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Beltane the Smith

by Jeffery Farnol · English · Gutenberg #10064 · 1,003,339 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Beltane the Smith

Author: Jeffery Farnol


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10064]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10064

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BELTANE THE SMITH ***

BELTANE THE SMITH


BY


JEFFERY FARNOL


AUTHOR OF "THE BROAD HIGHWAY," "THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR E. BECHER





TO

FREDERICK HUGHSON HAWLEY

TO WHOM BELTANE IS NO STRANGER I DEDICATE THIS ROMANCE

Jeffery Farnol

London, August, 1915.



CONTENTS

      I HOW BELTANE LIVED WITHIN THE GREENWOOD

     II HOW BELTANE HAD WORD WITH THE DUKE, BLACK IVO

    III HOW LOVE CAME TO BELTANE IN THE GREENWOOD

     IV OF THE LOVE AND THE GRIEF OF HELEN THE PROUD

      V WHICH TELLS OF THE STORY OF AMBROSE THE HERMIT

     VI HOW BELTANE FARED FORTH OF THE GREEN

    VII HOW BELTANE TALKED WITH ONE HIGHT GILES BRABBLECOMBE, WHO WAS
      A NOTABLE AND LEARNED ARCHER

   VIII HOW BELTANE HELD DISCOURSE WITH A BLACK FRIAR

     IX WHEREIN IS SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF FOLLY AND THE
      WISDOM OF A FOOL

      X HOW BELTANE MADE COMRADE ONE BLACK ROGER THAT WAS A HANGMAN

     XI WHICH TELLS HOW THREE MIGHTY MEN SWARE FEALTY TO BELTANE: AND
      HOW GOOD FRIAR MARTIN DIGGED A GRAVE IN THE WILD

    XII WHICH TELLS HOW DUKE IVO'S GREAT GALLOWS CEASED TO BE

   XIII HOW THEY BRAKE OPE THE DUNGEON OF BELSAYE

    XIV HOW BELTANE CAME NIGH TO DEATH

     XV HOW BELTANE HAD WORD WITH PERTOLEPE THE RED, AND HOW THEY
      LEFT HIM IN THE FOREST

    XVI OF THE RUEFUL KNIGHT OF THE BURNING HEART

   XVII OF THE AMBUSHMENT NEAR THORNABY MILL

  XVIII HOW BELTANE MET SIR GILLES OF BRANDONMERE

    XIX CONCERNING THE EYES OF A NUN

     XX HOW BELTANE PLIGHTED HIS TROTH IN THE GREEN

    XXI OF THE TALE OF GODRIC THE HUNTSMAN

   XXII CONCERNING THE WILES OF WINFRIDA THE FAIR

  XXIII OF THE HUMILITY OF HELEN THE PROUD

   XXIV OF WHAT BEFELL AT BLAEN

    XXV HOW BELTANE BECAME CAPTIVE TO SIR PERTOLEPE

   XXVI OF THE HORRORS OF GARTHLAXTON KEEP, AND HOW A DEVIL ENTERED
      INTO BELTANE

  XXVII HOW BELTANE TOOK TO THE WILD-WOOD

 XXVIII OF THE PLACE OF REFUGE WITHIN THE GREEN

   XXIX HOW BELTANE SLEW TOSTIG AND SPAKE WITH THE WILD MEN

    XXX HOW THEY SMOTE GARTHLAXTON

   XXXI HOW GILES MADE A MERRY SONG

  XXXII HOW BELTANE MET WITH A YOUTHFUL KNIGHT

 XXXIII HOW BELTANE HAD NEWS OF ONE THAT WAS A NOTABLE PARDONER

  XXXIV HOW THEY CAME TO BELSAYE

   XXXV HOW GUI OF ALLERDALE CEASED FROM EVIL

  XXXVI HOW THE FOLK OF BELSAYE TOWN MADE THEM AN END OF TYRANNY

 XXXVII HOW THEY LEFT BELSAYE

 XXXVIII OF BELTANE'S BLACK AND EVIL MOOD, AND HOW HE FELL IN WITH THE
     WITCH OF HANGSTONE WASTE

   XXXIX HOW BELTANE FOUGHT FOR ONE MELLENT THAT WAS A WITCH

      XL FURTHER CONCERNING THE MAID MELLENT; AND OF THE HUE AND CRY

     XLI HOW THEY RODE INTO THE WILDERNESS

    XLII HOW BELTANE DREAMED IN THE WILD-WOOD

   XLIII HOW BELTANE KNEW GREAT HUMILITY

    XLIV HOW A MADNESS CAME UPON BELTANE IN THE WILD-WOOD

     XLV HOW BLACK ROGER TAUGHT BELTANE GREAT WISDOM

    XLVI HOW BLACK ROGER PRAYED IN THE DAWN: AND HOW HIS PRAYERS WERE
      ANSWERED

   XLVII HOW BELTANE SWARE AN OATH

  XLVIII HOW BELTANE SET OUT FOR HANGSTONE WASTE

    XLIX HOW BELTANE FOUND PEACE AND A GREAT SORROW

       L TELLETH HOW BELTANE WENT FORTH TO HIS DUTY

      LI HOW BLACK ROGER WON TO FULLER MANHOOD

     LII HOW THEY HAD NEWS OF WALKYN

    LIII OF JOLETTE, THAT WAS A WITCH

     LIV HOW BELTANE FOUGHT WITH A DOUGHTY STRANGER

      LV HOW THEY MARCHED FOR WINISFARNE

     LVI WHAT THEY FOUND AT WINISFARNE

    LVII TELLETH OF THE ONFALL AT BRAND

   LVIII HOW BELTANE HAD SPEECH WITH THE ABBESS

     LIX TELLETH HOW SIR BENEDICT WENT A-FISHING

      LX TELLETH HOW THEY MARCHED FROM THE VALLEY OF BRAND

     LXI HOW THE FOREST FOUGHT FOR THEM

    LXII HOW THEY CAME TO BELSAYE FOR THE THIRD TIME

   LXIII TELLETH SOMEWHAT OF THE WOES OF GILES O' THE BOW

    LXIV HOW GILES CURSED BELSAYE OUR OF HER FEAR

     LXV TELLETH OF ROSES

    LXVI CONCERNING A BLUE CAMLET CLOAK

   LXVII TELLETH WHAT BEFELL IN THE REEVE'S GARDEN

  LXVIII FRIAR MARTIN'S DYING PROPHECY

    LXIX HOW AT LAST THEY CAME TO PENTAVALON CITY

     LXX WHICH SPEAKETH FOR ITSELF



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Thus Helen the Proud, the Beautiful, yielded her lips to his

Now did she look on him 'neath drooping lash, sweet-eyed and languorous

Beltane stood up armed in shining mail from head to foot

So came Winfrida, and falling on her knee gave the goblet into her
lady's hand

She stared and stared beyond Sir Gui, to behold one clad as a dusty
miller

Her eyes swept him with look calm and most dispassionate



BELTANE THE SMITH



CHAPTER I

HOW BELTANE LIVED WITHIN THE GREENWOOD


In a glade of the forest, yet not so far but that one might hear the
chime of bells stealing across the valley from the great minster of
Mortain on a still evening, dwelt Beltane the Smith.

Alone he lived in the shadow of the great trees, happy when the piping
of the birds was in his ears, and joying to listen to the plash and
murmur of the brook that ran merrily beside his hut; or pausing 'twixt
the strokes of his ponderous hammer to catch its never failing music.

A mighty man was Beltane the Smith, despite his youth already great of
stature and comely of feature. Much knew he of woodcraft, of the growth
of herb and tree and flower, of beast and bird, and how to tell each by
its cry or song or flight; he knew the ways of fish in the streams, and
could tell the course of the stars in the heavens; versed was he
likewise in the ancient wisdoms and philosophies, both Latin and Greek,
having learned all these things from him whom men called Ambrose the
Hermit. But of men and cities he knew little, and of women and the
ways of women, less than nothing, for of these matters Ambrose spake
not.

Thus, being grown from youth to manhood, for that a man must needs
live, Beltane builded him a hut beside the brook, and set up an anvil
thereby whereon he beat out bill-hooks and axe-heads and such
implements as the charcoal-burners and they that lived within the green
had need of.

Oft-times, of an evening, he would seek out the hermit Ambrose, and
they would talk together of many things, but seldom of men and cities,
and never of women and the ways of women. Once, therefore, wondering,
Beltane had said:

"My father, amongst all these matters you speak never of women and the
ways of women, though history is full of their doings, and all poets
sing praise of their wondrous beauty, as this Helena of Troy, whom men
called 'Desire of the World.'"

But Ambrose sighed and shook his head, saying:

"Art thou indeed a man, so soon, my Beltane?" and so sat watching him
awhile. Anon he rose and striding to and fro spake sudden and
passionate on this wise: "Beltane, I tell thee the beauty of women is
an evil thing, a lure to wreck the souls of men. By woman came sin
into the world, by her beauty she blinds the eyes of men to truth and
honour, leading them into all manner of wantonness whereby their very
manhood is destroyed. This Helen of Troy, of whom ye speak, was nought
but a vile adulteress, with a heart false and foul, by whose sin many
died and Troy town was utterly destroyed."

"Alas!" sighed Beltane, "that one so fair should be a thing so evil!"

Thereafter he went his way, very sad and thoughtful, and that night,
lying upon his bed, he heard the voices of the trees sighing and
murmuring one to another like souls that sorrowed for sin's sake, and
broken dreams and ideals.

"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!" But, above the
whispers of the trees, loud and insistent rose the merry chatter of the
brook speaking to him of many things; of life, and the lust of life;
the pomp and stir of cities; the sound of song and laughter; of women
and the beauty of women, and of the sweet, mad wonder of love. Of all
these things the brook sang in the darkness, and Beltane sighed, and
sighing, fell asleep.

Thus lived my Beltane in the woodland, ranging the forest with eye
quick to see the beauty of earth and sky, and ear open to the thousand
voices around him; or, busied at his anvil, hearkening to the wondrous
tales of travel and strange adventure told by wandering knight and
man-at-arms the while, with skilful hand, he mended broken mail or dented
casque; and thereafter, upon the mossy sward, would make trial of their
strength and valour, whereby he both took and gave right lusty knocks;
or again, when work failed, he would lie upon the grass, chin on fist,
poring over some ancient legend, or sit with brush and colours,
illuminating on vellum, wherein right cunning was he. Now it chanced
that as he sat thus, brush in hand, upon a certain fair afternoon, he
suddenly espied one who stood watching him from the shade of a tree,
near by. A very tall man he was, long and lean and grim of aspect, with
a mouth wry-twisted by reason of an ancient sword-cut, and yet, withal,
he had a jovial eye. But now, seeing himself observed, he shook his
grizzled head and sighed. Whereat said Beltane, busied with his brush
again:

"Good sir, pray what's amiss?"

"The world, youth, the world--'tis all amiss. Yet mark me! here sit you
a-dabbing colour with a little brush!"

Answered Beltane: "An so ye seek to do your duty as regardfully as I
now daub this colour, messire, in so much shall the world be bettered."

"My duty, youth," quoth the stranger, rasping a hand across his
grizzled chin, "my duty? Ha, 'tis well said, so needs must I now fight
with thee."

"Fight with me!" says Beltane, his keen gaze upon the speaker.

"Aye, verily!" nodded the stranger, and, forthwith, laying by his long
cloak, he showed two swords whose broad blades glittered, red and evil,
in the sunset.

"But," says Beltane, shaking his head, "I have no quarrel with thee,
good fellow."

"Quarrel?" exclaimed the stranger, "no quarrel, quotha? What matter for
that? Surely you would not forego a good bout for so small a matter?
Doth a man eat only when famishing, or drink but to quench his thirst?
Out upon thee, messire smith!"

"But sir," said Beltane, bending to his brush again, "an I should fight
with thee, where would be the reason?"

"Nowhere, youth, since fighting is ever at odds with reason; yet for
such unreasonable reasons do reasoning men fight."

"None the less, I will not fight thee," answered Beltane, deftly
touching in the wing of an archangel, "so let there be an end on't."

"End forsooth, we have not yet begun! An you must have a quarrel, right
fully will I provoke thee, since fight with thee I must, it being so my
duty--"

"How thy duty?"

"I am so commanded."

"By whom?"

"By one who, being dead, yet liveth. Nay, ask no names, yet mark me
this--the world's amiss, boy. Pentavalon groans beneath a black
usurper's heel, all the sins of hell are loose, murder and riot, lust
and rapine. March you eastward but a day through the forest yonder and
you shall see the trees bear strange fruit in our country. The world's
amiss, messire, yet here sit you wasting your days, a foolish brush
stuck in thy fist. So am I come, nor will I go hence until I have tried
thy mettle."

Quoth Beltane, shaking his head, intent upon his work:

"You speak me riddles, sir."

"Yet can I speak thee to the point and so it be thy wish, as thus--now
mark me, boy! Thou art a fool, a dog, a fatuous ass, a slave, a
nincompoop, a cowardly boy, and as such--mark me again!--now do I spit
at thee!"

Hereupon Beltane, having finished the archangel's wing, laid by his
brush and, with thoughtful mien, arose, and being upon his feet, turned
him, swift and sudden, and caught the stranger in a fierce and cunning
wrestling grip, and forthwith threw him upon his back. Whereat this
strange man, sitting cross-legged upon the sward, smiled his wry and
twisted smile and looked upon Beltane with bright, approving eye.

"A pretty spirit!" he nodded. "'Tis a sweet and gentle youth all good
beef and bone; a little green as yet, perchance, but 'tis no matter. A
mighty arm, a noble thigh, and shoulders--body o' me! But 'tis in the
breed. Young sir, by these same signs and portents my soul is uplifted
and hope singeth a new song within me!" So saying, the stranger sprang
nimbly to his feet and catching up one of the swords took it by the
blade and gave its massy hilt to Beltane's hand. Said he:

"Look well upon this blade, young sir; in duchy, kingdom or county you
shall not find its match, nor the like of the terrible hand that bore
it. Time was when this good steel--mark how it glitters yet!--struck
deep for liberty and justice and all fair things, before whose might
oppression quailed and hung its head, and in whose shadow peace and
mercy rested. 'Twas long ago, but this good steel is bright and
undimmed as ever. Ha! mark it, boy--those eyes o' thine shall ne'er
behold its equal!"

So Beltane took hold upon the great sword, felt the spring and balance
of the blade and viewed it up from glittering point to plain and simple
cross-guard. And thus, graven deep within the broad steel he read this
word:

RESURGAM.

"Ha!" cried the stranger, "see you the legend, good youth? Speak me now
what it doth signify."

And Beltane answered:

"'I shall arise!'"

"'Arise' good boy, aye, verily, mark me that. 'Tis a fair thought, look
you, and the motto of a great and noble house, and, by the Rood, I
think, likewise a prophecy!" Thus speaking the stranger stooped, and
taking up the other sword faced Beltane therewith, saying in soft and
wheedling tones: "Come now, let us fight together thou and I, and deny
me not, lest,--mark me this well, youth,--lest I spit at thee again."

Then he raised his sword, and smote Beltane with the flat of it, and
the blow stung, wherefore Beltane instinctively swung his weapon and
thrilled with sudden unknown joy at the clash of steel on steel; and
so they engaged.

And there, within the leafy solitude, Beltane and the stranger fought
together. The long blades whirled and flashed and rang upon the
stillness; and ever, as they fought, the stranger smiled his wry smile,
mocking and gibing at him, whereat Beltane's mouth grew the grimmer and
his blows the heavier, yet wherever he struck, there already was the
stranger's blade to meet him, whereat the stranger laughed fierce and
loud, taunting him on this wise:

"How now, thou dauber of colours, betake thee to thy little brush,
belike it shall serve thee better! Aye me, betake thee to thy little
brush, 'twere better fitted to thee than a noble sword, thou daubing
boy!"

Now did my Beltane wax wroth indeed and smote amain until his breath
grew short and thick, but ever steel rang on steel, and ever the
stranger laughed and gibed until Beltane's strokes grew slower:--then,
with a sudden fierce shout, did the stranger beset my Beltane with
strokes so swift and strong, now to right of him, now to left, that the
very air seemed full of flaming, whirling steel, and, in that moment,
as Beltane gave back, the stranger smote thrice in as many moments with
the flat of his blade, once upon the crown, once upon the shoulder, and
once upon the thigh. Fierce eyed and scant of breath, Beltane
redoubled his blows, striving to beat his mocker to the earth, whereat
he but laughed again, saying:

"Look to thy long legs, dullard!" and forthwith smote Beltane upon the
leg. "Now thine arm, slothful boy--thy left arm!" and he smote Beltane
upon the arm. "Now thy sconce, boy, thy mazzard, thy sleepy, golden
head!" and straightway he smote him on the head, and, thereafter, with
sudden, cunning stroke, beat the great sword from Beltane's grip, and
so, laughing yet, paused and stood leaning upon his own long weapon.

But Beltane stood with bent head, hurt in his pride, angry and beyond
all thought amazed; yet, being humbled most of all he kept his gaze
bent earthwards and spake no word.

Now hereupon the stranger grew solemn likewise and looked at Beltane
with kindly, approving eyes.

"Nay, indeed," quoth he, "be not abashed, good youth; take it not amiss
that I have worsted thee. 'Tis true, had I been so minded I might have
cut thee into gobbets no larger than thy little brush, but then, body
o' me! I have lived by stroke of sword from my youth up and have fought
in divers wars and countries, so take it not to heart, good youth!"
With the word he nodded and, stooping, took up the sword, and,
thereafter, cast his cloak about him, whereat Beltane lifted his head
and spake:

"Art going, sir? Wilt not try me once again? Methinks I might do a
little better this time, an so God wills."

"Aye, so thou shalt, sweet youth," cried the stranger, clapping him
upon the shoulder, "yet not now, for I must begone, yet shall I
return."

"Then I pray you leave with me the sword till you be come again."

"The sword--ha! doth thy soul cleave unto it so soon, my good, sweet
boy? Leave the sword, quotha? Aye, truly--some day. But for the nonce--
no, no, thy hand is not fitted to bear it yet, nor worthy such a blade,
but some day, belike--who knows? Fare thee well, sweet youth, I come
again to-morrow."

And so the tall, grim stranger turned him about, smiling his wry smile,
and strode away through the green. Then Beltane went back, minded to
finish his painting, but the colours had lost their charm for him,
moreover, the light was failing. Wherefore he put brushes and colours
aside, and, stripping, plunged into the cool, sweet waters of a certain
quiet pool, and so, much heartened and refreshed thereby, went betimes
to bed. But now he thought no more of women and the ways of women, but
rather of this stranger man, of his wry smile and of his wondrous
sword-play; and bethinking him of the great sword, he yearned after
it, as only youth may yearn, and so, sighing, fell asleep. And in his
dreams all night was the rushing thunder of many fierce feet and the
roaring din of bitter fight and conflict.

       *       *       *       *       *

Up to an elbow sprang Beltane to find the sun new risen, filling his
humble chamber with its golden glory, and, in this radiance, upon the
open threshold, the tall, grim figure of the stranger.

"Messire," quoth Beltane, rubbing sleepy eyes, "you wake betimes,
meseemeth."

"Aye, sluggard boy; there is work to do betwixt us." "How so, sir?"

"My time in the greenwood groweth short; within the week I must away,
for there are wars and rumours of wars upon the borders."

Quoth Beltane, wondering:

"War and conflict have been within my dreams all night!"

"Dreams, boy! I tell thee the time groweth ripe for action--and, mark
me this! wherein, perchance, thou too shalt share, yet much have I to
teach thee first, so rise, slug-a-bed, rise!"

Now when Beltane was risen and clad he folded his arms across his broad
chest and stared upon the stranger with grave, deep-searching eyes.

"Who art thou?" he questioned, "and what would you here again?"

"As to thy first question, sir smith, 'tis no matter for that, but as
for thy second, to-day am I come to teach thee the use and manage of
horse and lance, it being so my duty."

"And wherefore thy duty?"

"For that I am so commanded."

"By whom?"

"By one who yet liveth, being dead."

Now Beltane frowned at this, and shook his head, saying:

"More riddles, messire? Yet now will I speak thee plain, as thus: I am
a smith, and have no lust to strife or knightly deeds, nor will I e'er
attempt them, for strife begetteth bitter strife and war is an evil
thing. 'They that trust to the sword shall perish by the sword,' 'tis
so written, and is, meseemeth, a faithful saying. This sorry world hath
known over much of war and hate, of strife and bloodshed, so shall
these my hands go innocent of more."

Then indeed did the stranger stare with jaws agape for wonder at my
Beltane's saying, and, so staring, turned him to the door and back
again, and fain would speak, yet could not for a while. Then:

"Besotted boy!" he cried. "O craven youth! O babe! O suckling! Was it
for this thou wert begot? Hast thou no bowels, no blood, no manhood?
Forsooth, and must I spit on thee indeed?"

"And so it be thy will, messire," said Beltane, steady-eyed.

