"I think perchance he must go dumb then—come, let us follow."
"Nay, but speak he must—since he may tell us much, aye, and speak he shall. So come, my Rogerkin, hither with me!"
"With thee, Giles? And wherefore?"
"A wile, sweet Roger, a notable wile—a wile of wiles. Hush! speak not, but come—for mark this:
"In faith a cunning man is GilesIn counsel sage and full of wiles!"
"So come, Rogerkin!" So saying, he gripped stout Roger's arm and plunged into the crowd.
Being come out upon the battlement above the gate, Beltane, with the Reeve beside him, peering down through the dark, beheld beyond the moat, a knight supported by four esquires, and beyond these Beltane counted thirty lances what time the Reeve, steadying his voice, challenged them.
Hereupon the knight spake:
"Ha! do ye stir at last, dogs! Open in the Duke's name—'tis I, Robert, lord of Hurstmanswyke, with message to the lord Seneschal, Sir Gui, and captives from Bourne!"
Then, grim-smiling in the dusk, Beltane spake: "Now greeting and fair greeting to thee, my lord, and to thy captives. Hath Thrasfordham fallen so soon?"
"Thrasfordham, fool! 'tis not yet invested—these be divers of Benedict's spies out of Bourne, to grace thy gibbets. Come, unbar—down with the drawbridge; open I say—must I wait thy rogue's pleasure?"
"Not so, noble lord. Belsaye this night doth welcome thee with open arms—and ye be in sooth Sir Robert of Hurstmanswyke."
"Ha, do ye doubt me, knave? Dare ye keep me without? Set wide the gates, and instantly, or I will see thee in a noose hereafter. Open! Open! God's death! will ye defy me? gate ho!"
So Beltane, smiling yet, descended from the battlement and bade them set wide the gates. Down creaked drawbridge; bars fell, bolts groaned, the massy gates swung wide—and Sir Robert and his esquires, with his weary captives stumbling in their jangling chains, and his thirty men-at-arms riding two by two, paced into Belsaye market square; the drawbridge rose, creaking, while gates clashed and bar and chain rattled ominously behind them. But Sir Robert, nothing heeding, secure in his noble might, scowled about him 'neath lifted vizor, and summoned the Reeve to his stirrup with imperious hand:
"How now, master Reeve," quoth he, "I am in haste to be gone: where tarries Sir Gui? Have ye not warned him of my coming? Go, say I crave instant speech with him on matters of state, moreover, say I bring fifty and three for him to hang to-morrow—go!"
But now, while the Reeve yet stood, pale in the torchlight, finding nought to say, came Beltane beside him.
"My lord," quoth he, "fifty and three is a goodly number; must they all die to-morrow?"
"To-morrow? Aye—or whensoever Sir Gui wills."
"Ah, fair lord," says Beltane, "then, as I guess, these fifty and three shall assuredly live on awhile, since Sir Gui of Allerdale will hang men no more."
"Ha, dare ye mock me, knave?" cried Sir Robert, and clenching iron hand he spurred upon Beltane, but checked as suddenly, and pointed where, midst the shrinking populace, strode one in knightly armour, whose embroidered surcoat bore the arms, and whose vizored helm the crest of Sir Gui of Allerdale. Now beholding this silent figure, a groan of fear went up, divers men sank crouching on their knees, the Reeve uttered a hoarse gasp and covered his face, while even Beltane, staring wide-eyed, felt his flesh a-creep. But now Sir Robert rode forward:
"Greeting, lord Seneschal!" said he, "you come betimes, messire, though not over hastily, methinks!"
"Forsooth," quoth the figure, his voice booming in his great war-helm, "forsooth and verily there be three things no man should leave in haste:videlicitand to wit: his prayers, his dinner and his lady. None the less came I hither to give thee greeting, good my lord."
"My lord Seneschal, what manner of men be these of thine?"
"O fair sir, they be ordinary men, rogues, see you, and fools—save one, a comely man this, an archer unequalled, hight Giles o' the Bow, a man of wit, very full of strategies and wiles."
"Aye, but what of yon tall knave, now," said Sir Robert, pointing atBeltane, "who is he?"
"Forsooth, a knave, my lord, an arrant knave with long legs."
"He will look well on a gibbet, methinks, Sir Gui."
"Indeed, my lord he might grace the gallows as well as you or I."
"The rogue telleth me that you will hang men no more."
"Ha, said he so forsooth? dared he so asperse mine honour? Ha, here is matter for red-hot irons, the pincers and the rack, anon. But come, Sir Robert—thou dost bear news, belike; come your ways and drink a goblet of wine."
"Nay, my lord, I thank thee, but I must hence this night to Barham Broom. But for my news, 'tis this: the out-law men call Beltane, hath, by devilish arts, sacked and burned Garthlaxton Keep."
"Why, this I knew; there is a lewd song already made thereon, as thus:
"They gave Garthlaxton to the flame,Be glory to Duke Beltane's name,And unto lusty Giles the same,Dixit!"
"Forsooth, a naughty song, a very gallows' song, in faith. Pray you, what more?"
"There hath come unto the Duke one hight Gurth—a hang-dog rogue that doth profess to know the lurking-place of this vile outlaw, and to-morrow at sunset, Sir Pertolepe and I with goodly force march into the green. So now must I hence, leaving with thee these captives from Bourne that you shall hang above the walls for a warning to all such outlaws and traitors. Lastly, my lord Seneschal, drink not so deep a-nights, and so, fare thee well."
Now as he yet spake rose the shrill notes of a horn, and turning about, Sir Robert beheld men whose mail glistened in the torchlight and whose long pikes hemmed him in close and closer what time a fierce shout went up: "Kill!" "Kill!"
"Ho, treason!" he roared, and grasped at his sword hilt; but down came Roger's heavy broadsword upon Sir Robert's helm, beating him to earth where Walkyn's mighty foot crushed him down and his axe gleamed bright. Then, while the air rang with shouts and cries and the clatter of trampling hoofs, a white figure leapt and bestrode the fallen knight, and Walkyn glared down into the pale face of Friar Martin.
"Forbear, Walkyn, forbear!" he cried, and speaking, staggered for very weakness and would have fallen but Walkyn's long arm was about him. And ever the uproar grew; the grim ranks of archers and pikemen drew closer about Sir Robert's shrinking men-at-arms what time the townsfolk, brandishing their weapons, shouted amain, "Kill! Kill!"
Now Roger's blow had been full lusty and Sir Robert yet lay a-swoon, seeing which, divers of his company, casting down their arms, cried aloud for quarter; whereat the townsfolk shouted but the fiercer: "Slay them! Kill! Kill!" But now, high above this clamour, rose the shrill note of Beltane's horn bidding all men to silence. Hereupon there came to him the white friar, who, looking earnestly upon his mailed face, uttered a sudden glad cry and caught his hand and kissed it; then turned he to the surging concourse and spake loud and joyously:
"Stay, good people of Belsaye! O ye children of affliction, spill not the blood of these thine enemies, but look, rather, upon this man! For this is he of whom I told ye in the days of your tribulation, this is he who burned the shameful gallows, who brake open the dungeon and hath vowed his life to the cause of the oppressed and weak. Behold now the son of Beltane the Strong and Just! Behold Beltane, our rightful Duke!" Now went there up to heaven a great and wild acclaim; shouts of joy and the thunderous battle-cry "Arise! Arise! Pentavalon!" Then, while all eyes beheld and all ears hearkened, Beltane spake him, plain and to the point, as was his custom:
"Behold now, men of Belsaye, these our enemies do cry us mercy, and shall we not bestow it? Moreover one living hostage is better than two foemen slain. Entreat them gently, therefore, but let me see them lodged secure ere I march hence."
