belsaye and no man spoke or stirred.
Then, while all folk stood thus, rigid and at gaze, a wild cry was heard, shivering the stillness and smiting all hearts with sudden dread:—
"Fire! Fire!"
"Aye, fire!" roared the miller, "see yonder!" and he pointed where a column of thick smoke mounted slowly upon the windless air. But with the cry came tumult—a hurry of feet, shouts and yells and hoarse commands; armour clashed and pike-heads glittered, down-sweeping for the charge. Then Walkyn laughed, and hurling the pale head down at the nearest soldiery, drew from his smock his mighty axe and swung it, but lo! 'twixt him and the pike-men was a surging, ravening mob that closed, front and rear, upon knight and squire, upon pike-man and man-at-arms, men who leapt to grip mailed throats in naked hands, women who screamed and tore. And one by one, knight and squire, and man-at-arms, smiting, shrieking, groaning, were dragged down with merciless hands, to be wrenched at, torn, and trampled 'neath merciless feet, while high and clear above this fierce and dreadful clamour rose the shrill summons of a horn.
And lo! a shout—a roar—drowning the shrieks of dying men, the screams of vengeful women, "Arise—arise—Pentavalon!" Came a rush of feet, a shock, and thereafter a confused din that rose and fell and, gradually ceasing, was lost in a sudden clamour of bells, fierce-pealing in wild and joyous riot.
"Aha! 'tis done—'tis done!" panted Roger, stooping to cleanse his blade, "spite of all our lack of method, Giles—'tis done! Hark ye to those joy-bells! So doth fair Belsaye shout to all men she is free at last and clean of Gui and all his roguish garrison—"
"Clean?" quoth Giles. "Clean, forsooth? Roger—O Roger man, I have seen men die in many and diver ungentle ways ere now, but these men— these men of Gui's, look—look yonder! O sweet heaven keep me ever from the tearing hands of vengeful mothers and women wronged!" And turning his back on the littered market square, Giles shivered and leaned him upon his sword as one that is sick.
"Nay," said Black Roger, "Gui's black knaves being rent in pieces, Giles, we shall be saved the hanging of them—ha! there sounds my lord's horn, and 'tis the rallying-note—come away, Giles!"
Side by side they went, oft stepping across some shapeless horror, until in their going they chanced on one that knelt above a child, small and dead. And beholding the costly fashion of this man's armour, Roger stooped, and wondering, touched his bowed shoulder:
"Sir Fidelis," said he, "good young messire, and art thou hurt, forsooth?"
"Hurt?" sighed Sir Fidelis, staring up great-eyed, "hurt? Nay, behold this sweet babe—ah, gentle Christ—so innocent—and slain! A tender babe! And yonder—yonder, what dire sights lie yonder—" and sighing, the youthful knight sank back across Black Roger's arm and so lay speechless and a-swoon.
Quoth Roger, grim-smiling:
"What, Giles, here's one that loveth woman's finger-work no more than thou!" Thus saying, he stooped and lifting the young knight in his arms, bore him across the square, stumbling now and then on things dim-seen in the dark, for night was at hand.
So thus it was that the folk of fair Belsaye town, men and women with gnashing teeth and rending hands, made them an end of Tyranny, until with the night, there nothing remained of proud Sir Gui and all his lusty garrison, save shapeless blotches piled amid the gloom—and that which lay, forgotten quite, a cold and pallid thing, befouled with red and trampled mire; a thing of no account henceforth, that stared up with glazed and sightless eyes, where, remote within the sombre firmament of heaven, a great star glowed and trembled.
Lanthorns gleamed and torches flared in the great square of Belsaye where panting, shouting townsfolk thronged upon Beltane and his company with tears of joy, with laughter loud and high-pitched, with shouts and wild acclaim; many there were who knelt to kiss their sun-browned hands, their feet, the very links of their armour. And presently came Giles o' the Bow, debonair and smiling, a woman's scarf about his brawny throat, a dozen ribands and favours tied about each mailed arm.
"Lord," quoth he, "tall brother, I have been fairly kissed by full a score of buxom dames—the which is excellent good, for the women of Belsaye are of beauty renowned. But to kiss is a rare and notable science, and to kiss well a man should eat well, and forsooth, empty am I as any drum! Therefore prithee let us eat, that I may uphold my reputation, for, as the learned master Ovidius hath it, 'osculos'—"
But from the townsfolk a shout arose:
"Comes the Reeve! 'Tis good master Cuthbert! Way for the Reeve!"