But as they stood thus, Beltane with arms yet crossed, his lips
up-curving at the other's fierce amaze, the stranger grim-faced and
frowning, came a shadow athwart the level glory of the sun, and,
turning, Beltane beheld the hermit Ambrose, tall and spare beneath his
tattered gown, bareheaded and bare of foot, whose eyes were bright and
quick, despite the snow of hair and beard, and in whose gentle face and
humble mien was yet a high and noble look at odds with his lowly guise
and tattered vesture; at sight of whom the grim-faced stranger, of a
sudden, bowed his grizzled head and sank upon his knee.

"Lord!" he said, and kissed the hermit's long, coarse robe. Whereon the
hermit bent and touched him with a gentle hand.

"_Benedicite_, my son!" said he. "Go you, and leave us together a
while."

Forthwith the stranger rose from his knee and went out into the glory
of the morning. Then the hermit came to Beltane and set his two hands
upon his mighty shoulders and spake to him very gently, on this wise:

"Thou knowest, my Beltane, how all thy days I have taught thee to love
all fair, and sweet, and noble things, for they are of God. 'Twere a
fair thought, now, to live out thy life here, within these calm, leafy
solitudes--but better death by the sword for some high, unselfish
purpose, than to live out a life of ease, safe and cloistered all thy
days. To live for thine own ends--'tis human; to die for some great
cause, for liberty, or for another's good--that, my son, were God-like.
And there was a Man of Sorrows Whose word was this, that He came
'not to bring peace on this earth, but a sword.' For good cannot
outface evil but strife must needs follow. Behold now here another
sword, my Beltane; keep it henceforth so long as thou keep honour." So
saying, Ambrose the Hermit took from beneath his habit that for which
Beltane had yearned, that same great blade whereon whose steel was
graven the legend:

RESURGAM.

So Ambrose put the sword in Beltane's hand, saying:

"Be terrible, my son, that evil may flee before thee, learn to be
strong that thou may'st be merciful." Then the hermit stretched forth
his hands and blessed my Beltane, and turned about, and so was gone.

But Beltane stood awhile to swing the great blade lightly to and fro
and to stare upon it with shining eyes. Then, having hid it within his
bed, he went forth into the glade. And here he presently beheld a great
grey horse tethered to a tree hard by, a mettled steed that tossed its
noble head and snuffed the fragrant air of morning, pawing at the earth
with impatient hoof. Now, as he stood gazing, came the stranger and
touched him on the arm.

"Messire," said he, "try an thou canst back the steed yonder."

Beltane smiled, for he had loved horses all his days, and loosing the
horse, led it out into the open and would have mounted, but the
spirited beast, knowing him not, reared and plunged and strove to break
the grip upon the bridle, but the grip was strong and compelling; then
Beltane soothed him with gentle voice and hand, and, of a sudden,
vaulted lightly into the saddle, and being there, felt the great beast
rear under him, and, laughing joyously, struck him with open palm and
set off at a thunderous gallop. Away, away they sped up the sunny
glade, past oak and beech and elm, through light and shadow, until
before them showed a tree of vast girth and mighty spread of branches.
Now would Beltane have reined aside, but the great horse, ears flat and
eyes rolling, held blindly on. Then Beltane frowned and leaning
forward, seized the bridle close beside the bit, and gripping it so,
put forth his strength. Slowly, slowly the great, fierce head was drawn
low and lower, the foam-flecked jaws gaped wide, but Beltane's grip
grew ever the fiercer until, snorting, panting, wild-eyed, the great
grey horse faltered in his stride, checked his pace, slipped, stumbled,
and so stood quivering in the shade of the tree. Thereafter Beltane
turned him and, galloping back, drew rein where the stranger sat,
cross-legged, watching him with his wry smile.

"Aye," he nodded, "we shall make of thee a horseman yet. But as to
lance now, and armour--"

Quoth Beltane, smiling:

"Good sir, I am a smith, and in my time have mended many a suit of
mail, aye, and made them too, though 'twas but to try my hand. As for a
lance, I have oft tilted at the ring astride a forest pony, and
betimes, have run a course with wandering men-at-arms."

"Say you so, boy?" said the stranger, and rising, took from behind a
tree a long and heavy lance and thrust it into Beltane's grip; then,
drawing his sword, he set it upright in the sward, and upon the hilt he
put his cap, saying:

"Ride back up the glade, and try an thou canst pick up my cap on thy
point, at a gallop." So Beltane rode up the glade and wheeling at a
distance, came galloping down with levelled lance, and thundered by
with the cap fluttering from his lance point.

"Art less of a dullard than I thought thee," said the stranger, taking
back his cap, "though, mark me boy, 'tis another matter to ride against
a man fully armed and equipped, lance to lance and shield to shield,
than to charge a harmless, ancient leathern cap. Still, art less of a
dullard than I thought thee. But there is the sword, now--with the
sword thou art indeed but a sorry fool! Go fetch the sword and I will
e'en belabor thee again."

So Beltane, lighting down from the horse that reared and plunged no
more, went and fetched the great sword; and when they had laid their
jerkins by (for the sun was hot) they faced each other, foot to foot
and eye to eye. Then once again the long blades whirled and flew and
rang together, and once again the stranger laughed and gibed and struck
my Beltane how and where he would, nor gave him stay or respite till
Beltane's mighty arm grew aweary and his shoulder ached and burned;
then, when he recked not of it, the stranger, with the same cunning
stroke, beat the sword from Beltane's hand, and laughed aloud and
wagged his head, saying:

"Art faint, boy, and scant o' breath already? Methinks we ne'er shall
make of thee a lusty sworder!" But beholding Beltane's flushing cheek
and drooping eye, reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Go to!" cried he, "art young and all unlearned as yet--heed not my
gibes and quirks, 'tis ever so my custom when steel is ringing, and
mark me, I do think it a good custom, as apt to put a man off his ward
and flurry him in his stroke. Never despair, youth, for I tell thee,
north and south, and east and west my name is known, nor shall you find
in any duchy, kingdom or county, a sworder such as I. For, mark me now!
your knight and man-at-arms, trusting to his armour, doth use his sword
but to thrust and smite. But--and mark me again, boy! a man cannot go
ever in his armour, nor yet be sure when foes are nigh, and, at all
times, 'tis well to make thy weapon both sword and shield; 'tis a
goodly art, indeed I think a pretty one. Come now, take up thy sword
and I will teach thee all my strokes and show thee how 'tis done."

Thus then, this stranger dwelt the week with Beltane in the greenwood,
teaching him, day by day, tricks of sword and much martial lore beside.
And, day by day, a friendship waxed and grew betwixt them so that upon
the seventh morning, as they broke their fast together, Beltane's heart
was heavy and his look downcast; whereat the stranger spake him thus:

"Whence thy dole, good youth?"

"For that to-day needs must I part with thee."

"And thy friends are few, belike?"

"None, messire," answered Beltane, sighing.

"Aye me! And yet 'tis well enough, for--mark me, youth!--friends be
ofttimes a mixed blessing. As for me, 'tis true I am thy friend and so
shall ever be, so long as you shall bear yon goodly blade."

"And wherefore?" questioned Beltane.

"Moreover thou art my scholar, and like, perchance, to prove thyself,
some day, a notable sworder and a sweet and doughty fighter, belike."

"Yet hast never spoken me thy name, messire."

"Why, hast questioned me but once, and then thou wert something of a
blockhead dreamer, methought. But now, messire Beltane, since thou
would'st know--Benedict of Bourne am I called."

Now hereupon Beltane rose and stood upon his feet, staring wide-eyed at
this grim-faced stranger who, with milk-bowl at lip, paused to smile
his wry smile. "Aha!" said he, "hast heard such a name ere now, even
here in the greenwood?"

"Sir," answered Beltane, "betimes I have talked with soldiers and
men-at-arms, so do I know thee for that same great knight who, of all the
nobles of Pentavalon, doth yet withstand the great Duke Ivo--"

"Call you that black usurper 'great,' youth? Body o' me! I knew a
greater, once, methinks!"

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "there was him men called 'Beltane the Strong.'"

"Ha!" quoth Sir Benedict, setting down his milk-bowl, "what know you
of Duke Beltane?"

"Nought but that he was a great and lusty fighter who yet loved peace
and mercy, but truth and justice most of all."

"And to-day," sighed Sir Benedict, "to-day we have Black Ivo! Aye me!
these be sorry days for Pentavalon. 'Tis said he woos the young Duchess
yonder. Hast ever seen Helen of Mortain, sir smith?"

"Nay, but I've heard tell that she is wondrous fair."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Benedict, "I love not your red-haired spit-fires.
Methinks, an Ivo win her, she'll lead him how she will, or be broke in
the adventure--a malison upon him, be it how it may!"

So, having presently made an end of eating, Sir Benedict arose and
forthwith donned quilted gambeson, and thereafter his hauberk of bright
mail and plain surcoat, and buckling his sword about him, strode into
the glade where stood the great grey horse. Now, being mounted, Sir
Benedict stayed awhile to look down at Beltane, whiles Beltane looked
up at him.

"Messire Beltane," said he, pointing to his scarred cheek, "you look
upon my scar, I think?"

Quoth Beltane, flushing hot:

"Nay, sir; in truth, not I."

"Why look now, sweet youth, 'tis a scar that likes me well, though
'twas in no battle I took it, yet none the less, I would not be without
it. By this I may be known among a thousand. 'Benedict o' the Mark,'
some call me, and 'tis, methinks, as fair a name as any. But look now,
and mark me this well, Beltane,--should any come to thee within the
green, by day or night, and say to thee, 'Benedict o' the Mark bids
thee arise and follow,'--then follow, messire, and so, peradventure,
thou shalt arise indeed. Dost mark me well, youth?"

"Aye, Sir Benedict."

"Heigho!" sighed Sir Benedict, "thou'rt a fair sized babe to bear
within a cloak, and thou hast been baptized in blood ere now--and there
be more riddles for thee, boy, and so, until we meet, fare thee well,
messire Beltane!"

So saying, Sir Benedict of Bourne smiled his twisted smile and,
wheeling his horse, rode away down the glade, his mail glistening in
the early light and his lance point winking and twinkling amid the
green.



CHAPTER II

HOW BELTANE HAD WORD WITH THE DUKE, BLACK IVO


Now it fell out upon a day, that as Beltane strode the forest ways,
there met him a fine cavalcade, gay with the stir of broidered
petticoat and ermined mantle; and, pausing beneath a tree, he stood to
hearken to the soft, sweet voices of the ladies and to gaze enraptured
upon their varied beauty. Foremost of all rode a man richly habited, a
man of great strength and breadth of shoulder, and of a bearing high
and arrogant. His face, framed in long black hair that curled to meet
his shoulder, was of a dark and swarthy hue, fierce looking and
masterful by reason of prominent chin and high-arched nose, and of his
thin-lipped, relentless mouth. Black were his eyes and bold; now
staring bright and wide, now glittering 'twixt heavy, narrowed lids;
yet when he smiled they glittered brightest, and his lips showed
moistly red. Beside him rode a lady of a wondrous dark beauty, sleepy
eyed and languid; yet her glance was quick to meet the Duke's bold
look, and, 'neath her mantle, her fingers met, once in a while, and
clung with his, what time his red lips would smile; but, for the most
part, his brow was gloomy and he fingered his chin as one in thought.

As he paced along upon his richly caparisoned steed, pinching at his
long, blue-shaven chin with supple fingers, his heavy brows drawn low,
of a sudden his narrowed lids widened and his eyes gleamed bright and
black as they beheld my Beltane standing in the shade of the tree.

"Aha!" said he, drawing rein, "what insolent, long-legged rogue art
thou, to stand gaping at thy betters?"

And Beltane answered:

"No rogue, messire, but an honest man, I pray God, whom folk call
Beltane the Smith."

The staring eyes grew suddenly narrow, the scarlet mouth curled in a
slow smile, and the tall man spake, yet with his gaze bent ever upon
Beltane:

"Fair lords," he said, "and you, most sweet and gentle ladies, our
sport hath been but poor, hitherto--methinks I can show you a better,
'tis a game we play full oft in my country. Would that our gracious
lady of Mortain were here, nor had balked us of her wilful company. Ho!
Gefroi!" he called, "come you and break me the back of this 'honest'
rogue." And straightway came one from the rear, where rode the servants
and men-at-arms, a great, bronzed fellow, bearded to the eyes of him,
loosing his sword-belt as he came; who, having tossed aside cap and
pourpoint, strode toward Beltane, his eyes quick and bright, his teeth
agleam through the hair of his beard.

"Come, thou forest rogue," said he, "my lord Duke loveth not to wait
for man or maid, so--have at thee!"

Great he looked and tall as Beltane's self, a hairy man of mighty girth
with muscles that swelled on arm and breast and rippled upon his back.
Thus, as he stood and laughed, grimly confident and determined, not a
few were they who sighed for Beltane for his youth's sake, and because
of his golden curls and gentle eyes, for this Gefroi was accounted a
very strong man, and a matchless wrestler withal.

"'Tis a fair match, how think you, Sir Jocelyn?" said the Duke, and
turned him to one who rode at his elbow; a youthful, slender figure
with long curled hair and sleepy eyes, "a fair match, Sir Jocelyn?"

"In very sooth, sweet my lord, gramercy and by your gracious leave--not
so," sighed Sir Jocelyn. "This Gefroi o' thine is a rare breaker of
necks and hath o'er-thrown all the wrestlers in the three duchies; a
man is he, set in his strength and experienced, but this forester, tall
though he be, is but a beardless youth."

The Duke smiled his slow smile, his curving nostrils quivered and were
still, and he glanced toward Sir Jocelyn through veiling lids. Quoth
he:

"Art, rather, for a game of ball, messire, or a song upon a lute?" So
saying he turned and signed to Gefroi with his finger; as for Sir
Jocelyn, he only curled a lock of his long hair, and hummed beneath his
breath.

Now Beltane, misliking the matter, would fain have gone upon his way,
but wheresoever he turned, there Gefroi was also, barring his path,
wherefore Beltane's eye kindled and he raised his staff threateningly.

"Fellow," quoth he, "stand from my way, lest I mischief thee."

But Gefroi only laughed and looked to his lord, who, beckoning an
archer, bid him lay an arrow to his string.

"Shoot me the cowardly rogue so soon as he turn his back," said he,
whereat Gefroi laughed again, wagging his head.

"Come, forest knave," quoth he, "I know a trick to snap thy neck so
sweetly shalt never know, I warrant thee. Come, 'twill take but a
moment, and my lord begins to lack of patience."

So Beltane laid by his staff, and tightening his girdle, faced the
hairy Gefroi; and there befell that, the which, though you shall find
no mention of it in any chronicle, came much to be talked of
thereafter; so that a ballade was writ of it the which beginneth thus:

  'Beltane wrestled in the green
   With a mighty man,
   A goodlier bout was never seen
   Since the world began,'

While Beltane was tightening his girdle, swift and sudden Gefroi
closed, pinning his arms in a cunning hold, and thrice he swung my
Beltane from his feet so that many clapped their hands the while the
squires and men-at-arms shouted lustily. Only Sir Jocelyn curled the
lock of hair upon his finger and was silent.

To him quoth my lord Duke, smiling:

"Messire, an you be in a mind to wager now, I will lay you this my roan
stallion 'gainst that suit of triple mail you won at Dunismere joust,
that Gefroi breaks thy forester's back within two falls--how say you?"

"Sweet my lord, it liketh me beyond telling, thy roan is a peerless
beast!" sighed Sir Jocelyn, and so fell once more to humming his song
beneath his breath.

Now Beltane had wrestled oft with strangers in the greenwood and had
learned many cunning and desperate holds; moreover, he had learned to
bide his time; thus, though Gefroi's iron muscles yet pinned his arms,
he waited, calm-eyed but with every nerve a-quiver, for that moment
when Gefroi's vicious grip should slacken.

To and fro the wrestlers swayed, knee to knee and breast to breast,
fierce and silent and grim. As hath been said, this Gefroi was a very
cunning fellow, and once and twice, he put forth all his strength
seeking to use a certain cruel trick whereby many a goodly man had died
ere now; but once, and twice, the hold was foiled, yet feebly and as
though by chance, and Gefroi wondered; a third time he essayed it
therefore, but, in that moment, sudden and fierce and strong, Beltane
twisted in his loosened grasp, found at last the deadly hold he sought,
and Gefroi wondered no more, for about him was a painful grip that grew
ever tighter and more relentless. Now Gefroi's breath grew short and
laboured, the muscles stood out on his writhing body in knotted cords,
but ever that cruel grip grew more deadly, crushing his spirit and
robbing him of his wonted strength. And those about them watched that
mighty struggle, hushed for wonder of it; even Sir Jocelyn had forgot
his lock of hair, and hummed no more.

For, desperately though he fought and struggled, they saw Gefroi's
great body was bending slowly backward; his eyes stared up, wild and
bloodshot, into the fierce, set face above him; swaying now, he saw the
wide ring of faces, the quiver of leaves and the blue beyond, all a-swim
through the mist of Beltane's yellow hair, and then, writhing in
his anguish, he turned and buried his teeth in Beltane's naked arm, and
with a cunning twist, broke from that deadly grip and staggered free.

Straightway the air was full of shouts and cries, some praising, some
condemning, while Gefroi stood with hanging arms and panted. But
Beltane looking upon his hurt, laughed, short and fierce, and as Gefroi
came upon him, stooped and caught him below the loins. Then Beltane the
strong, the mighty, put forth his strength and, whirling Gefroi aloft,
hurled him backwards over his shoulder. So Gefroi the wrestler fell,
and lay with hairy arms wide-tossed as one that is dead, and for a
space no man spake for the wonder of it.

"By all the Saints, but 'twas a mighty throw!" sighed Sir Jocelyn,
"though alack! sweet my lord, 'twould almost seem my forester hath
something spoiled thy wrestler!"

"And is the roan stallion thine" frowned the Duke, "and to none would I
lose him with a fairer grace, for 'twas a good bout as I foretold: yet,
by the head of St. Martin! meseemeth yon carrion might have done me
better!" So saying, my lord Duke gave his horse the spur and, as he
passed the prostrate form of Gefroi, leaned him down and smote the
wrestler thrice with the whip he held and so rode on, bidding his
followers let him lie.

But Sir Jocelyn paused to look down at Beltane, who was setting his
dress in order.

"Sir forester, thou hast a mighty arm," quoth he, "and thy face liketh
me well. Here's for thee," and tossing a purse to Beltane's feet, he
rode upon his way.

So the gay cavalcade passed 'neath the leafy arches, with the jingle of
bridle and stirrup and the sound of jest and laughter, and was
presently lost amid the green; only Gefroi the wrestler lay there upon
his back and groaned. Then came Beltane and knelt and took his heavy
head upon his knee, whereat Gefroi opened his eyes and groaned again.

"Good fellow," said Beltane, "I had not meant to throw thee so heavily--"

"Nay, forester, would it had been a little harder, for a ruined man am
I this day."

"How so--have you not life?"

"I would 'twere death. And I bit you--in the arm, I mind me?"

"Aye, 'twas in the arm."

"For that am I heartily sorry, forester. But when a man seeth fame and
fortune slipping from him--aye, and his honour, I had nigh forgot that--
fame and fortune and honour, so small a thing as a bite may be
forgiven?"

"I forgive thee--full and freely."

"Spoke like an honest forester," said Gefroi, and groaned again. "The
favour of a lord is a slippery thing--much like an eel--quick to
wriggle away. An hour agone my lord Duke held me in much esteem, while
now? And he struck me! On the face, here!" Slowly Gefroi got him upon
his feet, and having donned cap and pourpoint, shook his head and
sighed; quoth he:

"Alack! 'tis a ruined man am I this day! Would I had broken thy neck,
or thou, mine--and so, God den to ye, forester!" Then Gefroi the
wrestler turned and plodded on his way, walking slow and with drooping
head as one who knoweth not whither he goes, or careth. Now, as he
watched, Beltane bethought him of the purse and taking it up, ran after
Gefroi and thrust it into his hand.

"'Twill help thee to find a new service, mayhap." So saying my Beltane
turned upon his heel and strode away, while Gefroi stood staring wide-eyed
long after Beltane was vanished amid the trees.

So thus it was that Beltane looked his first upon Duke Ivo of
Pentavalon, and thus did he overthrow Gefroi the famous wrestler. And
because of this, many were they, knights and nobles and esquires, who
sought out Beltane's lonely hut beside the brook, with offers of
service, or to try a fall with him. But at their offers Beltane laughed
and shook his head, and all who came to wrestle he threw upon their
backs. And thus my Beltane dwelt within the greenwood, waxing mightier
day by day.



CHAPTER III

HOW LOVE CAME TO BELTANE IN THE GREENWOOD


Upon a day Beltane stood at his forge fashioning an axe-head. And,
having tempered it thereafter in the brook, he laid it by, and
straightening his back, strode forth into the glade all ignorant of the
eyes that watched him curiously through the leaves. And presently as he
stood, his broad back set to the bole of a tree, his blue eyes lifted
heavenwards brimful of dreams, he brake forth into a song he had made,
lying sleepless upon his bed to do it.