But hereupon came many of the townsfolk with divers counsellors and chief men of the city who, kneeling, most earnestly prayed Beltane to abide for their defence.
"Good my lord," quoth the Reeve, "bethink thee, when Duke Ivo shall hear of our doings he will seek bitter vengeance. Ah, my lord, 'twas but five years agone he stormed Belsaye and gave it up to pillage—and on that day—my wife—was slain! And when he had set up his great gallows and hanged it full with our men, he vowed that, should Belsaye anger him again, he would burn the city and all within it and, O my lord, my lord—I have yet a daughter—Ah, good my lord, leave us not to ravishment and death!"
"Aye, go not from us, my lord!" cried the others. "Be thou our leader henceforth!" and thereto they besought him with eager cries and with hands outstretched.
But Beltane shook his head; quoth he:
"Look now, as men are born into the world but for the good of man, so must I to my duty. And methinks, this is my duty: to do such deeds as shall ring throughout this sorrowful Duchy like a trumpet-blast, bidding all men arise and take hold upon their manhood. Garthlaxton is no more, but there be many castles yet to burn whose flames, perchance, shall light such a fire within the souls of men as shall ne'er be quenched until Wrong and Tyranny be done away. So must I back to the wild-wood to wild and desperate doings. But, as for ye—I have heard tell that the men of Belsaye are brave and resolute. Let now the memory of wrongs endured make ye trebly valiant to maintain your new-got liberty. If Duke Ivo come, then let your walls be manned, for 'tis better to die free men than trust again to his mercy."
"Verily, lord," said the Reeve, "but we do lack for leaders. Our provost and all our captains Duke Ivo hanged upon his gallows. Beseech thee, then, give to us a leader cunning in war."
"That will I," answered Beltane, "on this condition—that every able man shall muster under arms each day within the market-square."
"It shall be done, my lord."
Then summoned he Eric of the wry neck, together with Giles who came forthwith, being yet bedight in Sir Gui's harness.
"Eric, I have marked thee well; methinks thou art one long bred to arms and learned in war?"
"My lord Beltane, in other days I was the Duke thy father's HighConstable of all the coast-wise towns."
"Ha—say'st thou so in sooth? Then now do I make thee lord Constable of Belsaye. As to thee, Giles, thou guileful rogue, hast full oft vaunted thyself a soldier of experience, so now am I minded to prove thee and thy methods. How if I give thee charge over the bowmen of Belsaye?"
"Why first, sweet, tall brother, first will I teach them to draw a bow, pluck a string, and speed a shaft as never townsman drew, plucked or sped—in fine, I will teach them to shoot: and, thereafter, devoutly pray the good Saint Giles (that is my patron saint) to send us Black Ivo and his dogs to shoot at!"
"So be it. Choose ye now each ten men of your companies that shall abide here with ye what time I am away—yet first mark this: In your hands do I leave this fair city, to your care I give the lives and well-being of all these men and women and children. Come now, lay here your hands upon my sword and swear me to maintain Belsaye to the last man 'gainst siege or storm, so long as life be in you!"
Now when they had sworn, Beltane turned him to the Reeve:
"Good sir," quoth he, "I pray you loose now the captives from their chains. Let your prisoners be secured, and for the rest, let us now eat and drink lest we famish."
Thus in a while, Sir Robert of Hurstmanswyke, dazed and bewildered, and his four esquires, together with his thirty men-at-arms, stripped of armour and weapons, were led away and lodged secure beneath the keep.
Now it chanced that as Beltane stood apart with head a-droop as one in thought, there came to him Sir Fidelis and touched him with gentle hand.
"My lord Beltane," said he softly, "of what think you?"
"Of Pentavalon, and how soonest her sorrows may be done away."
"Lovest thou Pentavalon indeed, messire?"
"Aye, truly, Fidelis."
"Then wherefore let her suffer longer?"
"Suffer? Aye, there it is—but how may I bring her woes to sudden end?I am too weak, her oppressors many, and my men but few—"
"Few?" quoth Sir Fidelis, speaking with head low-stooped. "Few, messire? Not so. Ten thousand lances might follow thee to-morrow an thou but spake the word—"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "mock me not, good Fidelis, thou dost know me a lonely man and friendless—to whom should I speak?"
"To one that loveth thee now as ever, to one that yearneth for thee with heart nigh to breaking—to Helen—"
"Ah!" quoth Beltane, slow and bitter, "speak word to Helen the Beautiful—the Wilful—the Wanton? No, a thousand times! Rather would I perish, I and all my hopes, than seek aid of such as she—"
"Lovest thou Pentavalon indeed, messire? Nay, methinks better far thou dost love thy cold and cruel pride—so must Pentavalon endure her grievous wrongs, and so do I pity her, but—most of all—I pity thee, messire!"
Now would Beltane have answered but found no word, and therefore fell to black and bitter anger, and, turning on his heel, incontinent strode away into the council-hall where a banquet had been spread. Frowning, he ate and drank in haste, scarce heeding the words addressed to him, wherefore others grew silent also; and thereafter, his hunger assuaged, strode he out into the square and summoned his company.
"Men of Pentavalon," spake he loud and quick, "howso poor and humble ye be, henceforth ye shall go, each and every, equipped in knightly mail from foot to head, your man's flesh as secure as flesh of any potent lord or noble of them all. Henceforth each man of us must fight as valiantly as ten. Now, if any there be who know the manage of horse and lance, let him step forth." Hereupon divers stepped out of the ranks, and Beltane counted of these fifty and two.
"Master Reeve," spake Beltane, "give now for guerdon instead of gold, horses and equipment for these my comrades, stout lances and mail complete with goodly bascinets."
"It shall be done, my lord."
"Roger, in thy command I set these fifty lances. See now to their arming, let them be mounted and ready with speed, for in this hour we ride."
"Aye, master," cried Roger, his eyes a-dance, "that will I, moreover—"
"Walkyn, to thee I give the pikes henceforth. As for our archers—Giles, which now think you fittest to command?"
"Why truly, brother—my lord, if one there be can twang a lusty bow and hath a cool and soldier-like head 'tis Jenkyn o' the Ford, and after him Walcher, and after him—"
"Jenkyn, do you henceforth look to our archers. Are these matters heard and known among ye?"
"Aye!" came the thunderous answer.
"'Tis well, for mark me, we go out to desperate doings, wherein obedience must be instant, wherein all must love like brothers, and, like brothers, fight shoulder to shoulder!"
Now came there certain of the citizens to Beltane, leading a great and noble war-horse, richly caparisoned, meet for his acceptance. And thus, ere the moon rose, equipped with lance and shield and ponderous, vizored casque, Beltane, gloomy and silent, with Sir Fidelis mounted beside him, rode forth at the head of his grim array, at whose tramp and jingle the folk of Belsaye shouted joyful acclaim while the bells rang out right joyously.
It was very dark upon the forest road, where trees loomed gigantic against the pitchy gloom wherein dim-seen branches creaked and swayed, and leaves rustled faint and fitful in the stealthy night-wind; and through the gloom at the head of his silent company Beltane rode in frowning thought, his humour blacker than the night.