Hereupon the crowd parting, a tall man appeared, his goodly apparel torn, his long white hair disordered, while in his hand he yet grasped a naked sword. Stern his face was, and lined beyond his years, moreover his broad shoulders were bowed with more than age; but his eye was bright and quick, and when he spake, his voice was strong and full.
"Which, I pray, is chiefest among ye?"
"That am I," quoth Beltane.
"Messire," said the Reeve, "who and what men ye are I know not, but in the name of these my fellow-citizens do I thank ye for our deliverance. But words be poor things, now therefore, an it be treasure ye do seek ye shall be satisfied. We have suffered much by extortion, but if gold be your desire, then whatsoever gold doth lie in our treasury, the half of it is freely thine."
"O most excellent Reeve!" cried Giles, "forsooth, a very proper spirit of gratitude."
"Good master," spake Beltane, quelling the archer with a look, "these my comrades hither came that a noble man should not perish, and that Sir Gui of Allerdale should cease from evil, and behold, 'tis done! So I pray you, give us food and shelter for the night, for with the dawn we march hence."
"But—O tall brother!" gasped Giles, "O sweet lord, there was mention made of treasure! A large-souled Reeve—a Reeve with bowels! 'Treasure' quoth he, and likewise 'gold!' And these be matters to excogitate upon. Moreover,pecunioe obediunt omnia, brother."
"Money, forsooth!" quoth Beltane bitterly; "now out upon thee, Giles— how think ye money shall avail the like of us whose lives are forfeit each and every, whose foes be many and strong, who must ever be on our ward, quick to smite lest we be smitten—money, forsooth! So, good master Reeve, keep thy useless treasure, and, in its stead, give to us good steel—broadswords, sharp and well-tempered and stout link-mail— give of these to such as lack."
"But—O brother," says Giles, "with gold may we gain all these."
"Verily, Giles, but gaining all without gold we lack not for gold, nor have the added fear of losing it. He that would gain wealth must first win freedom, for without freedom the richest is but a sorry slave. So give us steel, good master Reeve."
Now from Giles' archers and divers others beside a growl went up, spreading from rank to rank, what time Beltane clenched his hands, frowning ever blacker. Then forth stepped Jenkyn o' the Ford with tall Orson, which last spake with voice uplift:
"Master," quoth he, "us do love gold—but fighting men us do be, and if 'steel' says you—'steel' says we!"
"Aye," nodded Jenkyn, "so look'ee master, here stands I wi' Orson my comrade look'ee, for witness that to-day we be better men than these growlers."
But here, of a sudden, rose the shrill bray of a trumpet without the walls, a long flourish, loud and imperious; and at the sound a silence fell, wherein divers of the townsfolk eyed each other in fear swift-born, and drew nearer to the white-haired Reeve who stood leaning heavily upon his sword, his head stooped upon his broad chest. And in the silence, Giles spake:
"Now, by the ever-blessed Saint Giles, there spake the summons of Robert of Hurstmanswyke—I know his challenge of old—ha, bows and bills!" So saying he bent and strung his bow.
"Aye," nodded Roger, loosening sword in sheath, "and Sir Robert is a dour fighter I've heard."
"So soon!" groaned the Reeve, "so very soon! Now God pity Belsaye!"
"Amen!" quoth Giles, fidgeting uneasily with his bow, "forsooth, SirRobert is a very potent lord—God help us all, say I!"
"And Sir Robert likewise," quoth Roger, "for methinks an he come within Belsaye he is like to stay in Belsaye—mind ye Sir Gui, and mark ye my master's look!" And he pointed where Beltane stood near by, chin in fist, his eye bright and purposeful, his mouth grim-smiling; even as they watched he beckoned Walkyn and Eric to him and spake certain commands what time the trumpet brayed again in summons fierce and arrogant.
"Good master Reeve," quoth Beltane, as Walkyn and Eric, obedient to his word, moved into the square to right and left, each with his company, "there is one without that groweth impatient. Let us therefore parley with him from the battlement above the gate."
"Ah, messire," sighed the Reeve, "to what end? 'Tis Sir Robert's summons, and well I know he will demand speech with my lord Gui—alas for us and for Belsaye town!"
"Nay," answered Beltane, "be comforted. Answer as I shall direct and fear ye nothing. Come your ways."
Now when Roger turned and would have followed, Giles plucked him by the arm:
"Roger," quoth he, "Sir Robert will demand speech of Gui of Allerdale, mark ye that, my Rogerkin. Nor will he speak to any but Sir Gui—for a great lord and proud is Robert of Hurstmanswyke. Ha, what think ye, Roger?"