Tall and stately were the trees, towering aloft, nodding slumberously
in the gentle wind; fair were the flowers lifting glad faces to their
sun-father and filling the air with their languorous perfume; yet
naught was there so comely to look upon as Beltane the Smith, standing
bare-armed in his might, his golden hair crisp-curled and his lifted
eyes a-dream. Merrily the brook laughed and sang among the willows,
leaping in rainbow-hues over its pebbly bed; sweet piped the birds in
brake and thicket, yet of all their music none was there so good to
hear as the rich tones of Beltane the Smith.

So thought the Duchess Helen of Mortain where she sat upon her white
palfrey screened by the thick-budded foliage, seeing nought but this
golden-locked singer whose voice thrilled strangely in her ears. And
who so good a judge as Helen the Beautiful, whose lovers were beyond
count, knights and nobles and princelings, ever kneeling at her haughty
feet, ever sighing forth vows of service and adoration, in whose honour
many a stout lance had shivered, and many a knightly act been wrought?
Wherefore I say, who so good a judge as the Duchess Helen of Mortain?
Thus Beltane the maker of verses, all ignorant that any heard save the
birds in the brake, sang of the glories of the forest-lands. Sang how
the flowers, feeling the first sweet promise of spring stirring within
them, awoke; and lo! the frost was gone, the warm sun they had dreamed
of through the long winter was come back, the time of their waiting
passed away. So, timidly, slowly, they stole forth from the dark,
unveiling their beauties to their lord the sun and filling the world
with the fragrance of their worship.

Somewhat of all this sang Beltane, whiles the Duchess Helen gazed upon
him wide-eyed and wondering.

Could this be Beltane the Smith, this tall, gentle-eyed youth, this
soft-voiced singer of dreams? Could this indeed be the mighty wrestler
of whom she had heard so many tales of late, how that he lived an
anchorite, deep hidden in the green, hating the pomp and turmoil of
cities, and contemning women and all their ways?

Now, bethinking her of all this, the Duchess frowned for that he was
such a goodly man and so comely to look on, and frowning, mused, white
chin on white fist. Then she smiled, as one that hath a bright thought,
and straightway loosed the golden fillet that bound her glowing
tresses so that they fell about her in all their glory, rippling far
down her broidered habit. Then, the song being ended, forth from her
cover rode the lady of Mortain, and coming close where Beltane leaned
him in the shade of the tree, paused of a sudden, and started as one
that is surprised, and Beltane turning, found her beside him, yet spake
not nor moved.

Breathless and as one entranced he gazed upon her; saw how her long
hair glowed a wondrous red 'neath the kisses of the dying sun; saw how
her purpled gown, belted at the slender waist, clung about the beauties
of her shapely body; saw how the little shoe peeped forth from the
perfumed mystery of its folds, and so stood speechless, bound by the
spell of her beauty. Wherefore, at length, she spake to him, low and
sweet and humble, on this wise:

"Art thou he whom men call Beltane the Smith?"

He answered, gazing at her lowered lashes:

"I am Beltane the Smith."

For a space she sat grave and silent, then looked at him with eyes that
laughed 'neath level brows to see the wonder in his gaze. But anon she
falls a-sighing, and braided a tress of hair 'twixt white fingers ere
she spoke:

"'Tis said of thee that thou art a hermit and live alone within these
solitudes. And yet--meseemeth--thine eyes are not a hermit's eyes,
messire!"

Quoth Beltane, with flushing cheek and eyes abased:

"Yet do I live alone, lady."

"Nor are thy ways and speech the ways of common smith, messire."

"Yet smith am I in sooth, lady, and therewithal content."

Now did she look on him 'neath drooping lash, sweet-eyed and
languorous, and shook her head, and sighed.

"Alas, messire, methinks then perchance it may be true that thou, for
all thy youth, and despite thine eyes, art a mocker of love, a despiser
of women? And yet--nay--sure 'tis not so?"

Then did Beltane the strong come nigh to fear, by reason of her fair
womanhood, and looked from her to earth, from earth to sky, and, when
he would have answered, fell a-stammering, abashed by her wondrous
beauty.

"Nay lady, indeed--indeed I know of women nought--nought of myself, but
I have heard tell that they be--light-minded, using their beauty but to
lure the souls of men from high and noble things--making of love a
jest--a sport and pastime--" But now the Duchess laughed, very soft
and sweeter, far, to Beltane's thinking than the rippling music of any
brook, soever.

"Aye me, messire anchorite," said she smiling yet, "whence had you this
poor folly?"

Quoth Beltane gravely:

"Lady, 'twas from one beyond all thought wise and learned. A most holy
hermit--"

"A hermit!" says she, merry-eyed, "then, an he told thee this, needs
must he be old, and cold, and withered, and beyond the age of love,
knowing nought of women save what memory doth haunt his evil past. But
young art thou and strong, and should love come to thee--as come,
methinks, it may, hearken to no voice but the pleading of thine own
true heart. Messire," she sighed, "art very blind, methinks, for you
sing the wonders of these forest-lands, yet in thy song is never a word
of love! O blind! O blind! for I tell thee nought exists in this great
world but by love. Behold now, these sighing trees love their lord the
sun, and, through the drear winter, wait his coming with wide-stretched,
yearning arms, crying aloud to him in every shuddering blast the tale
of their great longing. And, after some while, he comes, and at his advent
they clothe themselves anew in all their beauty, and with his warm breath
thrilling through each fibre, put forth their buds, singing through
all their myriad leaves the song of their rejoicing. Something the like
of this, messire, is the love a woman beareth to a man, the which, until
he hath felt it trembling in his heart, he hath not known the joy of
living."

But Beltane answered, smiling a little as one that gloried in his
freedom:

"No woman hath ever touched my heart, yet have I lived nor found it
lonely, hitherto."

But hereupon, resting her white fingers on his arm, she leaned nearer
to him so that he felt her breath warm upon his cheek, and there stole
to him the faint, sweet perfume of her hair.

"Beware, O scorner of women! for I tell thee that ere much time hath
passed thou shalt know love--aye, in such fashion as few men know--
wherefore I say--beware, Beltane!"

But Beltane the strong, the mighty, shook his head and smiled.

"Nay," quoth he, "a man's heart may be set on other things, flowers may
seem to him fairer than the fairest women, and the wind in trees
sweeter to him than their voices."

Now as she hearkened, the Duchess Helen grew angry, yet straightway,
she dissembled, looking upon him 'neath drooping lashes. Soft and
tender-eyed and sighing, she answered:

"Ah, Beltane! how unworthy are such things of a man's love! For if he
pluck them, that he may lay these flowers upon his heart, lo! they fade
and wither, and their beauty and fragrance is but a memory. Ah,
Beltane, when next ye sing, choose you a worthier theme."

"Of what shall I sing?" said Beltane.

Very soft she answered, and with eyes abased:

"Think on what I have told thee, and sing--of love."

And so she sighed, and looked on him once, then wheeled her palfrey,
and was gone up the glade; but Beltane, as he watched her go, was
seized of a sudden impulse and over-took her, running.

"Beseech thee," cried he, barring her path, "tell me thy name!"

Then Helen the Beautiful, the wilful, laughed and swerved her palfrey,
minded to leave him so; but Beltane sprang and caught the bridle.

"Tell me thy name," said he again.

"Let me go!"

"Thy name, tell me thy name."

But the Duchess laughed again, and thinking to escape him, smote her
horse so that it started and reared; once it plunged, and twice, and so
stood trembling with Beltane's hand upon the bridle; wherefore a sudden
anger came upon her, and, bending her black brows, she raised her
jewelled riding-rod threateningly. But Beltane only smiled and shook
his head, saying:

"Unless I know thy name thou shalt not fare forth of the greenwood."

So the proud lady of Mortain looked down upon Beltane in amaze, for
there was none in all the Duchy, knight, noble or princeling, who dared
gainsay her lightest word; wherefore, I say, she stared upon this bold
forest knave with his golden hair and gentle eyes, his curved lips and
square chin; and in eyes and mouth and chin was a look of
masterfulness, challenging, commanding. And, meeting that look, her
heart leapt most strangely with sudden, sweet thrill, so that she
lowered her gaze lest he should see, and when she spake her voice was
low and very sweet:

"Tell me I pray, why seek you my name, and wherefore?"

Quoth Beltane, soft and slow as one that dreams:

"I have seen thine eyes look at me from the flowers, ere now, have
heard thy laughter in the brook, and found thy beauty in all fair
things: methinks thy name should be a most sweet name."

Now was it upon her lips to tell him what he asked, but, being a woman,
she held her peace for very contrariness, and blushing beneath his
gaze, looked down and cried aloud, and pointed to a grub that crawled
upon her habit. So Beltane loosed the bridle, and in that moment, she
laughed for very triumph and was off, galloping 'neath the trees. Yet,
as she went, she turned and called to him, and the word she called
was:--

"Helen!"



CHAPTER IV

OF THE LOVE AND THE GRIEF OF HELEN THE PROUD


Long stood Beltane where she had left him, the soft shadows of night
deepening about him, dreaming ever of her beauty, of her wondrous hair,
and of the little foot that had peeped forth at him 'neath her habit,
and, full of these thoughts, for once he was deaf to the soft voices of
the trees nor heard the merry chatter of the brook. But later, upon his
bed he lay awake full long and must needs remember yet another Helen,
with the same wondrous hair and eyes of mystery, for whose sake men had
died and a noble city burned; and, hereupon, his heart grew strangely
heavy and cold with an unknown dread.

Days came and went, and labouring at the forge or lying out in the
sunshine gazing wistfully beyond the swaying tree-tops, Beltane would
oft start and turn his head, fancying the rustle of her garments in
his ears, or her voice calling to him from some flowery thicket; and
the wind in the trees whispered "Helen!" and the brook sang of Helen,
and Helen was in his thoughts continually.

Thus my Beltane forgot his loves the flowers, and sang no more the
wonders of the forest-lands.

And oft-times the Duchess, seated in state within her great hall of
Mortain looking down upon her knights and nobles, would sigh, for none
was there so noble of form nor so comely as Beltane the Smith. Hereupon
her white brow would grow troubled and, turning from them all, she
would gaze with deep, unfathomable eyes, away across the valley to
where, amid the mystery of the trees, Beltane had his lonely dwelling.

Wherefore it was, that, looking up one evening from where he sat busied
with brush and colours upon a border of wondrous design, Beltane beheld
her of whom he was dreaming; and she, standing tall and fair before
him, saw that in his look the which set her heart a-fluttering at her
white breast most strangely; yet, fearing she should betray aught of
it, she laughed gaily and mocked him, as is the way of women, saying:

"Well, thou despiser of Love, I hearkened vainly for thy new song as I
rode hither through the green."

Red grew my Beltane's cheek and he looked not to her as he answered:

"Lady, I have no new song."

"Why then, is thy lesson yet unlearned?" said she. "Have ye no love but
for birds and flowers?" and her red lip curled scornfully.

Quoth Beltane:

"Is there aught more worthy?"

"O Beltane!" she sighed, "art then so simple that such will aye content
thee; doth not thy heart hunger and cry within thee for aught beside?"

Then Beltane bowed his head, and fumbled with his brush and dropped it,
and ere he could reach it she had set her foot upon it; thus it chanced
that his hand came upon her foot, and feeling it beneath his fingers,
he started and drew away, whereat she laughed low and sweet, saying:

"Alack, and doth my foot affright thee? And yet 'tis none so fierce and
none so large that thou shouldst fear it thus, messire--thou who art so
tall and strong, and a mighty wrestler withal!"

Now, looking up, he saw her lips curved and scarlet, and her eyes
brimful of laughter, and fain would he have taken up the brush yet
dared not. Therefore, very humbly, she stooped and lifting the brush
put it in his hand. Then, trembling 'neath the touch of her soft
fingers, Beltane rose up, and that which he had hidden deep within his
heart brake from him.

"Helen!" he whispered, "O Helen, thou art so wondrous fair and belike
of high estate, but as for me, I am but what I am. Behold me" he cried,
stretching wide his arms, "I am but Beltane the Smith; who is there to
love such as I? See, my hands be hard and rough, and would but bruise
where they should caress, these arms be unfitted for soft
embracements. O lady, who is there to love Beltane the Smith?"

Now the Duchess Helen laughed within herself for very triumph, yet her
bosom thrilled and hurried with her breathing, her cheek grew red and
her eyes bright and tender, wherefore she stooped low to cull a flower
ere she answered.

"Beltane," she sighed, "Beltane, women are not as thy flowers, that
embraces, even such as thine, would crush them."

But Beltane stooped his head that he might not behold the lure and
beauty of her, and clenched his hands hard and fierce and thereafter
spake:

"Thou art so wondrous fair," said he again, "and belike of noble
birth, but--as for me, I am a smith!"

Awhile she stood, turning the flower in gentle fingers yet looking upon
him in his might and goodly youth, beholding his averted face with its
strong, sweet mouth and masterful chin, its curved nostrils and the
dreaming passion of his eyes, and when she spake her voice was soft
and very sweet.

"Above all, thou art--a man, messire!"

Then did my Beltane lift his head and saw how the colour was deepened
in her cheek and how her tender eyes drooped before his.

"Tell me," he said, "is there ever a woman to love such a man? Is there
ever a woman who would leave the hum and glitter of cities to walk with
such as I in the shadow of these forest-lands? Speak, Oh speak I do
beseech thee!" Thus said he and stopped, waiting her answer.

"Nay, Beltane," she whispered, "let thine own heart speak me this."

All blithe and glorious grew the world about him as he stooped and
caught her in his arms, lifting her high against his heart. And, in
this moment, he forgot the teaching of Ambrose the Hermit, forgot all
things under heaven, save the glory of her beauty, the drooping languor
of her eyes and the sweet, moist tremor of her mouth. And so he kissed
her, murmuring 'twixt his kisses:

"Fairer art thou than all the flowers, O my love, and sweeter thy
breath than the breath of flowers!"

Thus Helen the Proud, the Beautiful, yielded her lips to his, and in
all the world for her was nought save the deep, soft voice of Beltane,
and his eyes, and the new, sweet ecstasy that thrilled within her.
Surely nowhere in all the world was there such another man as this, so
strong and gentle, so meet for love and yet so virginal. Surely life
might be very fair here in the green solitudes, aye, surely, surely--

Soft with distance came the peal of bells, stealing across the valley
from the great minster in Mortain, and, with the sound, memory waked,
and she bethought her of all those knights and nobles who lived but to
do her will and pleasure, of Mortain and the glory of it; and so she
sighed and stirred, and, looking at Beltane, sighed again. Quoth she:

"Is this great love I foretold come upon thee, Beltane?"

And Beltane answered:

"Truly a man hath not lived until he hath felt a woman's kisses upon
his lips!"

"And thou wilt flout poor Love no more?"

"Nay," he answered, smiling, "'tis part of me, and must be so
henceforth--forever!"

But now she sighed again, and trembled in his arms and clasped him
close, as one beset by sudden fear, while ever soft with distance came
the silvery voices of the bells, low yet insistent, sweet yet
commanding; wherefore she, sighing, put him from her.

"Why then," said she, with drooping head, "fare thee well, messire.
Nay, see you not? Methinks my task is done. And it hath been a--
pleasing task, this--of teaching thee to love--O, would you had not
learned so soon! Fare thee well. Beltane!"

But Beltane looked upon her as one in deep amaze, his arms fell from
her and he stepped back and so stood very still and, as he gazed, a
growing horror dawned within his eyes.

"What art thou?" he whispered.

"Nay, Beltane," she murmured, "ah--look not so!"

"Who art thou--and what?" he said.

"Nay, did I not tell thee at the first? I am Helen--hast thou not
known? I am Helen--Helen of Mortain."

"Thou--thou art the Duchess Helen?" said Beltane with stiffening lips,
"thou the Duchess and I--a smith!" and he laughed, short and fierce,
and would have turned from her but she stayed him with quivering hands.

"And--did'st not know?" she questioned hurriedly, "methought it was no
secret--I would have told thee ere this had I known. Nay--look not so,
Beltane--thou dost love me yet--nay, I do know it!" and she strove to
smile, but with lips that quivered strangely.

"Aye, I love thee, Helen of Mortain--though there be many fair lords to
do that! But, as for me--I am only a smith, and as a smith greatly
would I despise thee. Yet may this not be, for as my body is great, so
is my love. Go, therefore, thy work here is done, go--get thee to thy
knightly lovers, wed this Duke who seeks thee--do aught you will but
go, leave me to my hammers and these green solitudes."

So spake he, and turning, strode away, looking not back to where she
stood leaning one white hand against a tree. Once she called to him but
he heeded not, walking ever with bowed head and hearing only the tumult
within him and the throbbing of his wounded heart. And now, in his pain
needs must he think of yet another Helen and of the blood and agony of
blazing Troy town, and lifting up his hands to heaven he cried aloud:

"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!"

All in haste Beltane came to his lonely hut and taking thence his cloak
and great sword, he seized upon his mightiest hammer and beat down the
roof of the hut and drave in the walls of it; thereafter he hove the
hammer into the pool, together with his anvil and rack of tools and so,
setting the sword in his girdle and the cloak about him, turned away
and plunged into the deeper shadows of the forest.

But, ever soft and faint with distance, the silvery voices of the bells
stole upon the warm, stilly air, speaking of pomp and state, of pride
and circumstance, but now these seemed but empty things, and the
Duchess Helen stood long with bent head and hands that strove to shut
the sounds away. But in the end she turned, slow-footed amid the
gathering shadows and followed whither they called.

       *       *       *       *       *

But that night, sitting in state within her great hall of Mortain, the
Duchess Helen sighed deep and oft, scarce heeding the courtesies
addressed to her and little the whispered homage of her guest Duke Ivo,
he, the proudest and most potent of all her many wooers; yet to-night
her cheek burned beneath his close regard and her woman's flesh
rebelled at his contact as had never been aforetime. Thus, of a sudden,
though the meal was scarce begun, she arose and stepped down from the
dais, and when her wondering ladies would have followed forbade them
with a gesture. And so, walking proud and tall, she passed out before
them, whereat Duke Ivo's black brow grew the blacker, and he stared
before him with narrowed eyes, beholding which, the faces of my lady's
counsellors waxed anxious and long; only Winfrida, chiefest of the
ladies, watched the Duke 'neath drooping lids and with a smile upon her
full, red lips.

Now the Duchess, being come to her chamber, lifted her hands and tore
the ducal circlet from her brow and cast it from her, and, thereafter,
laid by her rings and jewels, and coming to the open casement fell
there upon her knees and reached forth her pale hands to where, across
the valley, the dark forest stretched away, ghostly and unreal, 'neath
the moon.

"My beloved!" she whispered, "O my beloved!" And the gentle night-wind
bore her secret in its embrace away across the valley to the dim
solitudes of the woods. "Beltane!" she sighed, "love hath come into
mine heart even as it came to thee, when I recked not of it. My
beloved--O my beloved!" Anon she rose and stood awhile with head bowed
as one that dreams, and of a sudden her cheek glowed warmly red, her
breath caught and she gazed upon the moon with eyes of yearning
tenderness; thereafter she laughed, soft and happily and, snatching up
a cloak, set it about her and fled from the chamber. So, swift and
light of foot, she sped by hidden ways until she came where old Godric,
her chief huntsman, busied himself trimming the shaft of a boar-spear,
who, beholding his lady, rose up in amaze.

"Godric," said she, white hands upon his arm, "thou didst love me or
ever I could walk?"

"Aye, verily thou hast said, dear my lady."

"Love you me yet?"

"Truly thou knowest that I love thee."

"Thou hast heard, Godric, how that my counsellors have long desired me
to wed with Duke Ivo, and do yet await my answer to his suit--nay
hearken! So to-night shall my mind be known in the matter once and for
all! Come, my Godric, arm you and saddle two horses--come!"

"Nay, sweet my lady, what would ye?"

"Fly hence with thee, my Godric! Come--the horses!"

"Fly from Mortain, and thou the Duchess? Nay, dear lady, 'tis madness,
bethink thee! O dear my Mistress--O little Helen that I have cherished
all thy days, bethink thee--do not this thing--"

"Godric, did not the Duke, my father, strictly charge thee to follow
ever my call?"

"Aye, my lady."

"Then follow now!" And so she turned and beckoned, and Godric perforce
followed after.

Hand in hand they went a-down the winding stair, down, to the great,
dim courtyard that whispered to their tread. And, thereafter, mounting
in haste, the Duchess galloped from Mortain, unheeding stern old Godric
by her side and with never a look behind, dreaming ever of Beltane with
cheeks that crimsoned 'neath her hood.

Fast and faster she rode 'neath the pale moon, her eyes ever gazing
towards the gloom of the forest, her heart throbbing quick as the
hoof-beats of her horse. So at last, being come to that glade whereby
Beltane had his dwelling, she lighted down, and bidding Godric wait,
stole forward alone.