Now in a while, Sir Fidelis, riding ever at his elbow, ventured speech with him:
"Art very silent, messire. Have I angered thee, forsooth? Is aught amiss betwixt us?"
Quoth Beltane, shortly:
"Art over-young, sir knight, and therefore fond and foolish. Is a man a lover of self because he hateth dishonour? Art a presumptuous youth— and that's amiss!"
"Art thou so ancient, messire, and therefore so wise as to judge 'twixt thy hates and loves and the abiding sorrows of Pentavalon?" questioned Fidelis, low-voiced and gentle.
"Old enough am I to know that in all this world is no baser thing than the treachery of a faithless woman, and that he who seeketh aid of such, e'en though his cause be just, dishonoureth himself and eke his cause. So God keep me from all women henceforth—and as for thee, speak me no more the name of this light wanton."
"My lord," quoth Sir Fidelis, leaning near, "my lord—whom mean you?"
"Whom should I mean but Mortain Helen—Helen the Beautiful—"
Now cried Sir Fidelis as one that feels a blow, and, in the dark, he seized Beltane in sudden griping fingers, and shook him fiercely.
"And dare ye name her 'wanton!'" he cried. "Ye shall not—I say ye shall not!" But, laughing, Beltane smote away the young knight's hold and laughed again.
"Is this light lady's fame so dear to thee, poor, youthful fool?" said he. "Aye me! doubt not her falsity shall break thy heart some day and teach thee wisdom—"
A shout among the woods upon their right, a twinkling light that came and went amid the underbrush, and Walkyn appeared, bearing a lighted brand.
"Lord," he growled, "here has been devil's work of late, for yonder a cottage lieth a heap of glowing ashes, and upon a tree hard by a dead man doth swing."
"Learned ye aught else, Walkyn?"
"Nothing, save that a large company passed here yesterday as I judge. Horse and foot—going south, see you," and he held his torch to the trampled road.
"Going south—aye, Walkyn, to Barham Broom, methinks. Here is another debt shall yet be paid in full, mayhap," quoth Beltane grimly. "Forward!"
The jingling column moved on again, yet had gone but a little way when Sir Fidelis, uttering a cry, swerved his horse suddenly and sprang to earth.
"What now?" questioned Beltane, staring into the murk.
"My lord—my lord, a woman lieth here, and—ah, messire—she is dead!"
"O, a woman?" quoth Beltane, "and dead, say you? Why then, the world shall know less of evil and treachery, methinks. Come—mount, sir knight, mount, I say, and let us on!"
But Sir Fidelis, on his knees beside that silent, dim-seen form, heeded him not at all, and with reverent, folded hands, and soft and tender voice, spake a prayer for the departed soul. Now hereupon Beltane knew sudden shame and swift remorse, and bowed his head also, and would have prayed—yet could not; wherefore his black mood deepened and his anger grew more bitter.
"Mount, mount, sir knight!" cried he harshly. "Better to seek vengeance dire than mumble on thy knees—mount, I say!"
Forthwith Sir Fidelis arose, nothing speaking, and being in the saddle, reined back and suffered Beltane to ride alone. But in a while, Beltane perceiving himself thus shunned, found therein a new grievance and fiercely summoned Sir Fidelis beside him.
"Wherefore slink ye behind me?" he demanded.
Then spake Sir Fidelis in voice full low and troubled:
"My lord Beltane, 'twas said thou wert a noble knight—very strong and very gentle—"
"Ha! dost think such report a lie, mayhap?"
"Alas!" sighed the young knight; and again "alas!" and therewith a great sob brake from him.
Of a sudden, from the gloom beside the way rose a woman's scream, and thereafter a great and fierce roar; and presently came Walkyn with his torch and divers of his men, dragging a woman in their midst, and lo! it was the witch of Hangstone Waste.
Now she, beholding Beltane's face beneath his lifted vizor, cried out for very joy:
"Now heaven bless thee, Duke Beltane! Ah, my lord—hear me!"
"What would ye? What seek ye of such as I?"
But hereupon Black Roger spurred beside Beltane, his eyes wide and fearful in the shadow of his helm, his strong, mailed hand a-tremble on Beltane's arm.
"Beware, my lord, beware!" he cried, "'tis nigh the midnight hour and she a noted witch—heed her not lest she blight thy fair body, lest she—"
"Peace, Roger! Now speak, woman—what would ye?"
"A life, my lord!"
"Ah, the blessed saints forfend—I feared so!" gasped Roger.
But now the witch turned and looked on Roger, and he incontinent crossed himself and fell thenceforth to mumbling prayers beneath his breath.
"Lord Duke, for that I am but a woman poor and helpless, now would I beseech thine aid for—"
"Nay, tell me first, whence come ye?"
"From Barham Broom, messire. Ah! spare aid for one that lieth in peril of death—the maid Mellent—they do proclaim her witch—they will burn her—"
"O—a woman!" quoth Beltane, wrinkling his brows; and beholding SirFidelis watching him, straightway frowned the blacker.
"Nay, messire, hear me!" cried the witch, "ah, turn not away! This maid, indeed, is not of common blood—a lady is she of birth and wide demesnes—"
"Why then," said Beltane, heedful ever of the young knight's burning glance, "why then is she more apt for treachery and evil."
"Not so, my lord; weak is she and beset by cruel enemies. I found her, a stranger, wandering lonely in the green, and she, being sick of heart and brain, spake wild words of a great wrong, vainly done and suffered, and of an abiding remorse. And when I had nursed her into health she told me a wondrous tale. So, lord Beltane, do I know that in her hands thy happiness doth lie."
"Not so!" sighed Beltane. "Happiness and I are strangers henceforth—"
But here once again came a hoarse and angry roar with the sound of desperate struggling amid the leaves hard by, whence came Jenkyn and Orson with divers others, dragging a strange, hairy, dwarf-like creature, great and shaggy of head and with the arms and shoulders of a giant; smirched was he in blood from a great wound above the brow and his rich habit was mired and torn. Now looking upon this monstrous creature that writhed and struggled mightily with his captors, groaning and roaring betimes, Beltane felt his flesh a-creep with swift and pregnant memory, and straightway beset the witch with fierce question:
"Woman, what thing is this?"
"My lord, 'tis naught but poor Ulf, a natural, messire, very strong and faithful, that hath fought mightily and is nigh slain in our defence— see how he bleeds! Let them not harm him, my lord!"
"Yet have I seen him ere this, methinks."
"But for the maid Mellent—thou wilt not let her burn—and for thy deeds?"
"Mine, forsooth! How mean you?"
"'Twas yester-eve we were beset hereabouts by a lewd company, and brought unto their lord, Sir Grilles of Brandonmere—a man beyond all other men base and vile—who, beholding her so young and fair would have forced her to his will."
"Ha!—methinks Sir Gilles doth live too long!"
"So to save her from his violence, I discovered to him her name and high estate, whereupon at first he would fain have her wed with him. But, angered by her scorn, he bore her with him to Duke Ivo at Barham Broom, and me also. And there I heard her denounced as witch, by whose spells thou, lord Beltane, wert freed of thy duress and Garthlaxton utterly destroyed. Thus, to-morrow she must burn, unless one can be found to champion her cause and prove her innocent by trial of combat. So, when they had let me go I came seeking thee, my lord, since 'tis said thou art a very strong man and swift to aid the defenceless." Now glancing aside upon Sir Fidelis, Beltane beheld him leaning forward with his lips apart and slender hands tight-clasped; whereupon he frowned and shook his head.
"A woman!" quoth he, "nay, I had rather fight in a dog's cause."
"Forsooth!" cried Roger, "for rogue is he and fool that would champion a vile witch."
"Why, then, let us on, lord," growled Walkyn. "Why tarry we here?"
But now, as the witch sank upon the road with pleading hands uplifted, Sir Fidelis rode beside her and, stooping, caught her outstretched hands; quoth he:
"Of what avail to plead with such as these? So will I adventure me on behalf of this poor maid."
"Enough!" cried Beltane. "Walkyn, march ye one and all for Hundleby Fen—wait me there and let your watch be strict. But, an I come not within two days from now, then hie you each and every to reinforce Eric and Giles in Belsaye. As for Roger, he rideth with me to Barham Broom."
"Ha, lord!—wilt fight, then, in the witch's cause?" cried Walkyn.
"Aye, forsooth, though—forsooth I had rather fight in a dog's cause, for a dog, see you, is a faithful beast."
"To Barham Broom?" quoth Roger, staring. "Thou and I, master, to BlackIvo—alone?" And speaking, he loosened sword in scabbard.
"My lord Beltane," cried Sir Fidelis, beholding him with shining eyes, "an thou wilt do this noble thing, suffer me beside thee!"
"Not so, messire," answered Beltane, shaking his head, "art over young and tender, methinks—go, get thee back to her that sent thee—keep thou thy fond and foolish dream, and may thy gentle heart go unbroken. Come, Roger!"
So saying, Beltane wheeled about and rode away with Roger at his heels.
Barham Broom was gay with the stir of flags and streamers, where, above broidered pavilion and silken tent, pennons and banderoles, penoncels and gonfalons fluttered and flew, beyond which long lines of smaller tents stretched away north and south, east and west, and made up the camp of my lord Duke Ivo.
Beyond the confines of this great and goodly camp the lists had been formed, and here from earliest dawn a great concourse had been gathering; villein and vassal, serf and freedman from town and village: noble lords and ladies fair from castle hall and perfumed bower, all were here, for to-day a witch was to die—to-day, from her tortured flesh the flame was to drive forth and exorcize, once and for all, the demon who possessed her, by whose vile aid she wrought her charms and spells. So country wenches pushed and strove amid the throng, and dainty ladies leaned from canopied galleries to shudder with dread or trill soft laughter; but each and every stared at one who stood alone, 'twixt armed guards, so young and fair and pale within her bonds, oft turning piteous face to heaven or looking with quailing eye where stake and chain and faggot menaced her with awful doom. And ever the kindly sun rose high and higher, and ever the staring concourse grew.
Now, of a sudden the clarions rang out a point of war, and all voices were hushed, as, forth into the lists, upon his richly-caparisoned charger, my lord Duke Ivo rode, followed by his chiefest lords and barons; and as he rode, he smiled to himself full oft as one that meditates a hidden jest. Being come where the witch stood, her disordered garments rent by vicious handling, striving to veil her beauty in her long, dark hair, my lord Duke reined in his pawing steed to sit a while and look down at her 'neath sleepy lids; and, ever as he looked, his arching nostrils fluttered above curling lip, and ever he fingered his long, blue-shaven chin.
"Alack!" cried he at last, "'tis a comely wench, and full young, methinks, to die so soon! But witchcraft is a deadly sin, abhorred by man and hateful unto God—"
"My lord—my lord," spake the witch swift and passionate yet trembling 'neath his sleepy gaze, "thou knowest I am no witch indeed—thou knowest—"
"Nay, nay," quoth the Duke, shaking his head, and coming more near he stooped and spake her, low-voiced, "nay, she thou would'st name was a lady proud, soft and white, with hair bright and glorious as the sun— in sooth a fair lady—yet something too ambitious. But thou, though of her size and shape, art of a dark and swarthy hue and thy hair black, meseemeth. Of a verity thou art only the witch Mellent, and so, by reason of thy sun-browned skin and raven hair—aye, and for thy witchcraft—thou, alack! must die—unless thou find thee a champion. Verily I fear me no man will dare take up thy cause, for Sir Gilles is a lusty man and famous at the joust. Moreover—my will is known in the matter, so do I fear there none shall come to fight on thy behalf. Alack! that one should die so young!"
"Ah, my lord—my lord Ivo," she whispered, eager and breathless, "show me a little mercy. For that, to be thy Duchess, I denied thee thy desire in the past, let me now be prisoned all my days, an it be thy will—but give me not to the fire—ah, God—not the fire! Pity—pity me for what I did for thee—be merciful—"
"Did, wench—did?" quoth the Duke, gently. "Now when spake I with witch ere this? 'Tis true there was a lady—something of thy seeming—who, to gain much, promised much, and—achieved me nothing. So now do I know thee far one Mellent, a notable witch, that shall this day instead of ducal crown, wear crown of flame. Alack!—and so, farewell!"
Thus speaking, my lord Duke rode on up the lists, where stood certain noble lords to hold his stirrup and aid him to earth; so mounted he to his place 'neath broidered canopy, and many a fair cheek blanched, and many a stout knight faltered in his speech, beholding that slow-creeping, stealthy smile and the twitch of those thin nostrils.
Now once again the trumpet blew, and a herald stepped forth:
"God save ye, lord Duke," he cried, "ye noble lords and ladies fair— good people all, God save ye. Know that before you here assembled, hath been brought one Mellent—that hath been denounced a notable witch and sorceress, who, by her fiendish arts and by the aid of demons foul and damned, doth seek the hurt of our lord the Duke, whom God and the saints defend. Forasmuch as this witch, yclept Mellent, did, by her unhallowed spells and magic, compass and bring about the escape from close duress of one Beltane, a notable outlaw, malefactor and enemy to our lord the Duke; and whereas she did also by aid of charms, incantations and the like devilish practices, contrive the sack, burning and total destruction of my lord Duke's good and fair castle of Garthlaxton upon the March. Now therefore it is adjudged that she be taken and her body burned to ashes here before you. All of which charges have been set forth and sworn to by this right noble lord and gallant knight Sir Gilles of Brandonmere—behold him here in person."
Hereupon, while the trumpets brayed a flourish and fanfare, forth rode Sir Gilles upon a mighty charger, a grim and warlike figure in his shining mail and blazoned surcoat, his ponderous, crested war-helm closed, his long shield covering him from shoulder to stirrup, and his lance-point twinkling on high.
Then spake again the herald loud and clear: "Good people all, behold Sir Gilles of Brandonmere, who cometh here before you prepared to maintain the truth and justice of the charges he hath made—unto the death, 'gainst any man soever, on horse or on foot, with lance, battle-axe or sword. Now if there be any here do know this witch Mellent for innocent, if there be any here dare adventure his body for her innocence and run the peril of mortal combat with Sir Gilles, let him now stand forth."
And immediately the trumpets sounded a challenge. Thereafter the herald paced slowly round the lists, and behind him rode Sir Gilles, his blazon of the three stooping falcons plain for all men to see, on gleaming shield and surcoat.