Autumn was at hand, and here and there the fallen leaves rustled sadly
under foot while the trees sighed and mourned together for that the
flowers so soon must wither and die. But in the heart of the Duchess
Helen, Spring was come, and all things spake to her of coming joys
undreamed till now as she hasted on, flitting through the pallid
moonbeams that, falling athwart rugged hole and far-flung branch,
splashed the gloom with radiant light. Once she paused to listen, but
heard nought save the murmur of the brook and the faint stirring of
leaves. And now, clear and strong the tender radiance fell athwart the
lonely habitation and her heart leapt at the sight, her eyes grew moist
and tender and she hurried forward with flying steps, then--beholding
the ruin of thatch and wall, she stopped and stood aghast, gazing
wide-eyed and with her heart numb in her bosom. Then she shivered, her
proud head drooped and a great sob brake from her, for that she knew she
was come too late, her dreams of wandering with Beltane through sunny
glades were nought but dreams after all. Beltane the Smith was gone!

Then a great loneliness and desolation came upon her and, sinking down
at the foot of that tree whereby he had been wont to lean so often, her
yearning arms crept about its rugged hole and she lay there in the
passion of her grief weeping long and bitterly.

But the gentle trees ceased mourning over their own coming sorrow in
wonder at the sight, and bending their heads together, seemed to
whisper one to the other saying:

"He is gone, Beltane the Smith is gone!"



CHAPTER V

WHICH TELLS OF THE STORY OF AMBROSE THE HERMIT


Deep, deep within the green twilight of the woods Ambrose the Hermit
had builded him a hut; had built and framed it of rude stones and
thatched it with grass and mosses. And from the door of the hut he had
formed likewise a path strewn thick with jagged stones and sharp
flints, a cruel track, the which, winding away through the green, led
to where upon a gentle eminence stood a wooden cross most artfully
wrought and carven by the hermit's skilled and loving fingers.

Morning and evening, winter and summer it was his custom ever to tread
this painful way, wetting the stones with the blood of his atonement.

Now upon a certain rosy dawn, ere yet the sun was up, Beltane standing
amid the leaves, saw the hermit issue forth of the hut and, with bowed
head and folded hands, set out upon his appointed way. The cruel stones
grew red beneath his feet yet he faltered not nor stayed until, being
come to the cross, he kneeled there and, with gaunt arms upraised,
prayed long and fervently so that the tears of his passion streamed
down his furrowed cheeks and wetted the snow of his beard.

In a while, having made an end, he arose and being come to his hut once
more, he of a sudden espied Beltane standing amid the leaves; and
because he was so fair and goodly to look upon in his youth and might,
the pale cheek of the hermit flushed and a glow leapt within his sunken
eyes, and lifting up his hand, he blessed him.

"Welcome to this my solitude, my son," quoth he, "and wherefore hast
thou tarried in thy coming? I have watched for thee these many days.
Come, sit you here beside me in this blessed sun and tell me of thy
latter doings."

But the eyes of Beltane were sad and his tongue unready, so that he
stammered in his speech, looking ever upon the ground; then, suddenly
up-starting to his feet, he strode before the hut, while Ambrose the
wise looked, and saw, yet spake not. So, presently, Beltane paused, and
looking him within the eyes spake hurriedly on this wise:

"Most holy father, thou knowest how I have lived within the greenwood
all my days nor found it lonely, for I did love it so, that I had
thought to die here likewise when my time should come. Yet now do I
know that this shall never be--to-day I go hence."

"Wherefore, my son?"

"There is come a strange restlessness upon me, a riot and fever of the
blood whereby I am filled with dreams and strange desires. I would go
forth into the great world of men and cities, to take my rightful place
therein, for until a man hath loved and joyed and sorrowed with his
fellows, he knoweth nought of life."

"Perchance, my son, this is but the tide of youthful blood that tingles
in thy veins? Or is it that thou hast looked of late within a woman's
eyes?"

Then Beltane kneeled him at the feet of Ambrose and hid his face
betwixt his knees, as he had been wont to do whiles yet a little child.

"Father," he murmured, "thou hast said." Now looking down upon this
golden head, Ambrose sighed and drew the long curls through his fingers
with a wondrous gentleness.

"Tell me of thy love, Beltane," said he.

Forthwith, starting to his feet, Beltane answered:

"'Tis many long and weary months, my father, and yet doth seem but
yesterday. She came to me riding upon a milk-white steed. At first
methought her of the fairy kind thither drawn by my poor singing, yet,
when I looked on her again, I knew her to be woman. And she was fair--
O very fair, my father. I may not tell her beauty for 'twas compounded
of all beauteous things, of the snow of lilies, the breath of flowers,
the gleam of stars on moving waters, the music of streams, the
murmur of wind in trees--I cannot tell thee more but that there is a
flame doth hide within her hair, and for her eyes--O methinks 'tis for
her eyes I do love her most--love her? Aye, my body doth burn and
thrill with love--alas, poor fool, alas it should be so! But, for that
she is proud and of an high estate, for that I am I, a poor worker of
iron whom men call Beltane the Smith, fit but to sigh and sigh and
forever sigh, to dream of her and nothing more--so must I go hence,
leaving the sweet silence of the woods for the strife and noise of
cities, learning to share the burdens of my fellows. See you not, my
father, see you not the way of it?" So spake Beltane, hot and
passionate, striding to and fro upon the sward, while Ambrose sat with
bitterness in his heart but with eyes ineffably gentle.

"And is this love of thine so hopeless, my Beltane?"

"Beyond all thought; she is the Duchess Helen of Mortain!"

Now for a while the hermit spake not, sitting chin in hand as one who
halts betwixt two courses.

"'Tis strange," he said at length, "and passing strange! Yet, since
'tis she, and she so much above thee, wherefore would ye leave the
tender twilight of these forests?"

Quoth Beltane, sighing:

"My father, I tell thee these woods be full of love and her. She
looketh at me from the flowers and stealeth to me in their fragrance;
the very brooks do babble of her beauty; each leaf doth find a little
voice to whisper of her, and everywhere is love and love and love--so
needs must I away."

"And think you so to escape this love, my Beltane, and the pain of it?"

"Nay my father, that were thing impossible for it doth fill the
universe, so must I needs remember it with every breath I draw, but in
the griefs and sorrows of others I may, perchance, learn to bear mine
own, silent and patiently, as a man should."

Then Ambrose sighed, and beckoning Beltane to his knee, laid his hands
upon his shoulders and looked deep within his eyes.

"Beltane my son," said he, "I have known thee from thy youth up and
well do I know thou canst not lie, for thy heart is pure as yet and
uncorrupt. But now is the thing I feared come upon thee--ah, Beltane,
hast thou forgot all I have told thee of women and the ways of women,
how that their white bodies are filled with all manner of wantonness,
their hands strong in lures and enticements? A woman in her beauty is
a fair thing to the eyes of a man, yet I tell thee Beltane, they be
snares of the devil, setting father 'gainst son and--brother 'gainst
brother, whereby come unnatural murders and bloody wars."

"And yet, needs must I love her still, my father!"

"Aye, 'tis so," sighed Ambrose, "'tis ever so, and as for thee, well do
I know the blood within thee for a hot, wild blood--and thou art young,
and so it is I fear for thee."

But, looking up, Beltane shook his head and answered:

"Holy father, thou art wise and wondrous learned in the reading of
books and in the ancient wisdoms and philosophies, yet methinks this
love is a thing no book can teach thee, a truth a man must needs find
out for himself." "And think you I know nought of love, Beltane, the
pain and joy of it--and the shame? Thou seest me a poor old man and
feeble, bent with years and suffering, one who but waiteth for the time
when my grievous sin shall be atoned for and God, in His sweet
clemency, shall ease me of this burden of life. Yet do I tell thee
there was a time when this frail body was strong and tall, well-nigh,
as thine own, when this white hair was thick and black, and these dim
eyes bold and fearless even as thine."

"Ah, Beltane, well do I know women and the ways of women! Come, sit you
beside me and, because thou art fain to go into the world and play thy
man's part, so now will I tell thee that the which I had thought to
bear with me to the grave."

Then Ambrose the Hermit, leaning his head upon his hand, began to speak
on this wise:

"Upon a time were two brothers, nobles of a great house and following,
each alike lovers of peace yet each terrible in war; the name of the
one was Johan and of the other Beltane. Now Beltane, being elder, was
Duke of that country, and the country maintained peace within its
borders and the people thereof waxed rich and happy. And because these
twain loved each other passing well the way of the one was ever the way
of the other so that they dwelt together in a wondrous amity, and as
their hearts were pure and strong so waxed they in body so that there
was none could cope with them at hand-strokes nor bear up against the
might of their lances, and O, methinks in all this fair world nought
was there fairer than the love of these two brethren!

"Now it befell, upon a day, that they set out with a goodly company to
attend a tourney in a certain town whither, likewise, were come many
knights of renown, nobles and princes beyond count eager to prove their
prowess, thither drawn by the fame of that fair lady who was to be
Queen of Beauty. All lips spake of her and the wonder of her charms,
how that a man could not look within her eyes but must needs fall into
a passion of love for her. But the brethren smiled and paid small heed
and so, together, journeyed to the city. The day of the joust being
come, forth they rode into the lists, side by side, each in his triple
mail and ponderous helm, alike at all points save for the golden
circlet upon Duke Beltane's shining casque. And there befell, that day,
a mighty shivering of lances and many a knightly deed was wrought. But,
for these brethren there was none of all these knights and nobles who
might abide their onset; all day long they together maintained the
lists till there none remained to cope with them, wherefore the marshal
would have had them run a course together for proof which was the
mightier. But Beltane smiled and shook his head saying, 'Nay, it is not
meet that brother strive with brother!' And Johan said: 'Since the day
doth rest with us, we will share the glory together.' So, amid the
acclaim of voice and trumpet, side by side they came to make obeisance
to the Queen of Beauty, and gazing upon her, they saw that she was
indeed of a wondrous beauty. Now in her hand she held the crown that
should reward the victor, yet because they were two, she knew not whom
to choose, wherefore she laughed, and brake the crown asunder and gave
to each a half with many fair words and gentle sayings. But, alas, my
son! from that hour her beauty came betwixt these brethren, veiling
their hearts one from the other. So they tarried awhile in that fair
city, yet companied together no more, for each was fain to walk apart,
dreaming of this woman and the beauty of her, and each by stealth wooed
her to wife. At last, upon an evening, came Johan to his brother and
taking from his bosom the half of the crown he had won, kissed it and
gave it to Beltane, saying: 'The half of a crown availeth no man, take
therefore my half and join it with thine, for well do I know thy heart,
my brother--and thou art the elder, and Duke; go therefore and woo
this lady to wife, and God speed thee, my lord.' But Beltane said:
'Shame were it in me to take advantage of my years thus; doth age or
rank make a man's love more worthy? So, get thee to thy wooing, my
brother, and heaven's blessing on thee.' Then grew Johan full of joy,
saying: 'So be it, dear my brother, but am I come not to thee within
three days at sunset, then shalt know that my wooing hath not
prospered.' Upon the third day, therefore, Beltane the Duke girded on
his armour and made ready to ride unto his own demesne, yet tarried
until sunset, according to his word. But his brother Johan came not.
Therefore he, in turn, rode upon his wooing and came unto the lady's
presence in hauberk of mail, and thus ungently clad wooed her as one in
haste to be gone, telling her that this world was no place for a man to
sigh out his days at a woman's feet, and bidding her answer him' Yea'
or 'Nay' and let him be gone to his duty. And she, whom so many had
wooed on bended knee, spake him' Yea'--for that a woman's ways be
beyond all knowledge--and therewith gave her beauty to his keeping. So,
forthwith were they wed, with much pomp and circumstance, and so he
brought her to his Duchy with great joy and acclaim. Then would Johan
have departed over seas, but Beltane ever dissuaded him, and fain these
brethren would have loved each other as they had done aforetime, yet
was the beauty of this woman ever betwixt them. Now, within that year,
came news of fire and sword upon the border, of cruel rape and murder,
so Beltane sent forth his brother Johan with an army to drive back the
invaders, and himself abode in his great castle, happy in the love of
his fair, young wife. But the war went ill, tidings came that Johan his
brother was beaten back with much loss and he himself sore wounded.
Therefore the Duke made ready to set forth at the head of a veteran
company, but ere he rode a son was born to him, so needs must he come
to his wife in his armour, and beholding the child, kissed him.
Thereafter Duke Beltane rode to the war with a glad heart, and fell
upon his enemies and scattered them, and pursued them far and smote
them even to their own gates. But in the hour of his triumph he fell,
by treachery, into the hands of his cruelest enemy, how it mattereth
not, and for a space was lost to sight and memory. But as for Johan,
the Duke's brother, he lay long sick of his wounds, so came the Duchess
and ministered to him; and she was fair, and passing fair, and he was
young. And when his strength was come again, each day was Johan minded
to ride forth and seek the Duke his brother--but he was young, and she
passing fair, wherefore he tarried still, bound by the lure of her
beauty. And, upon a soft and stilly eve as they walked together in the
garden, she wooed Johan with tender look and word, and wreathed her
white arms about him and gave to his her mouth. And, in that moment
came one, fierce and wild of aspect, in dinted casque and rusty mail
who stood and watched--ah God!"

Here, for a while, the hermit Ambrose stayed his tale, and Beltane saw
his brow was moist and that his thin hands clenched and wrung each
other.

"So thus, my son, came Duke Beltane home again, he and his esquire Sir
Benedict of Bourne alone of all his company, each alike worn with
hardship and spent with wounds. But now was the Duke stricken of a
greater pain and leaned him upon the shoulder of his esquire, faint and
sick of soul, and knew an anguish deeper than any flesh may know. Then,
of a sudden, madness came upon him and, breaking from the mailed arms
that held him, he came hot-foot to the courtyard and to the hall
beyond, hurling aside all such as sought to stay him and so reached at
last my lady's bower, his mailed feet ringing upon the Atones. And,
looking up, the Duchess saw and cried aloud and stood, thereafter, pale
and speechless and wide of eye, while Johan's cheek grew red and in his
look was shame. Then the Duke put up his vizor and, when he spake, his
voice was harsh and strange: 'Greeting, good brother!' said he, 'go
now, I pray you, get you horse and armour and wait me in the courtyard,
yet first must I greet this my lady wife.' So Johan turned, with
hanging head, and went slow-footed from the chamber. Then said the
Duke, laughing in his madness, 'Behold, lady, the power of a woman's
beauty, for I loved a noble brother once, a spotless knight whose
honour reached high as heaven, but thou hast made of him a something
foul and base, traitor to me and to his own sweet name, and 'tis for
this I will requite thee!' But the Duchess spake not, nor blenched even
when the dagger gleamed to strike--O sweet God of mercy, to strike!
But, in that moment, came Benedict of Bourne and leapt betwixt and took
the blow upon his cheek, and, stanching the blood within his tattered
war-cloak, cried: 'Lord Duke, because I love thee, ne'er shalt thou do
this thing until thou first slay me!' A while the Duke stood in amaze,
then turned and strode away down the great stair, and coming to the
courtyard, beheld his brother Johan armed at all points and mounted,
and with another horse equipped near by. So the Duke laughed and closed
his vizor and his laughter boomed hollow within his rusty casque, and,
leaping to the saddle, rode to the end of the great tilt-yard, and,
wheeling, couched his lance. So these brethren, who had loved each
other so well, spurred upon each other with levelled lances but, or
ever the shock came--O my son, my son!--Johan rose high in his stirrups
and cried aloud the battle-cry of his house 'Arise! Arise! I shall
arise!' and with the cry, tossed aside his lance lest he might harm the
Duke his brother--O sweet clemency of Christ!--and crashed to earth--
and lay there--very still and silent. Then the Duke dismounted and,
watched by pale-faced esquires and men-at-arms, came and knelt beside
his brother, and laid aside his brother's riven helm and, beholding his
comely features torn and marred and his golden hair all hatefully
bedabbled, felt his heart burst in sunder, and he groaned, and rising
to stumbling feet came to his horse and mounted and rode away 'neath
grim portcullis and over echoing drawbridge, yet, whithersoever he
looked, he saw only his brother's dead face, pale and bloody. And fain
he would have prayed but could not, and so he came into the forest. All
day long he rode beneath the trees careless of his going, conscious
only that Benedict of Bourne rode behind with his bloody war-cloak
wrapped about him. But on rode the Duke with hanging head and listless
hands for before his haggard eyes was ever the pale, dead face of Johan
his brother. Now, as the moon rose, they came to a brook that whispered
soft-voiced amid the shadows and here his war-horse stayed to drink.
Then came Sir Benedict of Bourne beside him, 'Lord Duke,' said he,
'what hast thou in thy mind to do?' 'I know not,' said the Duke,
'though methinks 'twere sweet to die.' 'Then what of the babe, lord
Duke?' and, speaking, Sir Benedict drew aside his cloak and showed the
babe asleep beneath. But, looking upon its innocence, the Duke cried
out and hid his face, for the babe's golden curls were dabbled with the
blood from Sir Benedict's wound and looked even as had the face of the
dead Johan. Yet, in a while, the Duke reached out and took the child
and setting it against his breast, turned his horse. Said Sir Benedict:
'Whither do we ride, lord Duke?' Then spake the Duke on this wise: 'Sir
Benedict, Duke Beltane is no more, the stroke that slew my brother
Johan killed Duke Beltane also. But as for you, get you to Pentavalon
and say the Duke is dead, in proof whereof take you this my ring and
so, farewell.' Then, my Beltane, God guiding me, I brought thee to
these solitudes, for I am he that was the Duke Beltane, and thou art my
son indeed."



CHAPTER VI

HOW BELTANE FARED FORTH OF THE GREEN


Thus spake the hermit Ambrose and, having made an end, sat thereafter
with his head bowed upon his hands, while Beltane stood wide-eyed yet
seeing not, and with lips apart yet dumb by reason of the wonder of it;
therefore, in a while, the hermit spake again:

"Thus did we live together, thou and I, dear son, and I loved thee
well, my Beltane: with each succeeding day I loved thee better, for as
thine understanding grew, so grew my love for thee. Therefore, so soon
as thou wert of an age, set in thy strength and able to thine own
support, I tore myself from thy sweet fellowship and lived alone lest,
having thee, I might come nigh to happiness."

Then Beltane sank upon his knees and caught the hermit's wasted hands
and kissed them oft, saying:

"Much hast thou suffered, O my father, but now am I come to thee again
and, knowing all things, here will I bide and leave thee nevermore."
Now in the hermit's pale cheek came a faint and sudden glow, and in his
eyes a light not of the sun.

"Bethink thee, boy," said he, "the blood within thy veins is noble.
For, since thou art my son, so, an thou dost leave me and seek thy
destiny thou shalt, perchance, be Duke of Pentavalon--an God will it
so."

But Beltane shook his head. Quoth he:

"My father, I am a smith, and smith am I content to be since thou, lord
Duke, art my father. So now will I abide with thee and love and honour
thee, and be thy son indeed."

Then rose the hermit Ambrose to his feet and spake with eyes uplifted:

"Now glory be to God, Who, in His mercy, hath made of thee a man, my
Beltane, clean of soul and innocent, yet strong of arm to lift and
succour the distressed, and therefore it is that you to-day must leave
me, my well-beloved, for there be those whose need of thee is greater
even than mine."

"Nay, dear my father, how may this be?"

Now hereupon Ambrose the Hermit stood awhile with bent head, and spake
not, only he sighed full oft and wrung his hands.

"I thought but of myself!" he groaned, "great sorrow is oft-times
greatly selfish. Alas, my son--twenty weary years have I lived here
suing God's forgiveness, and for twenty bitter years Pentavalon hath
groaned 'neath shameful wrong--and death in many hateful shapes. O God
have mercy on a sinner who thought but on himself! List, my son, O
list! On a day, as I kneeled before yon cross, came one in knightly
armour and upon his face, 'neath the links of his camail, I saw a great
scar--the scar this hand had wrought. And, even as I knew Sir Benedict,
in that same moment he knew me, and gave a joyous cry and came and fell
upon his knee and kissed my hand, as of old. Thereafter we talked, and
he told me many a woeful tale of Pentavalon and of its misery. How,
when I was gone, rose bitter fight and faction, barons and knights
striving together which should be Duke. In the midst of the which
disorders came one, from beyond seas, whom men called Ivo, who by might
of sword and cunning tongue made himself Duke in my place. Sir Benedict
told of a fierce and iron rule, of the pillage and ravishment of town
and city, of outrage and injustice, of rack and flame and gibbet--of a
people groaning 'neath a thousand cruel wrongs. Then, indeed, did I see
that my one great sin a thousand other sins had bred, and was I full of
bitter sorrow and anguish. And, in my anguish, I thought on thee, and
sent to thee Sir Benedict, and watched thee wrestle, and at stroke of
sword, and praised God for thy goodly might and strength. For O, dear
my son, meseemeth that God hath raised thee up to succour these
afflicted, to shield the weak and helpless--hath made thee great and
mightier than most to smite Evil that it may flee before thee. So in
thee shall my youth be renewed, and my sins, peradventure, purged
away."