North and south, and east and west the challenge was repeated, and after each the trumpet sounded a warlike flourish, yet no horseman paced forth and no man leapt the barriers; and the witch Mellent drooped pale and trembling betwixt her warders. But, of a sudden she opened swooning eyes and lifted her heavy head; for, from the distant woods, faint as yet and far, a horn brayed hoarsely—three notes, thrice repeated, defiant and warlike. And now, among the swaying crowds rose a hum that grew and grew, while ever and anon the horn rang out, fiercely winded—and ever it sounded nearer: until, of a sudden, out from the trees afar, two horsemen galloped, their harness bright in the sunshine, helm and lance-point twinkling, who, spurring knee and knee, thundered over the ling; while every tongue grew hushed, and every eye turned to mark their swift career.
Tall were these men and lusty, bedight from head to foot in glistening mail, alike at all points save that one bare neither shield nor lance, and 'neath his open bascinet showed a face brown and comely, whereas his companion rode, his long shield flashing in the sun, his head and face hid by reason of his ponderous, close-shut casque. Swift they rode, the throng parting before them; knee and knee together they leapt the palisade, and reining in their horses, paced down the lists and halted before the pale and trembling captive. Then spake the knight, harsh-voiced behind his vizor:
"Sound, Roger!"
Forthwith the black-haired, ruddy man set a hunting horn to his lips, and blew thereon a flourish so loud and shrill as made the very welkin ring.
Now came pursuivants and the chief herald, which last made inquisition thus:
"Sir Knight, crest hast thou none, nor on thy shield device, so do I demand name and rank of thee, who thus in knightly guise doth give this bold defiance, and wherefore ye ride armed at points. Pronounce, messire!"
Then spake the tall knight loud and fierce, his voice deep-booming within the hollow of his closed casque.
"Name and rank have I laid by for the nonce, until I shall have achieved a certain vow, but of noble blood am I and kin unto the greatest—this do I swear by Holy Rood. To-day am I hither come in arms to do battle on behalf of yon innocent maid, and to maintain her innocence so long as strength abide. And furthermore, here before ye all and every, I do proclaim Sir Gilles of Brandonmere a shame and reproach unto his order. To all the world I do proclaim him rogue and thief and wilful liar, the which (God willing) I will here prove upon his vile body. So now let there be an end of words. Sound, Roger!"
Hereupon he of the ruddy cheek clapped horn to lip and blew amain until his cheek grew redder yet, what time the heralds and pursuivants and marshals of the field debated together if it were lawful for a nameless knight to couch lance 'gainst one of noble blood. But now came Sir Gilles himself, choking with rage, and fuming in his harness.
"Ha, thou nameless dog!" cried he, brandishing his heavy lance, "be thou serf or noble, art an errant liar—so will I slay thee out of hand!" Thus saying, he reined round the great roan stallion he bestrode, and galloped to one end of the lists. Now spake Black Roger low-voiced, and his hand shook upon his bridle:
"Master, now do I fear for thee. Sir Gilles is a mighty jouster and skilled withal, moreover he rideth his famous horse Mars—a noble beast and fresh, while thine is something wearied. And then, master, direst of all, she thou would'st champion is a witch—"
"That worketh no evil by day, Roger. So do I charge thee, whatsoe'er betide, look to the maid, take her across thy saddle and strive to bring her to safety. As for me, I will now with might and main seek to make an end of Sir Gilles of Brandonmere."
So saying, Beltane rode to the opposite extremity of the lists.
And now, while the trumpets blared, the two knights took their ground, Sir Gilles resplendent in lofty crest and emblazoned surcoat, the three stooping falcons conspicuous on his shield, his mighty roan charger pawing the ling with impatient hoof; his opponent, a gleaming figure astride a tall black horse, his round-topped casque unadorned by plume or crest. So awhile they remained, very still and silent, what time a single trumpet spake, whereat—behold! the two long lances sank feutred to the charge, the broad shields flashed, glittered and were still again; and from that great concourse a sound went up—a hum, that swelled, and so was gone.
The maid Mellent had sunk upon her knees and was praying desperate prayers with face upturned to heaven; but none was there to mark her now amid that silent gathering—all eyes were strained to watch those grim and silent horsemen that fronted each other, the length of the lists between; even Duke Ivo, leaning on lazy elbow, looked with glowing eye and slow-flushing cheek, ere he let fall his truncheon.
And, on the instant, shrill and fierce the trumpets brayed, and on the instant each knight struck spurs, the powerful horses reared, plunged, and sprang away at speed. Fast and faster they galloped, their riders low-stooped above the high-peaked saddles, shields addressed and lances steady, with pounding hooves that sent the turves a-flying, with gleaming helms and deadly lance-points a-twinkle; fast and ever faster they thundered down upon each other, till, with a sudden direful crash, they met in full career with a splintering of well-aimed lances, a lashing of wild hooves, a rearing of powerful horses, staggering and reeling beneath the shock. And now a thunderous cry went up, for the tall black horse, plunging and snorting, went down rolling upon the sward. But his rider had leapt clear and, stumbling to his feet, stood swaying unsteadily, faint and dazed with the blow of Sir Gilles' lance that had borne down the great black horse and torn the heavy casque from his head. So stood Beltane, unhelmed, staring dazedly from heaving earth to reeling heaven; yet, of a sudden, shook aloft the fragment of his splintered lance and laughed fierce and loud, to behold, 'twixt reeling earth and sky, a great roan stallion that foamed upon his bit 'neath sharp-drawn rein, as, swaying sideways from the lofty saddle, Sir Gilles of Brandonmere crashed to earth, transfixed through shield and hauberk, through breast and back, upon the shaft of a broken lance. High over him leapt Beltane, to catch the roan's loose bridle, to swing himself up, and so, with stirrups flying and amid a sudden clamour of roaring voices, to thunder down the lists where Roger's heavy sword flashed, as smiting right and left, he stooped and swung the maid Mellent before him.
"Ride, Roger—ride! Spur—spur!" shouted Beltane above the gathering din, and shouting, drew his sword, for now before them, steel glittered and cries rang upon the air:
"'Tis Beltane the outlaw! Seize him—slay him! 'Tis the outlaw!"
But knee and knee, with loose rein and goading spur rode they, and nought could avail and none were quick enough to stay that headlong gallop; side by side they thundered over the ling, and knee and knee they leapt the barrier, bursting through bewildered soldiery, scattering frighted country-folk, and so away, over gorse and heather and with arrows, drawn at a venture, whistling by them. Betimes they reached the shelter of the woods, and turning, Beltane beheld a confusion of armed men, a-horse and a-foot, what time borne upon the air came a sound hoarse and menacing, a sound dreadful to hear—the sound of the hue and cry.
Fast they galloped 'neath the trees, stooping ever and anon to avoid some low-swung branch; through grassy rides and sunny glades, until all sound of pursuit was died away. So, turning aside into the denser green, Beltane stayed, and sprang down to tighten the great roan's saddle-girths, strained in the encounter. Now as he was busied thus, came the maid Mellent, very pale 'neath her long black hair, and spake him low-voiced and humble:
"My lord Beltane, thou, at peril of thy body, hath saved to-day a sorrowful maid from the fiery torment. So to prove my gratitude and sorrow for past ill—now will I tell thee that in saving me, thou hast saved one that for ambition's sake, once did thee grievous wrong."
"Thou!" saith Beltane, staring in amaze, "ne'er hast thou seen me until this day!"