"Father!" said Beltane rising, his blue eyes wide, his strong hands
a-tremble, "O my father!" Then Ambrose clasped those quivering hands and
kissed those wide and troubled eyes and spake thereafter, slow and
soft:

"Now shall I live henceforth in thee, my son, glorying in thy deeds
hereafter. And if thou must needs--bleed, then shall my heart bleed
with thee, or if thou meet with death, my Beltane, then shall this
heart of mine die with thee."

Thus speaking, the hermit drew the sword from Beltane's girdle and
held the great blade towards heaven.

"Behold, my son," said he, "the motto of our house, 'I will arise!' So
now shalt thou arise indeed that thy destiny may be fulfilled. Take
hold upon thy manhood, my well-beloved, get thee to woeful Pentavalon
and, beholding its sorrows, seek how they may be assuaged. Now my
Beltane, all is said--when wilt thou leave thy father?"

Quoth Beltane, gathering his cloak about him:

"An so it be thy wish, my father, then will I go this hour."

Then Ambrose brought Beltane into his humble dwelling where was a
coffer wrought by his own skilful fingers; and from this coffer he drew
forth a suit of triple mail, wondrously fashioned, beholding the
which, Beltane's eyes glistened because of the excellence of its
craftsmanship.

"Behold!" quoth the hermit, "'tis an armour worthy of a king, light is
it, yet marvellous strong, and hath been well tried in many a desperate
affray. 'Tis twenty years since these limbs bore it, yet see--I have
kept it bright from rust lest, peradventure, Pentavalon should need
thee to raise again the battle cry of thy house and lead her men to
war. And, alas dear son, that day is now! Pentavalon calls to thee from
out the gloom of dungeon, from the anguish of flame, and rack, and
gibbet--from blood-soaked hearth and shameful grave she calls thee--
so, my Beltane, come and let me arm thee."

And there, within his little hut, the hermit Ambrose, Duke of
Pentavalon that was, girt the armour upon Beltane the mighty, Duke of
Pentavalon to be, if so God willed; first the gambeson of stuffed and
quilted leather, and, thereafter, coifed hauberk and chausses, with
wide sword-belt clamped with broad plates of silver and studs of gold,
until my Beltane stood up armed in shining mail from head to foot. Then
brought Ambrose a wallet, wherein were six gold pieces, and put it in
his hand, saying:

"These have I kept against this day, my Beltane. Take them to aid thee
on thy journey, for the county of Bourne lieth far to the south."

"Do I then journey to Bourne, my father?"

"Aye, to Sir Benedict, who yet doth hold the great keep of
Thrasfordham. Many sieges hath he withstood, and daily men flee to him
--stricken men, runaway serfs, and outlaws from the green, all such
masterless men as lie in fear of their lives."

Said Beltane, slow and thoughtful:

"There be many outlaws within the green, wild men and sturdy fighters
as I've heard. Hath Sir Benedict many men, my father?"

"Alas! a pitiful few, and Black Ivo can muster bows and lances by the
ten thousand--"

"Yet doth Sir Benedict withstand them all, my father!"

"Yet must he keep ever within Bourne, Beltane. All Pentavalon, save
Bourne, lieth 'neath Ivo's iron foot, ruled by his fierce nobles, and
they be strong and many, 'gainst whom Sir Benedict is helpless in the
field. 'Tis but five years agone since Ivo gave up fair Belsaye town to
ravishment and pillage, and thereafter, builded him a mighty gallows
over against it and hanged many men thereon."

Now hereupon, of a sudden, Beltane clenched his hands and fell upon his
knees.

"Father," said he, "Pentavalon indeed doth cry, so must I now arise and
go unto her. Give me thy blessing that I may go."

Then the hermit laid his hands upon Beltane's golden head and blessed
him, and whispered awhile in passionate prayer. Thereafter Beltane
arose and, together, they came out into the sunshine.

"South and by west must you march, dear son, and God, methinks, shall
go beside thee, for thy feet shall tread a path where Death shall lie
in wait for thee. Let thine eyes be watchful therefore, and thine ears
quick to hear. Hearken you to all men, yet speak you few words and
soft. But, when you act, let your deeds shout unto heaven, that all
Pentavalon may know a man is come to lead them who fears only God. And
so, my Beltane, fare-thee-well! Come, kiss me, boy; our next kiss,
perchance--shall be in heaven."

And thus they kissed, and looked within each other's eyes; then Beltane
turned him, swift and sudden, and strode upon his way. But, in a
little, looking back, he saw his father, kneeling before the cross,
with long, gaunt arms upraised to heaven.



CHAPTER VII

HOW BELTANE TALKED WITH ONE HIGHT GILES BRABBLECOMBE, WHO WAS A
NOTABLE AND LEARNED ARCHER


The morning was yet young when my Beltane fared forth into the world, a
joyous, golden morning trilling with the glad song of birds and rich
with a thousand dewy scents; a fair, sweet, joyous world it was indeed,
whose glories, stealing in at eye and ear, filled him with their
gladness. On strode my Beltane by rippling brook and sleepy pool, with
step swift and light and eyes wide and shining, threading an unerring
course as only a forester might; now crossing some broad and sunny
glade where dawn yet lingered in rosy mist, anon plunging into the
green twilight of dell and dingle, through tangled brush and scented
bracken gemmed yet with dewy fire, by marsh and swamp and lichened
rock, until he came out upon the forest road, that great road laid by
the iron men of Rome, but now little better than a grassy track, yet
here and there, with mossy stone set up to the glory of proud emperor
and hardy centurion long since dust and ashes; a rutted track, indeed,
but leading ever on, 'neath mighty trees, over hill and dale towards
the blue mystery beyond.

Now, in a while, being come to the brow of a hill, needs must my
Beltane pause to look back upon the woodlands he had loved so well and,
sighing, he stretched his arms thitherward; and lo! out of the soft
twilight of the green, stole a gentle wind full of the scent of root
and herb and the fresh, sweet smell of earth, a cool, soft wind that
stirred the golden hair at his temples, like a caress, and so--was
gone. For a while he stood thus, gazing towards where he knew his
father yet knelt in prayer for him, then turned he slowly, and went his
appointed way.

Thus did Beltane bid farewell to the greenwood and to woodland things,
and thus did the green spirit of the woods send forth a gentle wind to
kiss him on the brow ere he went out into the world of men and cities.

Now, after some while, as he walked, Beltane was aware of the silvery
tinkle of bells and, therewith, a full, sweet voice upraised in song,
and the song was right merry and the words likewise:

  "O ne'er shall my lust for the bowl decline,
   Nor my love for my good long bow;
   For as bow to the shaft and as bowl to the wine,
   Is a maid to a man, I trow."

Looking about, Beltane saw the singer, a comely fellow whose long legs
bestrode a plump ass; a lusty man he was, clad in shirt of mail and
with a feather of green brooched to his escalloped hood; a long-bow
hung at his back together with a quiver of arrows, while at his thigh
swung a heavy, broad-bladed sword. Now he, espying Beltane amid the
leaves, brought the ass to a sudden halt and clapped hand to the pommel
of his sword.

"How now, Goliath!" cried he. "_Pax vobiscum,_ and likewise
_benedicite_! Come ye in peace, forsooth, or is it to be _bellum
internecinum?_ Though, by St. Giles, which is my patron saint, I care
not how it be, for mark ye, _vacuus cantat coram latrone viator,_ Sir
Goliath, the which in the vulgar tongue signifieth that he who travels
with an empty purse laughs before the footpad--moreover, I have a
sword!"

But Beltane laughed, saying:

"I have no lust to thy purse, most learned bowman, or indeed to aught
of thine unless it be thy company."

"My company?" quoth the bowman, looking Beltane up and down with merry
blue eyes, "why now do I know thee for a fellow of rare good judgment,
for my company is of the best, in that I have a tongue which loveth to
wag in jape or song. Heard ye how the birds and I were a-carolling? A
right blithesome morn, methinks, what with my song, and the birds'
song, and this poor ass's bells--aye, and the flowers a-peep from the
bank yonder. God give ye joy of it, tall brother, as he doth me and
this goodly ass betwixt my knees, patient beast."

Now leaning on his quarter-staff Beltane smiled and said:

"How came ye by that same ass, master bowman?"

"Well--I met a monk!" quoth the fellow with a gleam of white teeth. "O!
a ponderous monk, brother, of most mighty girth of belly! Now, as ye
see, though this ass be sleek and fat as an abbot, she is something
small. 'And shall so small a thing needs bear so great a mountain o'
flesh?' says I (much moved at the sight, brother). 'No, by the blessed
bones of St. Giles (which is my patron saint, brother), so thereafter
(by dint of a little persuasion, brother) my mountainous monk, to ease
the poor beast's back, presently got him down and I, forthwith, got up--
as being more in proportion to her weight, sweet beast! O! surely
ne'er saw I fairer morn than this, and never, in so fair a morn, saw I
fairer man than thou, Sir Forester, nor taller, and I have seen many
men in my day. Wherefore an so ye will, let us company together what
time we may; 'tis a solitary road, and the tongue is a rare shortener
of distance."

So Beltane strode on beside this garrulous bowman, hearkening to his
merry talk, yet himself speaking short and to the point as was ever his
custom; as thus:

BOWMAN. "How do men call thee, tall brother?"

BELTANE. "Beltane."

BOWMAN. "Ha! 'Tis a good name, forsooth I've heard worse--and yet,
forsooth, I've heard better. Yet 'tis a fairish name--'twill serve. As
for me, Giles Brabblecombe o' the Hills men call me, for 'twas in the
hill country I was born thirty odd years agone. Since then twelve
sieges have I seen with skirmishes and onfalls thrice as many. Death
have I beheld in many and divers shapes and in experience of wounds and
dangers am rich, though, by St. Giles (my patron saint), in little
else. Yet do I love life the better, therefore, and I have read that
'to despise gold is to be rich.'"

BELTANE. "Do all bowmen read, then?"

BOWMAN. "Why look ye, brother, I am not what I was aforetime--_non sum
quails eram _--I was bred a shaveling, a mumbler, a be-gowned
do-nothing--brother, I was a monk, but the flesh and the devil made of me
a bowman, heigho--so wags the world! Though methinks I am a better
bowman than ever I was a monk, having got me some repute with this my
bow."

BELTANE (shaking his head). "Methinks thy choice was but a sorry one
for--"

BOWMAN (laughing). "Choice quotha! 'Twas no choice, 'twas forced upon
me, _vi et armis._ I should be chanting prime or matins at this very
hour but for this tongue o' mine, God bless it! For, when it should
have been droning psalms, it was forever lilting forth some blithesome
melody, some merry song of eyes and lips and stolen kisses. In such
sort that the good brethren were wont to gather round and, listening,--
sigh! Whereof it chanced I was, one night, by order of the holy Prior,
drubbed forth of the sacred precincts. So brother Anselm became Giles
o' the Bow--the kind Saints be praised, in especial holy Saint Giles
(which is my patron saint!). For, heed me--better the blue sky and the
sweet, strong wind than the gloom and silence of a cloister. I had
rather hide this sconce of mine in a hood of mail than in the mitre of
a lord bishop--_nolo episcopare,_ good brother! Thus am I a fighter,
and a good fighter, and a wise fighter, having learned 'tis better to
live to fight than to fight to live."

BELTANE. "And for whom do ye fight?"

BOWMAN. "For him that pays most, _pecuniae obediunt omnia,_ brother."

BELTANE (frowning). "Money? And nought beside?"

BOWMAN (staring). "As what, brother?"

BELTANE. "The justice of the cause wherefore ye fight."

BOWMAN. "Justice quotha--cause! O innocent brother, what have such
matters to do with such as I? See you now, such lieth the case. You,
let us say, being a baron (and therefore noble!) have a mind to a
certain other baron's castle, or wife, or both--(the which is more
usual) wherefore ye come to me, who am but a plain bowman knowing
nought of the case, and you chaffer with me for the use of this my body
for so much money, and thereafter I shoot my best on thy behalf as in
mine honour bound. Thus have I fought both for and against Black Ivo
throughout the length and breadth of his Duchy of Pentavalon. If ye be
minded to sell that long sword o' thine, to none better market could ye
come, for there be ever work for such about Black Ivo."

BELTANE. "Aye, 'tis so I hear."

BOWMAN. "Nor shall ye anywhere find a doughtier fighter than Duke Ivo,
nor a leader quicker to spy out the vantage of position and attack."

BELTANE. "Is he so lusty a man-at-arms?"

BOWMAN. "With lance, axe, or sword he hath no match. I have seen him
lead a charge. I have watched him fight afoot. I have stormed behind
him through a breach, and I know of none dare cope with him--unless it
be Sir Pertolepe the Red."

BELTANE. "Hast ne'er heard tell, then, of Benedict of Bourne?"

BOWMAN (clapping hand to thigh). "Now by the blood and bones of St.
Giles 'tis so! Out o' the mouth of a babe and suckling am I corrected!
Verily if there be one to front Black Ivo 'tis Benedict o' the Mark. To
behold these two at handstrokes--with axes--ha, there would be a sweet
affray indeed--a sight for the eyes of holy archangels! Dost know aught
of Sir Benedict, O Innocence?"

BELTANE. "I have seen him."

BOWMAN. "Then, my soft and gentle dove-like youth, get thee to thy
marrow-bones and pray that kind heaven shall make thee more his like,
for in his shoes doth stand a man--a knight--a very paladin!"

BELTANE. "Who fighteth not for--hire. Sir Bowman!"

BOWMAN. "Yet who hireth to fight, Sir Dove-eyed Giant, for I have
fought for him, ere now, within his great keep of Thrasfordham within
Bourne. But, an ye seek employ, his is but a poor service, where a man
shall come by harder knocks than good broad pieces."

BELTANE. "And yet, 'spite thy cunning and all thy warring, thy purse
goeth empty!"

BOWMAN. "My purse, Sir Dove? Aye, I told thee so for that I am by
nature cautious--_sicut mos est nobis_! But thy dove's eyes are honest
eyes, so now shall you know that hid within the lining of this my left
boot be eighty and nine gold pieces, and in my right a ring with stones
of price, and, moreover, here behold a goodly chain."

So saying, the bowman drew from his bosom a gold chain, thick and long
and heavy, and held it up in the sunlight.

"I got this, Sir Dove, together with the ring and divers other toys, at
the storming of Belsaye, five years agone. Aha! a right good town is
Belsaye, and growing rich and fat against another plucking."

"And how came Belsaye to be stormed?" Quoth Giles the Bowman, eying
his golden chain:

"My lord Duke Ivo had a mind to a certain lady, who was yet but a
merchant's daughter, look ye. But she was young and wondrous fair, for
Duke Ivo hath a quick eye and rare judgment in such pretty matters. But
she (and she but a merchant's daughter!) took it ill, and when Duke
Ivo's messengers came to bear her to his presence, she whined and
struggled, as is ever woman's way, and thereafter in the open street
snatched a dagger and thereupon, before her father's very eye did slay
herself (and she but a merchant's daughter!), whereat some hot-head
plucked out sword and other citizens likewise, and of my lord Duke's
messengers there none escaped save one and he sore wounded. So Belsaye
city shut its gates 'gainst my lord Duke and set out fighting-hoards
upon its walls. Yet my lord Duke battered and breached it, for few can
match him in a siege, and stormed it within three days. And, by Saint
Giles, though he lost the merchant's daughter methinks he lacked not
at all, for the women of Belsaye are wondrous fair."

The rising sun made a glory all about them, pouring his beams 'twixt
mighty trees whose knotted, far-flung branches dappled the way here and
there with shadow; but now Beltane saw nought of it by reason that he
walked with head a-droop and eyes that stared earthward; moreover his
hands were clenched and his lips close and grim-set. As for Giles o'
the Bow, he chirrupped merrily to the ass, and whistled full
melodiously, mocking a blackbird that piped amid the green. Yet in a
while he turned to stare at Beltane rubbing at his square, shaven chin
with strong, brown fingers.

"Forsooth," quoth he, nodding, "thou'rt a lusty fellow, Sir
Gentleness, by the teeth of St. Giles, which is my patron saint, ne'er
saw I a goodlier spread of shoulder nor such a proper length of arm to
twirl an axe withal, and thy legs like me well--hast the makings of a
right lusty man-at-arms in thee, despite thy soft and peaceful look!"

"Yet a lover of peace am I!" said Beltane, his head yet drooping.

"Peace, quotha--peace? Ha? by all the holy saints--peace! A soft word!
A woman's word! A word smacking of babes and milk! Out upon thee, what
hath a man with such an arm--aye, and legs--to do with peace? An you
would now, I could bring ye to good service 'neath Duke Ivo's banner.
'Tis said he hath sworn, this year, to burn Thrasfordham keep, to hang
Benedict o' the Mark and lay waste to Bourne. Aha! you shall see good
fighting 'neath Ivo's banner, Sir Dove!"

Then Beltane raised his head and spake, swift and sudden, on this wise:

"An I must fight, the which God forbid, yet once this my sword is drawn
ne'er shall it rest till I lie dead or Black Ivo is no more."

Then did the archer stare upon my Beltane in amaze with eyes full wide
and mouth agape, nor spake he for awhile, then:

"Black Ivo--thou!" he cried, and laughed amain. "Go to, my tender
youth," said he, "methinks a lute were better fitted to thy hand than
that great sword o' thine." Now beholding Beltane's gloomy face, he
smiled within his hand, yet eyed him thoughtfully thereafter, and so
they went with never a word betwixt them. But, in a while, the archer
fell to snuffing the air, and clapped Beltane upon the shoulder.

"Aha!" quoth he, "methinks we reach the fair Duchy of Pentavalon; smell
ye aught, brother?" And now, indeed, Beltane became aware of a cold
wind, foul and noisome, a deadly, clammy air breathing of things
corrupt, chilling the flesh with swift unthinking dread; and, halting
in disgust, he looked about him left and right.

"Above--above!" cried Giles o' the Bow, "this is Sir Pertolepe's
country--look you heavenward, Sir Innocence!"

Then, lifting his eyes to the shivering leaves overhead, Beltane of a
sudden espied a naked foot--a down-curving, claw-like thing,
shrivelled and hideous, and, glancing higher yet, beheld a sight to
blast the sun from heaven: now staring up at the contorted horror of
this shrivelled thing that once had lived and laughed, Beltane let fall
his staff and, being suddenly sick and faint, sank upon his knees and,
covering his eyes, crouched there in the grass the while that grisly,
silent thing swayed to and fro above him in the gentle wind of morning
and the cord whereby it hung creaked faintly.

"How now--how now!" cried Giles; "do ye blench before this churlish
carrion? Aha! ye shall see the trees bear many such hereabouts. Get up,
my qualmish, maid-like youth; he ne'er shall injure thee nor any man
again--save by the nose--faugh! Rise, rise and let us be gone."

So, presently Beltane, shivering, got him to his feet and looking up,
pale-faced, beheld upon the ragged breast a parchment with this legend
in fair, good writing:

HE KILLED A DEER

Then spake Beltane 'twixt pallid lips:

"And do they hang men for killing deer in this country?"

"Aye, forsooth, and very properly, for, heed me, your ragged rogues be
a plenty, but a stag is a noble creature and something scarcer--
moreover they be the Duke's."

"By whose order was this done?"

"Why, the parchment beareth the badge of Sir Pertolepe, called the Red.
But look you, Sir Innocent, no man may kill a deer unless he be of
gentle blood."

"And wherefore?"

"'Tis so the law!"

"And who made the law?"

"Why--as to that," quoth Giles, rubbing his chin, "as to that--what
matters it to you or me? Pah! come away lest I stifle!"

But now, even as they stood thus, out of the green came a cry, hoarse
at first but rising ever higher until it seemed to fill the world about
and set the very leaves a-quiver. Once it came, and twice, and so--was
gone. Then Beltane trembling, stooped and caught up his long quarter-staff,
and seized the bowman in a shaking hand that yet was strong, and
dragging him from the ass all in a moment, plunged into the underbrush
whence the cry had come. And, in a while, they beheld a cottage upon
whose threshold a child lay--not asleep, yet very still; and beyond the
cottage, his back to a tree, a great hairy fellow, quarter-staff in
hand, made play against five others whose steel caps and ringed
hauberks glittered in the sun. Close and ever closer they beset the
hairy man who, bleeding at the shoulder, yet swung his heavy staff; but
ever the glittering pike-heads thrust more close. Beside the man a
woman crouched, young and of comely seeming, despite wild hair and
garments torn and wrenched, who of a sudden, with another loud cry,
leapt before the hairy man covering him with her clinging body and, in
that moment, her scream died to a choking gasp and she sank huddled
'neath a pike-thrust. Then Beltane leapt, the great sword flashing in
his grasp, and smote the smiter and set his feet upon the writhing body
and smote amain with terrible arm, and his laughter rang out fierce and
wild. So for a space, sword clashed with pike, but ever Beltane,
laughing loud, drave them before him till but two remained and they
writhing upon the sward. Then Beltane turned to see Giles o' the Bow,
who leaned against a tree near by, wide-eyed and pale.

"Look!" he cried, pointing with quivering finger, "one dead and one
sore hurt--Saint Giles save us, what have ye done? These be Sir
Pertolepe's foresters--behold his badge!"

But Beltane laughed, fierce-eyed.

"How, bowman, dost blench before a badge, then? I was too meek and
gentle for thee ere this, but now, if thou'rt afraid--get you gone!"

"Art surely mad!" quoth Giles. "The saints be my witness here was no
act of mine!" So saying he turned away and hasted swift-footed through
the green. Now when the bowman was gone, Beltane turned him to the
hairy man who yet kneeled beside the body of the woman. Said he:

"Good fellow, is there aught I may do for thee?"

"Wife and child--and dead!" the man muttered, "child and wife--and
dead! A week ago, my brother--and now, the child, and then the wife!
Child and wife and brother--and dead!" Then Beltane came, minded to aid
him with the woman, but the hairy man sprang before her, swinging his
great staff and muttering in his beard; therefore Beltane, sick at
heart, turned him away. And, in a while, being come to the road once
more, he became aware that he yet grasped his sword and beheld its
bright steel dimmed here and there with blood, and, as he gazed, his
brow grew dark and troubled.

"'Tis thus have I made beginning," he sighed, "so now, God aiding me,
ne'er will I rest 'till peace be come again and tyranny made an end
of!"

Then, very solemnly, did my Beltane kneel him beside the way and
lifting the cross hilt of his sword to heaven kissed it, and thereafter
rose. And so, having cleansed the steel within the earth, he sheathed
the long blade and went, slowfooted, upon his way.



CHAPTER VIII

HOW BELTANE HELD DISCOURSE WITH A BLACK FRIAR

The sun was high, and by his shadow Beltane judged it the noon hour;
very hot and very still it was, for the wind had died and leaf and twig
hung motionless as though asleep. And presently as he went, a sound
stole upon the stillness, a sound soft and beyond all things pleasant
to hear, the murmurous ripple of running water near by. Going aside
into the green therefore, Beltane came unto a brook, and here, screened
from the sun 'neath shady willows, he laid him down to drink, and to
bathe face and hands in the cool water.

Now as he lay thus, staring sad-eyed into the hurrying waters of the
brook, there came to him the clicking of sandalled feet, and glancing
up, he beheld one clad as a black friar. A fat man he was, jolly of
figure and mightily round; his nose was bulbous and he had a drooping
lip.

"Peace be unto thee, my son!" quoth he, breathing short and loud, "an
evil day for a fat man who hath been most basely bereft of a goodly ass
--holy Saint Dunstan, how I gasp!" and putting back the cowl from his
tonsured crown, he puffed out his cheeks and mopped his face. "Hearkee
now, good youth, hath there passed thee by ever a ribald in an
escalloped hood--an unhallowed, long-legged, scurvy archer knave
astride a fair white ass, my son?"

"Truly," nodded Beltane, "we parted company scarce an hour since."

The friar sat him down in the shade of the willows and sighing, mopped
his face again; quoth he:

"Now may the curse of Saint Augustine, Saint Benedict, Saint Cuthbert
and Saint Dominic light upon him for a lewd fellow, a clapper-claw, a
thieving dog who hath no regard for Holy Church--forsooth a most
vicious rogue, _monstrum nulla virtute redemptum a vitiis_!"

"Good friar, thy tongue is something harsh, methinks. Here be four
saints with as many curses, and all for one small ass!"

The friar puffed out his cheeks and sighed:

"'Twas a goodly ass, my son, a fair and gentle beast and of an easy
gait, and I am one that loveth not to trip it in the dust. Moreover
'twas the property of Holy Church! To take from thy fellow is evil, to
steal from thy lord is worse, but to ravish from Holy Church--_per de_
'tis sacrilege, 'tis foul blasphemy thrice--aye thirty times damned and
beyond all hope of redemption! So now do I consign yon archer-knave to
the lowest pit of Acheron--_damnatus est_, amen! Yet, my son, here--by
the mercy of heaven is a treasure the rogue hath overlooked, a pasty
most rarely seasoned that I had this day from my lord's own table. 'Tis
something small for two, alack and yet--stay--who comes?"

Now, lifting his head, Beltane beheld a man, bent and ragged who crept
towards them on a stick; his face, low-stooped, was hid 'neath long
and matted hair, but his tatters plainly showed the hideous nakedness
of limbs pinched and shrunken by famine, while about his neck was a
heavy iron collar such as all serfs must needs wear. Being come near he
paused, leaning upon his staff, and cried out in a strange, cracked
voice:

"O ye that are strong and may see the blessed sun, show pity on one
that is feeble and walketh ever in the dark!" And now, beneath the
tangled hair, Beltane beheld a livid face in whose pale oval, the
eyeless sockets glowed fierce and red; moreover he saw that the man's
right arm was but a mutilated stump, whereat Beltane shivered and,
bowing his head upon his hands, closed his eyes.

"Oho!" cried the friar, "and is it thou, Simon? Trouble ye the world
yet, child of Satan?"

Hereupon the blind man fell upon his knees. "Holy father," he groaned,
clasping his withered arms upon his gaunt breast, "good Friar Gui I die
of hunger; aid me lest I perish. 'Tis true I am outlaw and no man may
minister unto me, yet be merciful, give me to eat--O gentle Christ, aid
me--"

"How!" cried the friar, "dare ye speak that name, ye that are breaker
of laws human and divine, ye that are murderer, dare ye lift those
bloody hands to heaven?"

"Holy sir," quoth Beltane, "he hath but one; I pray you now give him to
eat."

"Feed an outlaw! Art mad, young sir? Feed a murderer, a rogue banned by
Holy Church, a serf that hath raised hand 'gainst his lord? He should
have hanged when the witch his daughter burned, but that Sir Pertolepe,
with most rare mercy, gave to the rogue his life."

"But," sighed Beltane, "left him to starve--'tis a death full as sure
yet slower, methinks. Come, let us feed him."

"I tell thee, fond youth, he is excommunicate. Wouldst have me
contravene the order of Holy Church? Go to!"

Then my Beltane put his hand within his pouch and taking thence a gold
piece held it out upon his palm; said he:

"Friar, I will buy the half of thy pasty of thee!" Hereupon Friar Gui
stared from the gold to the pasty, and back again.

"So much!" quoth he, round-eyed. "Forsooth 'tis a noble pasty and yet--
nay, nay, tempt me not--_retro Sathanas!_" and closing his eyes he
crossed himself. Then Beltane took out other two gold pieces and set
them in the blind man's bony hand, saying:

"Take these three gold pieces and buy you food, and thereafter--"

"Gold!" cried the blind man, "gold! Now the Saints keep and bless thee,
young sir, sweet Jesu love thee ever!" and fain would he have knelt to
kiss my Beltane's feet. But Beltane raised him up with gentle hand,
speaking him kindly, as thus:

"Tell now, I pray you, how came ye to slay?"

"Stay! stay!" cried Friar Gui, "bethink thee, good youth--so much gold,
'tis a very fortune! With so much, masses might be sung for his
wretched soul; give it therefore to Holy Church, so shall he,
peradventure, attain Paradise."

"Not so," answered Beltane, "I had rather he, of a surety, attain a
full belly, Sir Friar." Then, turning his back upon the friar, Beltane
questioned the blind man again, as thus:

"Tell me, an ye will, how ye came to shed blood?" and the outlaw,
kneeling at Beltane's feet answered with bowed head:

"Noble sir, I had a daughter and she was young and fair, therefore came
my lord Pertolepe's chief verderer to bear her to my lord. But she
cried to me and I, forgetting my duty to my lord, took my quarter-staff
and, serf though I was, smote the chief verderer that he died
thereafter, but, ere he died, he named my daughter witch. And, when
they had burned her, they put out mine eyes, and cut off my hand, and
made of me an outlaw. So is my sin very heavy upon me."

Now when the man had made an end, Beltane stood silent awhile, then,
reaching down, he aided the blind man to his feet.

"Go you to Mortain," said he, "seek out the hermit Ambrose that liveth
in Holy Cross Thicket; with him shall you find refuge, and he,
methinks, will surely win thy soul to heaven."

So the blind man blessed my Beltane and turning, crept upon his
solitary way.

"Youth," said the friar, frowning up into Beltane's gentle eyes, "thou
hast this day put thy soul in jeopardy--the Church doth frown upon this
thy deed!"

"And yet, most reverend sir, God's sun doth shine upon this my body!"

FRIAR. "He who aideth an evil-doer is enemy to the good!"

BELTANE. "Yet he who seeketh to do good to evil that good may follow,
doeth no evil to good."

FRIAR. "Ha! thou art a menace to the state--"

BELTANE. "So shall I be, I pray God, the whiles this state continue!"

FRIAR. "Thou art either rogue or fool!"

BELTANE. "Well, thou hast thy choice."

FRIAR. "Alack! this sorry world is full of rogues and fools and--"

BELTANE. "And friars!"

FRIAR. "Who seek the salvation of this wretched world."

BELTANE. "As how?"

FRIAR. "Forsooth we meditate and pray--"

BELTANE. "And eat!"

FRIAR. "Aye verily, we do a little in that way as the custom is, for
your reverent eater begetteth a devout pray-er. The which mindeth me I
grow an hungered, yet will I forego appetite and yield thee this fair
pasty for but two of thy gold pieces. And, look ye, 'tis a noble pasty
I had this day from my lord Pertolepe's own table."

BELTANE. "That same lord that showed mercy on yonder poor maimed
wretch? Know you him?"

FRIAR. "In very sooth, and 'tis a potent lord that holdeth me in some
esteem, a most Christian knight--"

BELTANE. "That ravisheth the defenceless! Whose hands be foul with the
blood of innocence--"

FRIAR. "How--how? 'Tis a godly lord who giveth bounteously to Holy
Church--"

BELTANE. "Who stealeth from the poor--"

FRIAR. "Stealeth! Holy Saint Dunstan, dare ye speak thus of so great a
lord--a son of the Church, a companion of our noble Duke? Steal,
forsooth! The poor have nought to steal!"

BELTANE. "They have their lives."

FRIAR. "Not so, they and their lives are their lord's, 'tis so the law
and--"

BELTANE. "Whence came this law?"

FRIAR. "It came, youth--it came--aye, of God!"

BELTANE. "Say rather of the devil!"

FRIAR. "Holy Saint Michael--'tis a blasphemous youth! Never heard ears
the like o' this--"

BELTANE. "Whence cometh poverty and famine?"

FRIAR. "'Tis a necessary evil! Doth it not say in Holy Writ, 'the poor
ye have always with you'?"

BELTANE. "Aye, so shall ye ever--until the laws be amended. So needs
must men starve and starve--"

FRIAR. "There be worse things! And these serfs be born to starve, bred
up to it, and 'tis better to starve here than to perish hereafter,
better to purge the soul by lack of meat than to make of it a fetter of
the soul!"

"Excellently said, holy sir!" quoth Beltane, stooping of a sudden. "But
for this pasty now, 'tis a somewhat solid fetter, meseemeth, so now do
I free thee of it--thus!" So saying, my Beltane dropped the pasty into
the deeper waters of the brook and, thereafter, took up his staff. "Sir
Friar," said he, "behold to-day is thy soul purged of a pasty against
the day of judgment!"

Then Beltane went on beside the rippling waters of the brook, but above
its plash and murmur rose the deeptoned maledictions of Friar Gui.



CHAPTER IX

WHEREIN IS SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF FOLLY AND THE WISDOM OF A
FOOL


As the day advanced the sun grew ever hotter; birds chirped drowsily
from hedge and thicket, and the warm, still air was full of the
slumberous drone of a myriad unseen wings. Therefore Beltane sought the
deeper shade of the woods and, risking the chance of roving thief or
lurking foot-pad, followed a devious course by reason of the
underbrush.

Now as he walked him thus, within the cool, green twilight, watchful of
eye and with heavy quarter-staff poised upon his shoulder, he presently
heard the music of a pipe now very mournful and sweet, anon breaking
into a merry lilt full of rippling trills and soft, bubbling notes most
pleasant to be heard. Wherefore he went aside and thus, led by the
music, beheld a jester in his motley lying a-sprawl beneath a tree. A
long-legged knave was he, pinched and something doleful of visage yet
with quick bright eyes that laughed 'neath sombre brows, and a wide,
up-curving mouth; upon his escalloped cape and flaunting cock's-comb
were many little bells that rang a silvery chime as, up-starting to his
elbow, he greeted my Beltane thus:

"Hail, noble, youthful Sir, and of thy sweet and gracious courtesy I
pray you mark me this--the sun is hot, my belly lacketh, and thou art a
fool!"

"And wherefore?" questioned Beltane, leaning him upon his quarter-staff.

"For three rarely reasonable reasons, sweet sir, as thus:--item, for
that the sun burneth, item, my belly is empty, and item, thou, lured by
this my foolish pipe art hither come to folly. So I, a fool, do greet
thee, fool, and welcome thee to this my palace of ease and pleasaunce
where, an ye be minded to list to the folly of a rarely foolish fool, I
will, with foolish jape and quip, befool thy mind to mirth and jollity,
for thou art a sad fool, methinks, and something melancholic!"

Quoth Beltane, sighing:

"'Tis a sad world and very sorrowful!"

"Nay--'tis a sweet world and very joyful--for such as have eyes to see
withal!"

"To see?" quoth Beltane, frowning, "this day have I seen a dead man
a-swing on a tree, a babe dead beside its cradle, and a woman die upon
a spear! All day have I breathed an air befouled by nameless evil;
whithersoever I go needs must I walk 'twixt Murder and Shame!"

"Then look ever before thee, so shalt see neither."

"Yet will they be there!"

"Yet doth the sun shine in high heaven, so must these things be till
God and the saints shall mend them. But if thou must needs be doleful,
go make thee troubles of thine own but leave the woes of this wide
world to God!"

"Nay," said Beltane, shaking his head, "how if God leave these things
to thee and me?"

"Why then methinks the world must wag as it will. Yet must we repine
therefore? Out upon thee for a sober, long-legged, doleful wight. Now
harkee! Here sit I--less fool! A fool who hath, this day, been driven
forth of my lord's presence with blows and cruel stripes! And
wherefore? 'Twas for setting a bird free of its cage, a small matter
methinks--though there be birds--and birds, but mum for that! Yet do I
grieve and sigh therefore, O doleful long-shanks? Not so--fie on't! I
blow away my sorrows through the music of this my little pipe and,
lying here, set my wits a-dancing and lo! I am a duke, a king, a very
god! I create me a world wherein is neither hunger nor stripes, a world
of joy and laughter, for, blessed within his dreams, even a fool may
walk with gods and juggle with the stars!"

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "but how when he awake?"

"Why then, messire," laughed the fellow, leaping nimbly to his feet,
"why then doth he ask alms of thee, as thus: Prithee most noble
messire, of thy bounty show kindness to a fool that lacks everything
but wit. So give, messire, give and spare not, so may thy lady prove
kind, thy wooing prosper and love strengthen thee."

Now when the jester spake of love, my Beltane must needs sigh amain and
shake a doleful head.

"Alas!" said he, "within my life shall be no place for love, methinks."

"Heigho!" sighed the jester, "thy very look doth proclaim thee lover,
and 'tis well, for love maketh the fool wise and the wise fool, it
changeth saints into rogues and rogues into saints, it teacheth the
strong man gentleness and maketh the gentle strong. 'Tis sweeter than
honey yet bitter as gall--Love! ah, love can drag a man to hell or lift
him high as heaven!"

"Aye verily," sighed Beltane, "I once did dream of such a love, but now
am I awake, nor will I dream of love again, nor rest whiles Lust and
Cruelty rule this sorrowful Duchy--"

"Ha, what would ye then, fond youth?"

"I am come to smite them hence," said Beltane, clenching mighty fists.

"How?" cried the jester, wide of eye. "Alone?"

"Nay, methinks God goeth with me. Moreover, I have this sword!" and
speaking, Beltane touched the hilt of the great blade at his side.

"What--a sword!" scoffed the jester, "think ye to mend the woes of thy
fellows with a sword? Go to, thou grave-visaged, youthful fool! I tell
thee, 'tis only humour and good fellowship can mend this wretched
world, and there is nought so lacking in humour as a sword--unless it
be your prating priest or mumbling monk. A pope in cap and bells, now--
aha, there would be a world indeed, a world of joy and laughter! No
more gloom, no more bans and damnings of Holy Church, no more groaning
and snivelling in damp cloister and mildewed chapel, no more burnings
and hangings and rackings--"

"Yet," said Beltane, shaking his head, "yet would kings and dukes
remain, Christian knights and godly lords to burn and hang and rack the
defenceless."

"Aye, Sir Gravity," nodded the jester, "but the Church is paramount
ever; set the pope a-blowing of tunes upon a reed and kings would lay
by their sceptres and pipe too and, finding no time or lust for
warring, so strife would end, swords rust and wit grow keen. And wit,
look you, biteth sharper than sword, laughter is more enduring than
blows, and he who smiteth, smiteth only for lack of wit. So, an you
would have a happy world, lay by that great sword and betake thee to a
little pipe, teach men to laugh and so forget their woes. Learn wisdom
of a fool, as thus: 'Tis better to live and laugh and beget thy kind
than to perish by the sword or to dangle from a tree. Here now is
advice, and in this advice thy life, thus in giving thee advice so do I
give thee thy life. And I am hungry. And in thy purse is money
wherewith even a fool might come by food. And youth is generous! And
thou art very young! Come, sweet youthful messire, how much for thy
life--and a fool's advice?"

Then Beltane smiled, and taking out one of his three remaining gold
pieces, put it in the jester's hand.

"Fare thee well, good fool," said he, "I leave thee to thy dreams; God
send they be ever fair--"

"Gold!" cried the jester, spinning the coin upon his thumb, "ha, now do
I dream indeed; may thy waking be ever as joyous. Farewell to thee,
thou kind, sweet, youthful fool, and if thou must hang some day on a
tree, may every leaf voice small prayers for thy gentle soul!"

So saying, the jester nodded, waved aloft his bauble, and skipped away
among the trees. But as Beltane went, pondering the jester's saying,
the drowsy stillness was shivered by a sudden, loud cry, followed
thereafter by a clamour of fierce shouting; therefore Beltane paused
and turning, beheld the jester himself who ran very fleetly, yet with
three lusty fellows in close pursuit.

"Messire," panted the jester, wild of eye and with a trickle of blood
upon his pallid face, "O sweet sir--let them not slay me!"

Now while he spake, and being yet some way off, he tripped and fell,
and, as he lay thus the foremost of his pursuers, a powerful, red-faced
man, leapt towards him, whirling up his quarter-staff to smite; but, in
that moment, Beltane leapt also and took the blow upon his staff and
swung it aloft, yet stayed the blow, and, bestriding the prostrate
jester, spake soft and gentle, on this wise:

"Greeting to thee, forest fellow! Thy red face liketh me well, let us
talk together."

But, hereupon, as the red-faced man fell back, staring in amaze, there
came his two companions, albeit panting and short of breath.

"What, Roger," cried one, "doth this fellow withstand thee?"

But Roger only growled, whiles Beltane smiled upon the three, gentle-eyed,
but with heavy quarter-staff poised lightly in practised hand; quoth he:

"How now, would ye harm the fool? 'Tis a goodly fool forsooth, yet with
legs scarce so nimble as his wit, and a tongue--ha, a golden tongue to
win all men to humour and good fellowship--"

"Enough!" growled red-faced Roger, "Sir Pertolepe's foresters we be,
give us yon scurvy fool then, that we may hang him out of hand."

"Nay," answered Beltane, "first let us reason together, let us hark to
the wisdom of Folly and grow wise--"

"Ha, Roger!" cried one of the men, "tap me this tall rogue on his
golden mazzard!"

"Or," said Beltane, "the fool shall charm thy souls to kindliness with
his pipe--"

"Ho, Roger!" cried the second forester, "split me this tall talker's
yellow sconce, now!"

"Come," growled Roger, threatening of mien, "yield us the fool, 'tis an
arrant knave hath angered his lord!"

"What matter for that," said Beltane, "so he hath not angered his God?
Come now, ye be hearty fellows and have faces that might be honest,
tell me, how long will ye serve the devil?"

"Devil? Ha, what talk be this? We serve no devil!"

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "though they call him Pertolepe the Red,
hereabouts."

"Devil!" cried Black Roger aghast. And, falling back a step he gaped in
amaze from Beltane to his gaping fellows. "Devil, forsooth!" he gasped,
"aha, I've seen many a man hang for less than this--"

"True," sighed Beltane, "men hang for small matters here in Pentavalon,
and to hang is an evil death, methinks!"

"So, so!" nodded Black Roger, grim-smiling, "I've watched them kick a
fair good while, betimes!"

"Ah!" cried Beltane, his eyes widening, "those hands of thine, belike,
have hanged a man ere this?"

"Aye, many a score. Oho! folk know Black Roger's name hereabouts. I
carry ever a noose at my girdle here--behold it!" and he showed a coil
of rope that swung at his belt.