"Verily, messire—O messire, thou hast indeed seen me ere this and—to my bitter sorrow—for I who speak am the lady Winfrida—"
"Nay—nay—" stammered Beltane, "here is thing impossible—thy night-black hair—"
"'Tis but a wile that many women do know, messire, a device of the witch Jolette (that is no witch, but a noble woman) a device whereby I might lie hid awhile. O indeed, indeed I who speak to thee am the wicked Winfrida—Winfrida the Sorrowful!" Now herewith she sank before him on her knees and bowed her face within her hands, and Beltane saw that she trembled greatly. "My lord," she whispered, "now must I confess a thing beyond all words shameful, and though I fear death, I fear thy anger more. If, therefore, when I have spoke thee all, thou wilt slay me, then—O my lord—I pray thee—let death come swift—"
"Master!" cried Roger of a sudden, "I hear horses—they be after us already! Mount—mount and let us ride—Hark! they come this way!"
"Aye!" nodded Beltane, drawing his sword, "yet here is but one methinks—list, Roger—leave him to me!" So waited they all three, what time the slow-pacing hoofs drew near and nearer, until, peering through the leaves, they beheld a knight, who rode low-stooping in his saddle, to mark their tracks plain upon the tender grass. Forth stepped Beltane, fierce and threatening, his long sword agleam, and so paused to scowl, for the knight raised his head of a sudden and lo! 'twas Sir Fidelis.
"Now what seek ye here, sir knight?" saith Beltane, nothing gentle.
"Thee, my lord," quoth Fidelis, meek of aspect, "to share thy perils according to thy word. Put up thy sword, messire, thou wilt not harm thy companion in arms?"
Now Beltane, finding nought to say, scowled sulkily to earth, and thus saw nothing of the eyes so deep and tender that watched him 'neath the shadow of the young knight's bascinet, nor the smile so sad and wistful that curled his ruddy lips, nor all the lithe and slender grace of him as he swayed to the impatient movements of the powerful animal he bestrode; but it chanced that Winfrida's eyes saw all this, and being a woman's eyes, beheld that which gave her breathing sudden pause—turned her red—turned her pale, until, with a gasp of fear she started, and uttering a cry, low and inarticulate, sped fleet-footed across the glade and was gone.
Quoth Beltane, staring:
"Now what aileth the maid, think ye? But 'tis no matter—we are well quit of her, meseemeth." So saying, he turned to behold Roger flat upon his belly and with his ear to the ground.
"Master," cried he, "master, there be horsemen i' the forest hereabouts—a great company!"
"Why then, do you mount, Roger, and hie thee with Sir Fidelis hot-foot to Walkyn at Hundleby Fen. Bid him set our bowmen in every place of vantage, and let every man stand to arms. So mayhap, Roger, will we this day make hunted men of them that hunt!" So saying, Beltane swung to saddle.
"Aye—aye—but what o' thee, master?"
"Mark ye this horse, Roger. Thou hast said 'twas of good speed and endurance, and methinks 'tis sooth. Howbeit, now shall he prove thy word, for here I wait the hunters, and to-day will I, keeping ever out of bow-shot, lead them through every quag, every bog and marsh 'twixt here and Hundleby Fen, and of those that follow still, thou and Walkyn and our merry men shall make an end, I pray God. So let all lie well hid, and watch for my coming. And now—farewell to thee, Roger."
"But, master," quoth Roger, waxing rueful, "in this thou must run dire perils and dangers, and I not with thee. So pray thee let Sir Fidelis— hard!—Ha!—now God aid us—hark to that! Master, they've loosed the dogs on us!"
Even as he spake, very faint and far as yet but plain to hear above the leafy stirring, the deep baying of a hound came down the wind.
"Hunting-dogs, master! Ride—ride!" quoth Roger, wiping sweat from him, "O sweet Christ forgive me, for I have hunted down poor rogues with such ere now—"
"Forsooth, Roger, and now is their turn to hunt thee, mayhap. Howbeit, ride you at speed, and you, sir knight also, get you gone, and whatsoever betide, Roger, wait you at Hundleby Fen for me. Go—obey me!" So, looking upon Beltane with eyes of yearning, Black Roger perforce wheeled and rode out into the glade, and striking spurs to his eager steed, galloped swiftly away. Now turned Beltane upon Sir Fidelis:
"How, messire—are ye not gone?"
Then answered Sir Fidelis, his drooping head averted:
"Thou seest, my lord—I go beside thee according to thy word—"
"Presumptuous youth, I want thee not!"
"The day will yet come, perchance, my lord—and I can be patient—"
"Ha—dost defy me?"
"Not so, my lord—nor do I fear thee. For I do know thee better than thyself, so do I pity thee—pity thee—thou that art so mighty and yet so weak. Thou art a babe weeping in a place of shadows, so will I go beside thee in the dark to soothe and comfort thee. Thou art a noble man, thy better self lost awhile 'neath sickly fancies—God send they soon may pass. Till then I can be very patient, my lord Beltane."
Now did Beltane stare with eyes of wonder upon Sir Fidelis who managed his fretting charger with a gracious ease, yet held his face ever averted. While, upon the stilly air, loud and more loud rose the fierce baying of the hounds.
Said Beltane at last:
"Messire, thou dost hear the hounds?"
"In faith, my lord, I tremble to be gone, but an thou dost tarry, so must I."
"Death shall follow hard after us this day, Sir Fidelis."
"Why then, an death o'ertake us—I must die, messire."
"Ha,—the hounds have winded us already, methinks! Hark!—Hark to them!" And in truth the air was full of their raving clamour, with, ever and anon, the shouts and cries of those that urged them on.
"Hast a noble horse, Sir Fidelis. Now God send he bear thee well this day, for 'twill be hard and cruel going. Come—'tis time, methinks!"
Thus speaking, Beltane gave his horse the rein and forth they rode together out into the broad and open glade, their armour glinting in the sun; and immediately the dogs gave tongue, louder, fiercer than before. Now looking back. Beltane beheld afar many mounted men who shouted amain, flourishing lance and sword, while divers others let slip the great dogs they held in leash; then, looking up the glade ahead, and noting its smooth level and goodly length, Beltane smiled grimly and drew sword. "Sir Fidelis," said he, "hast a mace at thy saddle-bow: betake thee to it, 'tis a goodly weapon, and—smite hard. 'Twill be the dogs first. Now—spur!"
Forward bounded the two high-mettled steeds, gathering pace with every stride, but the great hounds came on amain, while beyond, distant as yet, the hunters rode—knight and squire, mounted bowman and man-at-arms they spurred and shouted, filling the air with fierce halloo. Slowly the hounds drew nearer—ten great beasts Beltane counted—that galloped two and two, whining and whimpering as they came.
Now of a sudden Beltane checked in his career, swerved, swung the plunging roan, and with long blade agleam, rode in upon the racing pack to meet their rush with deadly point and deep-biting edge; a slavering hound launched itself at his throat, its fangs clashing on the stout links of his camail, but as the great beast hung thus, striving to drag him from the saddle, down came the mace of Sir Fidelis and the snarling beast fell to be crushed 'neath the trampling hoofs of the war-horse Mars. And now did the mighty roan prove himself a very Mars indeed, for, beset round about by fierce, lean shapes that crouched and leapt with cruel, gleaming fangs, he stamped and reared and fought them off, neighing loud defiance. Thus, with lashing hoof, with whirling mace and darting sword fought they, until of the hounds there none remained save three that limped painfully to cover, licking their hurts as they went.
But other foes were near, for as Beltane reined his snorting steed about, he swayed in his stirrups 'neath the shock of a cross-bow bolt that glanced, whirring, from his bascinet, and in that moment Sir Fidelis cried aloud:
"My lord, my lord! alas, my poor horse is death-smitten!" Glancing round. Beltane beheld Sir Fidelis slip to earth as his charger, rearing high, crashed over, his throat transfixed by a cloth-yard shaft. Now did their many pursuers shout amain, fierce and joyful, goading their horses to swifter pace what time Beltane frowned from them to Sir Fidelis, who stood, mailed hands tight-clasped, watching Beltane eager and great-eyed.
"Ah!" cried Beltane, smiting hand to thigh in bitter anger, "now is my hope of ambush and surprise like to be marred by reason of thee, sir knight, for one horse may never carry us twain!"
"Why then, I can die here, my lord, an it be so thy will!" spake Sir Fidelis, his pale lips a tremble, "yet is thy horse strong and—O in sooth I did yearn—for life. But, an thou wilt give me death—"
"Come!" cried Beltane hoarsely. "Come, wherefore tarry ye?"
Now leapt Sir Fidelis to the saddle of his fallen steed and snatched thence a wallet, whereat Beltane fell a-fuming, for bolts and arrows began to whirr and hum thick and fast. "Come—mount, sir knight—mount ye up behind me. Thy hand—quick! thy foot on my foot—so! Now set thy two arms fast about me and see thou loose me not, for now must we ride for the wild—brush and thicket, stock and stone, nought must let or stay us—so loose me not, sir knight!"
"Ah—not while life remain, messire Beltane!" said the young knight quick-breathing, and speaking, took Beltane within two mailed arms that clasped and clung full close. Then, wheeling sharp about, Beltane stooping low, struck sudden spurs and they plunged, crashing, into the denser green.
Fast galloped the good horse, bursting through underbrush and thicket with the roar of the pursuit following ever distant and more distant; and ever Beltane spurred deeper into those trackless wilds where few dare adventure them by reason of evil spirits that do haunt these solitudes (as they do say) and, moreover, of ravening beasts.
Strongly and well the good horse bore them, what time the sun waxed fierce and hot, filling the woods with a stifling heat, a close, windless air dank and heavy with the scent of leaves and bracken. The hue and cry had sunk long since, lost in distance, and nought broke the brooding silence but the stir of their going, as, checking their headlong pace, Beltane brought the powerful animal to slow and leisured gait. And presently, a gentle wind arose, that came and went, to fan brow and cheek and temper the sun's heat.
And now, as they rode through sunlight and shadow, Beltane felt his black mood slowly lifted from him and knew a sense of rest, a content unfelt this many a day; he looked, glad-eyed, upon the beauty of the world about him, from green earth to an azure heaven peeping through a fretted screen of branches; he marked the graceful, slender bracken stirring to the soft-breathing air, the mighty boles of stately trees that reached out sinuous boughs one to another, to touch and twine together amid a mystery of murmuring leaves. All this he saw, yet heeded not at all the round-mailed arms that clasped him in their soft embrace, nor the slender hands that held upon his girdle.
So rode they through bosky dell and dingle, until the sun, having climbed the meridian, sank slowly westwards; and Sir Fidelis spake soft-voiced:
"Think you we are safe at last, my lord?"
"Fidelis," saith Beltane, "Yest're'en did'st thou name me selfish, to-day, a babe, and, moreover, by thy disobedience hast made my schemes of no avail—thus am I wroth with thee."
"Yet doth the sun shine, my lord," said Sir Fidelis, small of voice.
"Ha—think you my anger so light a thing, forsooth?"
"Messire, I think of it not at all."
"By thy evil conduct are we fugitives in the wilderness!"
"Yet is it a wondrous fair place, messire, and we unharmed—which is well, and we are—together, which is—also well."
"And with but one beast to bear us twain!"
"Yet he beareth us strong and nobly, messire!"
"Fidelis, I would I ne'er had seen thee."
"Thou dost not see me—now, lord—content you, therefore," saith Fidelis softly, whereat Beltane must needs twist in the saddle, yet saw no more than a mailed arm and shoulder.
"Howbeit," quoth Beltane, "I would these arms o' thine clasped the middle of any other man than I."
"Forsooth, my lord? And do they crush thee so? Or is it thou dost pine for solitude?"
"Neither, youth: 'tis for thy youth's sake, for, though thou hast angered me full oft, art but a very youth—"
"Gramercy for my so much youthfulness, my lord. Methinks I shall be full long a-growing old—"
"Heed me, sir knight, 'tis a fell place this, where direful beasts do raven—"
"Nathless, messire, my youthfulness is but where it would be—"
"Aye, forsooth, and there it is! Where thou would'st be—thou, forsooth! Art indeed a wilful youth and very headstrong. And wherefore here?"
"To cheer thee in thy loneliness, my lord."
"How so?"
"Thou shalt reproach me for my youth and quarrel with me when thou wilt!"
"Am I of so ill humour, indeed?"
"Look within thyself, my lord."
Now here they rode a while in silence; but presently Beltane turned him again in the saddle and saw again only arm and shoulder. Quoth he:
"Fidelis, art a strange youth and a valiant—and yet, thy voice—thy voice hath betimes a—a something I love not—a note of softness that mindeth me of bitter days."
"Then heed it not, my lord; 'tis but that I grow a-weary, belike."
Here silence again, what time Beltane fell to frowning and Sir Fidelis, head a-slant, to watching him furtive-eyed, yet with lips that curved to wistful smile.
"Came you in sooth from—the Duchess Helen, Fidelis?"
"In truth, my lord."
"Dost love her—also?"
"Aye, my lord—also!"
"Then alas for thee, poor youthful fool, 'twere better I had left thee to thy death, methinks, for she—this wilful Helen—"
"My lord," cried Sir Fidelis, "nought will I hear to her defame!"
"Fidelis, art a gentle knight—but very young, art fond and foolish, so, loving this light lady, art doubly fool!"
"Wherein," saith Fidelis, "wherein, my lord, thou art likewise fool, meseemeth."
"Verily," nodded Beltane, "O verily fool am I, yet wise in this—that I do know my folly. So I, a fool, would counsel thee in thy folly thus— give not thy heart to Helen's faithless keeping—stoop not to her wanton lure—ha! what now?" For, lithe and swift, Sir Fidelis had sprung to earth and had seized the great roan's bridle, and checking him in his stride, faced Beltane with cheeks suffused and flaming eyes.
"Shame, messire—O shame!" he cried. "How vile is he that would, with lying tongue, smirch the spotless honour of any maid. And, as to Helen, I do name thee liar!—liar!"
"Would'st quarrel with me in matter so unworthy?"
"Enough!" quoth Fidelis, "unworthy art thou to take her name within thy lips—enough!" So saying Sir Fidelis stepped back a pace and drew his sword.
Now Beltane, yet astride the mighty roan that snuffed the fragrant air and stooped to crop the tender herbage, looked upon the youthful paladin 'neath wrinkled brow, and pulled his lip as one in doubt. Anon he sighed and therewith smiled and shook his head.
Quoth he:
"O Fidelis, now do I see that I must needs love thee some day. Fidelis, art a fool, but a right sweet fool, so do I humbly sue thy foolish pardon, and, as to Helen, may she prove worthy thy sweet faith and I thy love and friendship. So, fair knight, put up thy sword—come, mount and let us on. Sir Mars, methinks, doth snuff water afar, and I do yearn me for the cool of it."