Now looking from the man's grim features to this murderous cord,
Beltane blenched and shivered, whereat Black Roger laughed aloud, and
pointed a scornful finger.

"Look'ee, 'tis fair, good rope this, and well-tried, and shall bear
even thy great carcase sweetly--aye, sweetly--"

"How--would'st hang me also?" said Beltane faintly, and the heavy
quarter-staff sagged in his loosened grip.

"Hang thee--aye. Thou didst withstand us with this fool, thou hast
dared miscall our lord--we be all witnesses to it. So now will we--"

But swift as lightning-flash, Beltane's long quarter-staff whirled and
fell, and, for all his hood of mail, Black Roger threw wide his arms
and, staggering, fell upon his face and so lay; then, fierce and grim,
he had leapt upon the other two, and the air was full of the rattle and
thud of vicious blows. But these foresters were right lusty fellows and
they, together, beset my Beltane so furiously, right and left, that he
perforce gave back 'neath their swift and grievous blows and, being
overmatched, turned and betook him to his heels, whereat they,
incontinent, pursued with loud gibes and fierce laughter. But on ran
Beltane up the glade very fleetly yet watchful of eye, until, seeing
one had outstripped his fellow, he checked his going somewhat,
stumbling as one that is spent, whereat the forester shouted the louder
and came on amain. Then did my cunning Beltane leap aside and, leaping,
turned and smote the fellow clean and true upon the crown, and,
laughing to see him fall, ran in upon the other forester with whirling
quarter-staff. Now this fellow seeing himself stand alone, stayed not
to abide the onset, but turning about, made off into the green. Then
Beltane leaned him, panting, upon his staff, what time the fallen man
got him unsteadily to his legs and limped after his comrade; as for the
jester, he was gone long since; only Black Roger lay upon his face and
groaned faintly, ever and anon. Wherefore came Beltane and stood above
him as one in thought and, seeing him begin to stir, took from him his
sword and coil of rope and loosing off his swordbelt, therewith bound
his hands fast together and so, dragged him 'neath a tree that stood
hard by. Thus when at last Black Roger opened his eyes, he beheld
Beltane standing above him and in his hand the deadly rope. Now,
looking from this to the desolation about him, Black Roger shivered,
and gazing up into' the stern face above, his florid cheek grew pale.

"Master," said he hoarsely, "what would ye?"

"I would do to thee as thou hast done to others."

"Hang me?"

"Aye!" quoth Beltane, and setting the noose about his neck, cast the
rope across a branch.

"Master, how shall my death profit thee?"

"The world shall be the better, and thy soul know less of sin, mayhap."

"Master," said Black Roger, stooping to wipe sweat from his face with
fettered hands, "I have store of money set by--"

But Beltane laughed with pallid lips, and, pulling upon the rope,
dragged Black Roger, choking, to his feet.

"Master," he gasped, "show a little mercy--"

"Hast ever shown mercy to any man--speak me true!"

"Alack!--no, master! And yet--"

"How then shall ye expect mercy? Thou hast burnt and hanged and
ravished the defenceless, so now shall be an end of it for thee, yet--O
mark me this, thy name shall live on accursed in memory long after
thou'rt but poor dust."

"Aye, there be many alive to curse Black Roger living, and many dead to
curse me when I'm dead; poor Roger's soul shall find small mercy
hereafter, methinks--ha, I never thought on this!"

"Thou had'st a mother--"

"Aye, but they burned her for a witch when I was but a lad. As for me,
'tis true I've hanged men, yet I was my lord's chief verderer and did
but as my lord commanded."

"A man hath choice of good or evil."

"Aye. So now, an I must die--I must, but O master, say a prayer for me--
my sins lie very heavy--"

But Beltane, trembling, pulled upon the rope and swung Black Roger
writhing in mid-air; then, of a sudden, loosing the rope, the forester
fell and, while he lay gasping, Beltane stooped and loosed the rope
from his neck.

"What now?" groaned the forester, wild-eyed, "Sweet Jesu--ah, torture
me not!"

"Take back thy life," said Beltane, "and I pray God that henceforth
thou shalt make of it better use, and live to aid thy fellows, so shall
they, mayhap, some day come to bless thy memory."

Then Black Roger, coming feebly to his knees, looked about him as one
that wakes upon a new world, and lifted wide eyes from green earth to
cloudless sky.

"To live!" quoth he, "to live!" And so, with sudden gesture, stooped
his head to hide his face 'neath twitching fingers.

Hereupon Beltane smiled, gentle-eyed, yet spake not, and, turning,
caught up his staff and went softly upon his way, leaving Black Roger
the forester yet upon his knees.



CHAPTER X

HOW BELTANE MADE COMRADE ONE BLACK ROGER THAT WAS A HANGMAN


The sun was low what time Beltane came to a shrine that stood beside
the way, where was a grot built by some pious soul for the rest and
refreshment of wearied travellers; and here also was a crystal spring
the which, bubbling up, fell with a musical plash into the basin
hollowed within the rock by those same kindly hands. Here Beltane
stayed and, when he had drunk his fill, laid him down in the grateful
shade and setting his cloak beneath his head, despite his hunger,
presently fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was down and the world was
become a place of mystery and glooming shadow; a bird called
plaintively afar off in the dusk, the spring bubbled softly near by,
but save for this a deep silence brooded over all things; above the
gloom of the trees the sky was clear, where bats wheeled and hovered,
and beyond the purple upland an orbed moon was rising.

Now as Beltane breathed the cool, sweet air of evening and looked about
him drowsily, he suddenly espied a shadow within the shadows, a dim
figure--yet formidable and full of menace, and he started up, weapon in
fist, whereupon the threatening figure stirred and spake:

"Master--'tis I!" said a voice. Then Beltane came forth of the grot and
stared upon Black Roger, grave-eyed.

"O Hangman," said he, "where is thy noose?"

But Roger quailed and hung his head, and spake with eyes abased:

"Master, I burned it, together with my badge of service."

"And what would ye here?"

"Sir, I am a masterless man henceforth, for an I hang not men for Sir
Pertolepe, so will Sir Pertolepe assuredly hang me."

"And fear ye death?"

"Messire, I--have hanged many men and--there were women also! I have
cut me a tally here on my belt, see--there be many notches--and every
notch a life. So now for every life these hands have taken do I vow to
save a life an it may be so, and for every life saved would I cut away
a notch until my belt be smooth again and my soul the lighter."

"Why come ye to me, Black Roger?"

"For that this day, at dire peril, I saw thee save a fool, Master. So
now am I come to thee to be thy man henceforth, to follow and serve
thee while life remain."

"Why look now," quoth Beltane, "mine shall be a hard service and a
dangerous, for I have mighty wrongs to set aright."

"Ha! belike thou art under some vow also, master?"

"Aye, verily, nor will I rest until it be accomplished or I am slain.
For mark this, lonely am I, with enemies a many and strong, yet because
of my vow needs must I smite them hence or perish in the adventure.
Thus, he that companies me must go ever by desperate ways, and 'tis
like enough Death shall meet him in the road."

"Master," quoth Black Roger, "this day have ye shown me death yet given
me new life, so beseech thee let me serve thee henceforth and aid thee
in this thy vow."

Now hereupon Beltane smiled and reached forth his hand; then Black
Roger falling upon his knee, touched the hand to lip, and forehead and
heart, taking him for his lord henceforth, and spake the oath of
fealty: but when he would have risen, Beltane stayed him:

"What, Black Roger, thou hast sworn fealty and obedience to me--now
swear me this to God:--to hold ever, and abide by, thy word: to shew
mercy to the distressed and to shield the helpless at all times!"

And when he had sworn, Black Roger rose bright-eyed and eager.

"Lord," said he, "whither do we go?"

"Now," quoth Beltane, "shew me where I may eat, for I have a mighty
hunger."

"Forsooth," quoth Roger, scratching his chin, "Shallowford village
lieth but a bowshot through the brush yonder--yet, forsooth, a man
shall eat little there, methinks, these days."

"Why so?"

"For that 'twas burned down, scarce a week agone--"

"Burned!--and wherefore?"

"Lord Pertolepe fell out with his neighbour Sir Gilles of Brandonmere--
upon the matter of some wench, methinks it was--wherefore came Sir
Gilles' men by night and burned down Shallowford with twenty hunting
dogs of Sir Pertolepe's that chanced to be there: whereupon my lord
waxed mighty wroth and, gathering his company, came into the demesne of
Sir Gilles and burned down divers manors and hung certain rogues and
destroyed two villages--in quittance."

"Ah--and what of the village folk?"

"My lord, they were but serfs for the most part, but--for Sir
Pertolepe's dogs--twenty and two--and roasted alive, poor beasts!"

But here Black Roger checked both speech and stride, all at once, and
stood with quarter-staff poised as from the depth of the wood came the
sound of voices and fierce laughter.

"Come away, master," he whispered, "these should be Sir Pertolepe's
men, methinks."

But Beltane shook his head:

"I'm fain to see why they laugh," said he, and speaking, stole forward
soft-footed amid the shadows; and so presently parting the leaves,
looked down into an open dell or dingle full of the light of the rising
moon; light that glinted upon the steel caps and hauberks of some score
men, who leaned upon pike or gisarm about one who sat upon a fallen
tree--and Beltane saw that this was Giles the Bowman. But the arms of
Giles were bound behind his back, about his neck hung a noose, and his
face showed white and pallid 'neath the moon, as, lifting up his head,
he began to sing:

  "O ne'er shall my lust for the bowl decline,
   Nor my love for my good long bow;
   For as bow to the shaft and as bowl to the wine,
   Is a--"

The rich voice was strangled to a gasping sob as the rope was tightened
suddenly about the singer's brawny throat and he was swung, kicking,
into the air amid the hoarse gibes and laughter of the men-at-arms.
But, grim and silent, Beltane leaped down among them, his long blade
glittering in the moonlight, and before the mighty sweep of it they
fell back, crowding upon each other and confused; then Beltane,
turning, cut asunder the cord and Giles Brabblecombe fell and lay
'neath the shade of the tree, wheezing and whimpering in the grass.

And now with a clamour of cries and fierce rallying shouts, the
men-at-arms, seeing Beltane stand alone, set themselves in array and
began to close in upon him. But Beltane, facing them in the tender
moonlight, set the point of his sword to earth and reached out his
mailed hand in salutation.

"Greeting, brothers!" said he, "why seek ye the death of this our
brother? Come now, suffer him to go his ways in peace, and God's
blessing on ye, one and all."

Now at this some laughed and some growled, and one stood forth before
his fellows staring upon Beltane 'neath close-drawn, grizzled brows:

"'Tis a rogue, and shall dance for us upon a string!" laughed he.

"And this tall fellow with him!" said another.

"Aye, aye, let us hang 'em together," cried others.

"Stay!" said Beltane, "behold here money; so now will I ransom this
man's life of ye. Here be two pieces of gold, 'tis my all--yet take
them and yield me his life!"

Hereupon the men fell to muttering together doubtfully, but in this
moment the grizzled man of a sudden raised a knotted fist and shook it
in the air.

"Ha!" cried he, pointing to Beltane, "look ye, Cuthbert, Rollo--see ye
not 'tis him we seek? Mark ye the size of him, his long sword and belt
of silver--'tis he that came upon us in the green this day and slew our
comrade Michael. Come now, let us hang him forthwith and share his
money betwixt us after."

Then my Beltane sighed amain, and sighing, unsheathed his dagger.

"Alas!" said he, "and must we shed each other's blood forsooth? Come
then, let us slay each other, and may Christ have pity on our souls!"

Thus saying, he glanced up at the pale splendour of the moon, and round
him on the encircling shadows of the woods dense and black beneath the
myriad leaves, and so, quick-eyed and poised for action, waited for the
rush.

And, even as they came upon him, he sprang aside where the gloom lay
blackest, and they being many and the clearing small, they hampered
each other and fell into confusion; and, in that moment, Beltane leapt
among them and smote, and smote again, now in the moonlight, now in
shadow; leaping quick-footed from the thrust of sword and pike,
crouching 'neath the heavy swing of axe and gisarm; and ever his
terrible blade darted with deadly point or fell with deep-biting edge.
Hands gripped at him from the gloom, arms strove to clasp him, but his
dagger-hand was swift and strong. Pike heads leapt at him and were
smitten away, axe and gisarm struck, yet found him not, and ever, as he
leapt, he smote. And now in his ears were cries and groans and other
hateful sounds, and to his nostrils came a reek of sweating flesh and
the scent of trampled grass; while the moon's tender light showed faces
wild and fierce, that came and went, now here--now there; it glinted on
head-piece and ringed mail, and flashed back from whirling steel--a
round, placid moon that seemed, all at once, to burst asunder and
vanish, smitten into nothingness. He was down--beaten to his knee,
deafened and half blind, but struggling to his feet he staggered out
from the friendly shadow of the trees, out into the open. A sword,
hard-driven, bent and snapped short upon his triple mail, the blow of a
gisarm half stunned him, a goring pike-thrust drove him reeling back,
yet, ringed in by death, he thrust and smote with failing arm. Axe and
pike, sword and gisarm hedged him in nearer and nearer, his sword grew
suddenly heavy and beyond his strength to wield, but stumbling,
slipping, dazed and with eyes a-swim, he raised the great blade aloft,
and lifting drooping head, cried aloud the battle-cry of his house--
high and clear it rang above the din:

"Arise! Arise! I will arise!"

And even in that moment came one in answer to the cry, one that leapt
to his right hand, a wild man and hairy who plied a gleaming axe and,
'twixt each stroke, seemed, from hairy throat, to echo back the cry:

"Arise! Arise!"

And now upon his left was Black Roger, fierce-eyed behind his buckler.
Thereafter a voice hailed them as from far away, a sweet, deep voice,
cheery and familiar as one heard aforetime in a dream, and betwixt
every sentence came the twang of swift-drawn bow-string.

"O tall brother, fall back! O gentle paladin, O fair flower of lusty
fighters, fall back and leave the rest to our comrades, to me and my
good bow, here!"

So, dazed and breathless, came Beltane on stumbling feet and leaned him
gasping in the shadow of a great tree whereby stood Giles o' the Bow
with arrows planted upright in the sod before him, the which he
snatched and loosed so fast 'twas a wonder to behold. Of a sudden he
uttered a shout and, setting by his bow, drew sword, and leaping from
the shadow, was gone.

But, as for Beltane, he leaned a while against the tree as one who is
very faint; yet soon, lifting heavy head, wondered at the hush of all
things, and looking toward the clearing saw it empty and himself alone;
therefore turned he thitherwards. Now as he went he stumbled and his
foot struck a something soft and yielding that rolled before him in the
shadow out--out into the full brilliance of the moon, and looking down,
he beheld a mangled head that stared up at him wide-eyed and with mouth
agape. Then Beltane let fall his reeking sword and staggering out into
the light, saw his bright mail befouled with clotted blood, and of a
sudden the world went black about him and he fell and lay with his face
among the trampled grass.

In a while he groaned and opened his eyes to find Black Roger bathing
his face what time Giles o' the Bow held wine to his lips, while at his
feet, a wild figure grim and ragged, stood a tall, hairy man leaning
upon a blood-stained axe.

"Aha!" cried the bowman. "Come now, my lovely fighter, my gentle giant,
sup this--'tis life, and here behold a venison steak fit for Duke Ivo's
self, come--"

"Nay, first," says Beltane, sitting up, "are there many hurt?"

"Aye, never fear for that, my blood-thirsty dove, they be all most
completely dead save one, and he sore wounded, _laus Deo, amen!_"

"Dead!" cried Beltane, shivering, "dead, say you?"

"Aye, Sir Paladin, all sweetly asleep in Abraham's bosom. We three here
accounted for some few betwixt us, the rest fell 'neath that great
blade o' thine. O sweet Saint Giles! ne'er saw I such sword-work--point
and edge, sa-ha! And I called thee--dove!--aye 'dove' it was, I mind
me. O blind and worse than blind! But _experientia docet_, tall
brother!"

Now hereupon Beltane bowed his head and clasping his hands, wrung them.

"Sweet Jesu forgive me!" he cried, "I had not meant to slay so many!"

Then he arose and went apart and, kneeling among the shadows, prayed
long and fervently.



CHAPTER XI

WHICH TELLS HOW THREE MIGHTY MEN SWARE FEALTY TO BELTANE: AND HOW GOOD
FRIAR MARTIN DIGGED A GRAVE IN THE WILD


Now when Beltane's mighty hunger was assuaged he sat--his aching head
yet ringing with the blow--and stared up at the moon, sad and wistful-eyed
as one full of heaviness the while Black Roger standing beside him
gazed askance at the archer who sat near by whistling softly and busied
with certain arrows, cleaning and trimming them ere he set them back in
his quiver. And presently Black Roger spake softly, low-stooping to
Beltane's ear:

"Lord, we have saved the life of yon prating archer-fellow, and behold
my belt lacketh for one notch, which is well. So come, let us go our
ways, thou and I, for I love not your talkers, and this fellow hath
overmuch to say."

But now, ere Beltane could make reply, came the hairy man--but behold
his rags had given place to fair garments of tanned leather (albeit
something small) together with steel cap and shirt of ringed mail, and,
about his middle, a broad belt where swung a heavy sword; being come to
Beltane he paused leaning upon his axe, and gazed upon him fierce-eyed:

"Messire," said he, "who ye are I know not, what ye are I care not, for
art quick of foot and mighty of arm, and when ye fight, cry a point of
war, a battle-shout I knew aforetime ere they enslaved and made of me a
serf--and thus it is I would follow thee."

Quoth Beltane, his aching head upon his hand:

"Whither?"

"To death if needs be, for a man must die soon or late, yet die but
once whether it be by the steel, or flame, or rope. So what matter the
way of it, if I may stand with this my axe face to face with Gilles of
Brandonmere, or Red Pertolepe of Garthlaxton Keep: 'twas for this I
followed his foresters."

"Who and whence are you?"

"Walkyn o' the Dene they call me hereabouts--though I had another name
once--but 'twas long ago, when I marched, a lad, 'neath the banner of
Beltane the Strong!"

"What talk be this?" grunted Black Roger, threatening of mien, "my lord
and I be under a vow and must begone, and want no runaway serf crawling
at our heels!"

"Ha!" quoth Walkyn, "spake I to thee, hangman? Forsooth, well do I know
thee, Roger the Black: come ye into the glade yonder, so will I split
thy black poll for thee--thou surly dog!"

Forth leapt Black Roger's sword, back swung Walkyn's glittering axe,
but Beltane was between, and, as they stood thus came Giles o' the Bow:

"Oho!" he laughed, "must ye be at it yet? Have we not together slain of
Sir Pertolepe's foresters a round score?--"

"'Twas but nineteen!" growled Roger, frowning at Walkyn.

"So will I make of this hangman the twentieth!" said Walkyn, frowning
at Roger.

"'Tis a sweet thought," laughed the archer, "to it, lads, and slay each
other as soon as ye may, and my blessings on ye. As for us, Sir
Paladin, let us away--'tis true we together might give check to an
army, yet, minding Sir Pertolepe's nineteen foresters, 'twere wiser to
hie us from Sir Pertolepe's country for the nonce: so march, tall
brother--march!"

"Ha!" snarled Walkyn, "fear ye Red Pertolepe yet, bowman? Well, we want
ye not, my lord and I, he hath a sword and I an axe--they shall suffice
us, mayhap, an Pertolepe come. So hie thee hence with the hangman and
save thy rogue's skin."

"And may ye dangle in a noose yet for a prating do-nothing!" growled
Roger.

"Oho!" laughed Giles, with a flash of white teeth, "a hangman and a
serf--must I slay both?" But, ere he could draw sword, came a voice
from the shadows near by--a deep voice, clear and very sweet:

"Oh, children," said the voice, "oh, children of God, put up your
steel and pray for one whose white soul doth mount e'en now to heaven!"
and forth into the light came one clad as a white friar--a tall man and
slender, and upon his shoulder he bare a mattock that gleamed beneath
the moon. His coarse, white robe, frayed and worn, was stained with
earth and the green of grass, and was splashed, here and there, with a
darker stain; pale was he, and hollow-cheeked, but with eyes that
gleamed 'neath black brows and with chin long and purposeful. Now at
sight of him, fierce-eyed Walkyn cried aloud and flung aside his axe
and, falling on his knees, caught the friar's threadbare robe and
kissed it.

"Good brother!" he groaned, "O, gentle brother Martin, pity me!"

"What, Walkyn?" quoth the friar. "What do ye thus equipped and so far
from home?"

"Home have I none, henceforth, O my father."

"Ah! What then of thy wife, Truda--of thy little son?"

"Dead, my father. Red Pertolepe's men slew them this day within the
green. So, when I had buried them, I took my axe and left them with
God: yet shall my soul go lonely, methinks, until my time be come."

Then Friar Martin reached out his hand and laid it upon Walkyn's bowed
head: and, though the hand was hard and toil-worn, the touch of it was
ineffably gentle, and he spake with eyes upraised to heaven:

"O Christ of Pity, look down upon this stricken soul, be Thou his stay
and comfort. Teach him, in his grief and sorrow, to pity the woes of
others, that, in comforting his fellows, he may himself find comfort."