So in a while they rode on again, yet presently Sir Fidelis, meek-voiced, preferred a sudden question, thus:
"Lord, fain would I know why thou dost contemn her so—"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "here is a tale un-meet thy tender years. Speak we of other things—as thus, wherefore didst keep our lives in jeopardy to bring away the wallet that cumbereth thy hip?"
"For that within doth lie, first—our supper—"
"O foolish youth, these woods do teem with food!"
"A neat's tongue, delicately seasoned—"
"O!" said Beltane.
"'Twixt manchets of fair white bread—"
"Ah!" said Beltane.
"With a small skin of rare wine—"
"Enough!" quoth Beltane. "These be things forsooth worth a little risk. Now do I thirst and famish, yet knew it not."
"An thou wilt eat, my lord?"
"Nay, first will we find some freshet where we may bathe awhile. Ha, to plunge naked within some sweet pool—'tis a sweet thought, Fidelis?"
But hereupon the young knight made answer none and fell into a reverie and Beltane also, what time they rode by murmuring rills, through swampy hollows, past brake and briar, until, as evening began to fall, they came unto a broad, slow-moving stream whose waters, aglow with sunset glory, split asunder the greeny gloom of trees, most pleasant to behold. Then, sighing for very gladness, Beltane checked his horse and spake right gleefully:
"Light down, light down, good Fidelis; ne'er saw I fairer haven for wearied travellers! We have ridden hard and far, so here will we tarry the night!" and down to earth he sprang, to stride up and down and stretch his cramped limbs, the while Sir Fidelis, loosing off the great, high-peaked saddle, led the foam-flecked war-horse down to the water.
Now because of the heat, Beltane laid by his bascinet, and, hearkening to the soft, cool ripple of the water, he straightway unbuckled his sword-belt and began to doff his heavy hauberk; perceiving the which, cometh Sir Fidelis to him something hastily.
"What do you, messire?" he questioned.
"Do, Fidelis? Forsooth, I would bathe me in yon cool, sweet water—list how it murmureth 'neath the bank yonder. Come then, strip as I do, youth, strip and let us swim together—pray you aid me with this lacing."
"My lord, I—indeed, I do think it unsafe—"
"Unsafe, boy?"
"An our foes should come upon us—"
"O content you," quoth Beltane, stooping to loose off his spurs, "our foes were lost hours since, nor shall any find us here in the wild, methinks—pray you, loose me this buckle. Come, list how the waters do woo us with their pretty babble."
"But, messire," quoth Fidelis, faint-voiced, and fumbling awkwardly with the buckle, "indeed I—I have no art in swimming."
"Then will I teach thee."
"Nay," spake the young knight hastily, his trouble growing, "I do dread the water!"
"Well, there be shallows 'neath the alders yonder."
"Aye, but the shallows will be muddy, and I—"
"Muddy?" cried Beltane, pausing with his hauberk half on, half off, to stare at Sir Fidelis in amaze, "muddy, forsooth! Art a dainty youth in faith, and over-nice, methinks. What matter for a little honest mud, prithee?"
"Why 'tis mud! And slimy under foot! And I love not mud! So will I none of the shallows!"
"Then verily must I chide thee, Fidelis, for—"
"Then verily will I unto yon boskage, messire, to prepare us a fire 'gainst the 'beasts that raven,' and our bracken beds. Howbeit, bathe me I—will—not, messire!"
"O luxurious youth, then will I, and shame thy nice luxuriousness!" quoth Beltane; and off came hauberk and quilted gambeson and away skipped Sir Fidelis into the green.
So, presently, Beltane plunged him into the stream, and swimming with powerful strokes, felt his youth and strength redoubled thereby, and rejoiced to be alive. Thereafter he leapt ashore, his blood aglow with ardent life, and, as he clothed him, felt a great and mighty hunger.
But scarce had he donned chausses and gambeson than he heard an outcry and sudden clamour within the green; whereupon, staying not for his armour, he caught up his sword and, unsheathing it as he ran, plunged in among the trees and there espied Sir Fidelis stoutly withstanding three foul knaves unwashed and ragged. Then shouted Beltane, and fell upon them right joyously and smote them gleefully and laughed to see them reel and scatter before his sudden onset; whereon, beholding Sir Fidelis pale and scant of breath, he stayed to clap him on the shoulder.
"Blithely done, good Fidelis!" quoth he. "Rest thee awhile and catch thy wind, for fain am I to try a bout with yon tall rogues!" So saying, he advanced upon the scowling three, his eyes a-dance, his nimble feet light-poised for swift action—for lusty rogues were these, who, seeing him alone, forthwith met him point and edge, besetting him with many swashing blows, that, whistling, did but cleave the empty air or rang loud upon his swift-opposing blade. So hewed they, and smote amain until their brows shone moist and their breaths waxed short; whereat Beltane mocked them, saying:
"Ha—sweat ye, forsooth? Do ye puff so soon? This cometh of foul eating and fouler life. Off—off! ye beefy do-nothings! An ye would be worthy fighters, eat less and bathe ye more!" Then Beltane laid on with the flat of his heavy sword and soundly belaboured these hard-breathing knaves, insomuch that one, hard-smitten on the crown, stumbled and fell, whereupon his comrades, to save their bones, leapt forthwith a-down the steepy bank and, plunging into the stream, made across to the farther side, splashing prodigiously, and cursing consumedly, for the water they liked not at all.
Now as Beltane leaned him on his sword, watching their flounderings joyful-eyed, the weapon was dashed from his loosened hold, he staggered 'neath the bite of vicious steel, and, starting round, beheld the third rogue, his deadly sword swung high; but even as the blow fell, Sir Fidelis sprang between and took it upon his own slender body, and, staggering aside, fell, and lay with arms wide-tossed. Then, whiles the robber yet stared upon his sword, shivered by the blow, Beltane leapt, and ere he could flee, caught him about the loins, and whirling him aloft, dashed him out into the stream. Then, kneeling by Sir Fidelis, he took his heavy head upon his arm and beheld his cheeks pale and wan, his eyes fast shut, and saw his shining bascinet scored and deep-dinted by the blow.
"Fidelis!" he groaned, "O my brave Fidelis, and art thou slain—for my sake?" But in a while, what time Beltane kneeled and mourned over him full sore, the young knight stirred feebly, sighed, and spake.
"Beltane!" he whispered; and again, "Beltane!" Anon his white lids quivered, and, opening swooning eyes he spake again with voice grown stronger:
"My lord—my lord—what of thy wound?"
And lo! the voice was sweet to hear as note of merle or mavis; these eyes were long and deeply blue beneath their heavy lashes; eyes that looked up, brimful of tenderness, ere they closed slow and wearily; eyes so much at odds with grim bascinet and close-laced camail that Beltane must needs start and hold his breath and fall to sudden trembling what time Sir Fidelis lay there, pale and motionless, as one that is dead. Now great fear came upon Beltane, and he would have uttered desperate prayers, but could not; trembling yet, full gently he drew his arm from under that drooping head, and, stealing soft-footed to the river's marge, stood there staring down at the rippling waters, and his heart was rent with conflicting passions—amazement, fear, anger, joy, and a black despair. And of a sudden Beltane fell upon his knees and bowed him low and lower until his burning brow was hid in the cool, sweet grass—for of these passions, fiercest, strongest, wildest, was—despair.