Now when the prayer was ended he turned and looked upon the others,
and, beholding Beltane in his might and glittering mail, he spake,
saluting him as one of rank.

"Sir Knight," said he, "do these men follow thee?"

"Aye, verily," cried the archer, "that do I in sooth--_Verbum sat
sapienti_--good friar."

"Not so," growled Roger, "'tis but a pestilent archer that seeketh but
base hire. I only am my lord's man, sworn to aid him in his vow." "I
also," quoth Walkyn, "an so my lord wills?"

"So shall it be," sighed Beltane, his hand upon his throbbing brow.

"And what have ye in mind to do?"

"Forsooth," cried Giles, "to fight, good friar, _manibus pedibusque_."

"To obey my lord," said Roger, "and speak good Saxon English."

"To adventure my body in battle with joyful heart," quoth Walkyn.

"To make an end of tyranny!" sighed Beltane.

"Alas!" said the friar, "within this doleful Duchy be tyrants a many,
and ye are but four, meseemeth; yet if within your hearts be room for
pity--follow me, and I will show you a sight, mayhap shall nerve you
strong as giants. Come!"

So Beltane followed the white friar with the three upon his heels who
wrangled now no more; and in a while the friar paused beside a new-digged
grave.

"Behold," said he, "the bed where we, each one, must sleep some day,
and yet 'tis cold and hard, methinks, for one so young and tender!" So
saying he sighed, and turning, brought them to a hut near by, an humble
dwelling of mud and wattles, dim-lighted by a glimmering rush. But,
being come within the hut Beltane stayed of a sudden and held his
breath, staring wide-eyed at that which lay so still: then, baring his
head, sank upon his knees.

She lay outstretched upon a bed of fern, and looked as one that sleeps
save for the deathly pallor of her cheek and still and pulseless bosom:
and she was young, and of a wondrous, gentle beauty.

"Behold," said the friar, "but one short hour agone this was alive--a
child of God, pure of heart and undefiled. These gentle hands lie
stilled forever: this sweet, white body (O shame of men!) blasted by
brutality, maimed and torn--is nought but piteous clay to moulder in
the year. Yet doth her radiant soul lie on the breast of God forever,
since she, for honour, died the death--Behold!" So saying, the friar
with sudden hand laid bare the still and marble bosom; and, beholding
the red horror wrought there by cruel steel, Beltane rose up, and
taking off his cloak, therewith reverently covered the pale, dead
beauty of her, and so stood awhile with eyes close shut and spake,
soft-voiced and slow, 'twixt pallid lips:

"How--came this--thing?"

"She was captive to Sir Pertolepe, by him taken in a raid, and he would
have had her to his will: yet, by aid of my lord's jester, she escaped
and fled hither. But Sir Pertolepe's foresters pursued and took her
and--so is she dead: may God requite them!"

"Amen!" quoth Giles o' the Bow, hoarse-voiced, "so do they all lie dead
within the green!"

"Save one!" said Roger.

"But he sore wounded!" quoth Walkyn.

"How!" cried the friar aghast, "have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe's
foresters?"

"Nineteen!" nodded Roger, grimly.

"Alas!" cried the friar, "may God save the poor folk hereabouts, for
now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them."

"Then," said Beltane, "then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe."

Now when he said this, Black Roger stared agape and even the archer's
tongue failed him for once; but Walkyn smiled and gripped his axe.

"Art mad, tall brother!" cried Giles at length, "Sir Pertolepe would
hang thee out of hand, or throw thee to his dogs!"

"Lord," said Roger, "Sir Pertolepe hath ten score men-at-arms in
Garthlaxton, beside bowmen and foresters."

"There should be good work for mine axe!" smiled Walkyn.

"None the less must I speak with him," said Beltane, and turned him to
the door.

"Then will I die with thee, lord," growled Roger.

"So will I come and watch thee die--hangman, and loose a shaft or two
on mine own account!"

But now, of a sudden, Walkyn raised a warning hand.

"Hark!" said he: and, in a while, as they listened, upon the stillness
came a rustle of leaves and thereafter a creeping step drawing slowly
nearer: then swift and soft-treading, Walkyn stole out into the
shadows.

Very soon he returned, leading a woman, pale and haggard, who clasped
a babe within her threadbare cloak; her eyes were red and sore with
much weeping and upon the threshold she paused as one in sudden fear,
but espying the friar, she uttered a cry:

"O Father Martin--good father--pray, pray for the soul of him who is
father to my child, but who at dawn must die with many others upon my
lord Duke's great gallows!"

"Alas!" cried the friar, wringing his hands, "what news is this?"

"O good friar," sobbed the woman, "my lord's hand hath been so heavy
upon us of late--so heavy: and there came messengers from Thrasfordham
in Bourne bidding us thither with fair promises:--and my father, being
head of our village, hearkened to them and we made ready to cross into
Bourne. But my lord came upon us and burned our village of Shallowford
and lashed my father with whips and thereafter hanged him, and took my
man and many others and cast them into the great dungeon at Belsaye--
and with the dawn they must hang upon the Duke's great gallows."

So she ended and stood weeping as one that is hopeless and weary. But
of a sudden she screamed and pointed at Black Roger with her finger:

"'Tis Roger!" she cried, "'tis Black Roger, that slew my father!"

Then Roger the Black groaned and hid his face within his arm and shrank
before the woman's outstretched finger and, groaning, cowered to his
knees; whereupon the archer turned his back and spat upon the floor
while Walkyn glared and fingered his great axe: but in this moment my
Beltane came beside him and laid his hand on Roger's stooping shoulder.

"Nay," said he, "this is my friend henceforth, a man among men, who
liveth to do great things as thus: To-night he will give back to thee
the father of thy child, and break open the dungeon of Belsaye!"

Thus spake my Beltane while all stared at his saying and held their
peace because of their amaze: only Black Roger turned of a sudden and
caught his hand and kissed it savagely.

"Sir," said the woman, peering up in Beltane's face, "Lord--ah, would
ye mock the weak and helpless--"

"Nay," said Beltane gently, "as God seeth me, to-night the prisoners
shall go free, or this man and I die with them. So now be comforted--go
you to Bourne, to Sir Benedict within Thrasfordham Keep, and say you
come from Beltane, Duke of Pentavalon, who swore thee, by the honour of
the Duke Beltane his father, that never again shall a man hang from the
great gallows of Black Ivo the usurper--from this night it shall cease
to be!"

Now would the woman have knelt and kissed his hand, but Beltane smiled
and brought her to the door. Then, wondering and amazed, she made her
obeisance to Beltane and with her babe clasped to her bosom went forth
into the night. Thereafter Beltane turned and looked grave-eyed upon
the three.

"My masters," quoth he, "ye have heard my words, how this night I go to
take down Black Ivo's great gallows. Come ye with me? Aye or no?"

"Aye, lord!" cried the three in one acclaim.

"Do ye then stand with me henceforth 'gainst Black Ivo and all his
might? Aye or no?"

"Aye, lord!" cried they again.

Then Beltane smiled and drew his sword and came to them, the great
blade gleaming in his hand.

"'Tis well!" said he, "but first come now and lay your hands here upon
my sword and swear me this, each one,--To follow ever where I shall
lead, to abide henceforth in brotherhood together, to smite evil within
you and without, to be pitiful to the weak, and to honour God at all
times."

Then did the three, being upon their knees, lay their hands upon the
sword and swear the oath as Beltane commanded; now came the white friar
and stared upon the sword and beholding the motto graven in the steel,
lifted up his hand to heaven and cried aloud:--

"Now greeting and fair greeting to thee, lord Duke, may thy body be
strong for war and thy head wise in the council, for Pentavalon hath
dire need of thee, Beltane, son of Duke Beltane the Strong. Moreover I
was sent to thee by Sir Benedict of Bourne who bids thee 'Arise and
follow' for that the time is at hand."

"How," cried Beltane, "art thou indeed from Sir Benedict?"

"Even so, lord. In Thrasfordham be seven hundred chosen men-at-arms,
and within Bourne, mayhap a thousand more. It is become a haven for
those that flee from tyranny and bitter wrong. As for me, I journey
where I will within the Duchy, serving the poor and ministering to the
broken-hearted, and everywhere is black sin and suffering and death. So
now in the name of these oppressed do I give thee welcome to this thy
sorrowful Duchy, and may God make of thee Duke indeed!"

Quoth Beltane:

"Duke am I in blood and Duke will I yet be in very sooth an God so will
it." Then turning to the three, who stood hearkening open-mouthed and
wide of eye, he smiled and reached to them his hand.

"Good friends," said he, "knowing nought of me yet were ye willing to
follow my fortunes. For this do I thank ye one and all, and so shall my
fortune, high or low, be thine, henceforth. To-day is Ivo Duke, and I
thy companion-in-arms, no more, no less--this, I pray you all,
remember."

So saying, Beltane sheathed his sword and beholding Friar Martin on his
knees beside that muffled figure, he knelt also, and the three with
him. Thereafter at a sign from the friar, Beltane stooped and raised
this slender, shrouded figure in his arms and reverently bore it out
into the shadows.

And there, all in the tender radiance of the moon, they buried her
whose name they never knew, and stood a while in silence. Then,
pointing to the new-turned earth, Friar Martin spake soft-voiced:

"Lo, here--in but a little time, wild flowers shall bloom above her--
yet none purer or sweeter than she! In a little shall the grass be
green again, and she sleep here forgot by all--save God! And God, my
brothers, is a gentle God and very pitiful--so now do we leave her in
God's abiding care."

And presently they turned, soft-footed, and went upon their way leaving
the place to solitude.

But from the vault of heaven the stars looked down upon that lonely
grave like the watching eyes of holy angels.



CHAPTER XII

WHICH TELLS HOW DUKE IVO'S GREAT GALLOWS CEASED TO BE


Scarce a mile without the walls of the fair city of Belsaye my lord
Duke had builded him a great gallows, had set it high upon a hill for
all the world to see; from whose lofty cross-beams five score rogues
had hanged ere now, had writhed and kicked their lives away and rotted
there in company, that all the world might know how potent was the
anger of my lord Duke Ivo.

Day in, day out, from rosy morn till dewy eve, it frowned upon Belsaye,
a thing of doom whose grim sight should warn rebellious townsfolk to
dutiful submission; by night it loomed, a dim-seen, brooding horror,
whose loathsome reek should mind them how all rogues must end that
dared lift hand or voice against my lord Duke, or those proud barons,
lords, and knights who, by his pleasure, held their fiefs with rights
of justice, the high, the middle and the low.

Day in, day out, the men of Belsaye eyed it askance 'neath scowling
brows and, by night, many a clenched hand was shaken and many a
whispered malediction sped, toward that thing of doom that menaced them
from the dark.

To-night the moon was full, and thus, following Friar Martin's bony
outstretched finger, Beltane of a sudden espied afar the Duke's great
gallows, rising grisly and stark against the moon's round splendour. So
for a space, standing yet within the shade of the woods, Beltane stared
fierce-eyed, the while Giles, with Roger at his elbow, pointed out
divers shapes that dangled high in air, at sight of which the friar
knelt with bowed head and lips that moved in prayer: and Walkyn,
scowling, muttered in his beard.

"Messire," said the archer, "my lord Duke's gallows is great and very
strong, and we but five all told!"

"I have mine axe!" quoth Walkyn.

"Had we fifty axes we scarce should bring it down ere dawn: moreover,
the night is very still and sounds carry far--"

"Nathless," quoth Roger, "to-night we surely shall destroy it--my lord
hath said so."

"Aye--but how?" questioned Giles. "In Belsaye is that pale fox Sir Gui
of Allerdale with many trusty men-at-arms to hold the town for Black
Ivo and teach Belsaye its duty: how may we destroy my lord Duke's
gallows 'neath the very beards of my lord Duke's garrison, wilt tell me
that, my good, Black Rogerkin?"

"Aye," nodded Roger, "that will I--when I have asked my lord." So
saying, he came and touched Beltane and humbly put the question.

Then, with his gaze yet upon the gallows, Beltane sighed and answered:

"There hath been no rain for weeks, look you: the underbrush is dry,
methinks, and should burn well!"

"Aye, for sure," said Roger, "we shall burn Black Ivo's gallows to
ashes, bowman, and a good end 'twill be."

"By fire!" cried the archer, aghast, "but lord, so soon as they shall
see the flames, Sir Gui and his men will sally out upon us!"

"Nay," said Beltane, "for we shall sally in."

"Into Belsaye, mean you, lord?"

"Certes," answered Beltane, "how else may we break open the dungeon?
The night is young yet, but we have much to do--follow!" So saying,
Beltane turned and keeping ever within the shadow of the trees, set off
towards that distant hill where stood the gallows, black against the
moon.

Swiftly they went and for the most part in silence, for Beltane's mind
was busied upon many matters.

So betimes they climbed the hill and stood at last beneath the gallows,
and, glancing up, Beltane beheld noisome shapes, black and shrivelled,
that once had lived and laughed. Forthwith he drew his sword and fell
to cutting down the brush, whereat friar Martin, girding up his frock,
took Walkyn's sword and fell to likewise.

Now, as Beltane laboured thus, he was suddenly aware of a wild and
ragged figure, the which started up before him as if from the very
ground. An old man he was, bent with years, yet with eyes that burned
fierce and undimmed 'neath hoary brows, and shrivelled hands that
gripped upon a rusty sword.

"Who are ye," he cried, harsh-voiced, "who are ye that disturb this
woeful place? 'Tis here that men are dragged to die--and, being dead,
do hang i' the air to rot and rot--and thereby hangs a tale of wolves
that howl and birds that shriek, aha!--carrion crows and hook-billed
kites--they be well gorged since Ivo came. 'Caw!' they cry, 'caw!'--
soft child's flesh and the flesh of tender maids--aha!--I know--I've
watched--I've seen! Ah! since my lord Duke Beltane died, what sights
these eyes have seen!"

"Old man," quoth Beltane, bending near, "who art thou?"

"I am the ghost that haunts this place, but, ages since, I was Sir
Robert Bellesme of Garthlaxton Keep. But my wife they slew, my daughter
ravished from me--and my son--Ah! Christ--my son! They hanged him here
--yonder he hung, and I, his father, watched him die. But, by night,
when all was still, I crept hither and found a hole to shelter me. And
here I stayed to watch over him--my son who hung so quiet and so still.
And the rough wind buffeted him, the cruel rain lashed him, and the hot
sun scorched him, but still he hung there, so high!--so high! Yet I
waited, for the strongest rope will break in time. And upon a moony
night, he fell, and I gathered him in my arms, close here against my
heart, and buried him--where none can know--save God. Many others have
I buried also, for the strongest cords must break in time! And folk do
say the devil bears them hence, since none are ever found--but I know
where they lie--six hundred and seventy and nine--I know--these hands
have buried them and I have kept a tally. Ah!--but you, gentle youth,
what would ye here?"

"Burn down the gallows," said Beltane, "'tis an accursed thing, so
shall it shame earth and heaven no longer."

"How!--how!" cried the ancient man, letting fall his rusty sword,
"Destroy Black Ivo's gibbet? Dare ye--dare ye such a thing indeed? Are
there men with souls unconquered yet? Methought all such were old, or
dead, or fled away--dare ye this, youth?"

"Aye," nodded Beltane. "Watch now!" and hereupon he, together with the
others, fell to hewing down the dry brush with might and main, and
piling it about the gibbet's massy beams, while the ancient man,
perched upon a rock hard by, watched them 'neath his shaggy brows and
laughed soft and shrill.

"Aha!" he cried, "the fire ye kindle here shall set the Duchy in a
flame mayhap, to burn Black Ivo with Gui of Allerdale and Red
Pertolepe--mayhap! For them, fire on earth and flame in hell--aha! To
burn the gibbet! 'tis well bethought: so shall carrion kite and jay go
light-bellied hereabouts, mayhap, oho! 'Caw,' they shall cry, 'Caw--
give us to eat--fair white flesh!' Yet how may they eat when the
gallows is no more?"

Thus spake he with shrill laughter while Beltane laboured until the
sweat ran from him, while Walkyn's great axe flashed and fell near by
and steel glittered among the underbrush that clothed the slopes of the
hill.

Very soon they had stacked great piles of kindling about the gallows'
weather-beaten timbers--twigs below, faggots above--cunningly ordered
and higher than Beltane's head. Now as Beltane leaned upon his sword to
wipe the sweat from his eyes, came Roger and Walkyn yet panting from
their labour.

"Master," said Roger, "they should burn well, I trow, and yet--"

"And yet," quoth Walkyn, "these beams be thick: methinks, when the
others go, one man should stay to tend the fires until the flame gets
fair hold--"

"And that man I!" said Roger.

"No, no," frowned Walkyn, "an one of us must die, it shall be me--"

But now came the ancient man, leaning upon his ancient weapon.

"No, children," said he, "'tis for age to die--death is sweet to the
old and weary: so will I tend the fire. Yet, beseech thee, grant me
this: that these my hands shall fire the gallows whereon they hanged my
son, long ago: young was he, and tall--scarce yet a man--they hanged
him yonder, so high--so high--so far beyond my care: and the carrion
birds--kites, see you, and crows--and the wind and rain and dark--Ah,
God! my son! I am but an old man and feeble, yet, beseech thee, let
this be the hand to fire Black Ivo's gibbet!"

Then Beltane took from his pouch flint and steel and tinder and gave
them to the old man's trembling fingers as Giles o' the Bow came
running with the stalwart friar behind him.

So, while the five stood hushed and wide of eye, the old man knelt
before them in his rags and struck flint to steel. Once he struck, and
twice--and behold a spark that leapt to a small flame that died to a
glow; but now, flat upon his belly lay Giles and, pursing his lips,
puffed and blew until the glow brightened, spread, and burst into a
crackling flame that leapt from twig to twig. And when the fire waxed
hot, Beltane took thence a glowing brand, and, coming to the other
great pile, fired it therewith. Up rose the flames high and higher
until they began to lick, pale-tongued, about the gibbet's two great
supporting timbers, and ever as they rose, Walkyn and Roger, Giles and
the friar, laboured amain, stacking logs near by wherewith to feed the
fires.

"Enough," said Beltane at last, "it shall suffice, methinks."

"Suffice?" cried the old man, his eyes bright in the ruddy glow, "aye,
it shall suffice, sweet boy. See--see, the timbers catch e'en now. Ha!
burn, good fire--eat, hungry flame! O, happy sight--would my dear son
were here--they hanged his fair young body, but his soul--Ha, his
soul! O souls of hanged men--O spirits of the dead, come about me, ye
ghosts of murdered youth, come and behold the gibbet burn whereon ye
died. What--are ye there, amid the smoke, so soon? Come then, let us
dance together and trip it lightly to and fro--merrily, merrily! Hey
boy, so ho then--so ho, and away we go!" Hereupon, tossing up gaunt
arms, the old man fell to dancing and capering amid the sparks and
rolling smoke, filling the air with wild talk and gabbling high-pitched
laughter that rose above the roar of the fires. And so in a while
Beltane, sighing, turned and led the way down the hill towards the
glooming shadow of the woods; but ever as they went the flames waxed
fiercer behind them and the madman's laughter shrilled upon the air.

Swift-footed they plunged into the underbrush and thus hidden began to
close in upon Belsaye town. And of a sudden they heard a cry, and
thereafter the shattering blare of a trumpet upon the walls. And now
from within the waking city rose a confused sound, a hum that grew
louder and ever more loud, pierced by shout and trumpet-blast while
high above this growing clamour the tocsin pealed alarm.

Thus, in a while the trembling citizens of Belsaye, starting from their
slumber, stared in pallid amaze beholding afar a great and fiery gibbet
whose flames, leaping heavenward, seemed to quench the moon.



CHAPTER XIII

HOW THEY BRAKE OPE THE DUNGEON OF BELSAYE


Being yet in the shade of the woods, Beltane paused, hearkening to the
distant uproar of Belsaye town and watching the torches that hovered
upon its walls and the cressets that glowed on tower and bartizan.

"Messire Beltane," quoth the friar, setting his rumpled frock in order,
"are ye minded still to adventure breaking ope the dungeon of Belsaye?"

"Aye, verily!" nodded Beltane. "Know you the city, good friar?"

"That do I, my brother: every lane and street, every hole and corner of
it--'twas there I first drew breath. A fair, rich city, freed by
charter long ago--but now, alas, its freedom snatched away, its ancient
charter gone, it bleeds 'neath a pale-cheeked tyrant's sway--a pallid
man who laughs soft-voiced to see men die, and smiles upon their
anguish. O Belsaye, grievous are thy wrongs since Ivo came five years
agone and gave thee up to pillage and to ravishment. O hateful day! O
day of shame! What sights I saw--what sounds I heard--man-groans and
screams of women to rend high heaven and shake the throne of God,
methinks. I see--I hear them yet, and must forever. Jesu, pity!" and
leaning against a tree near by, the stalwart friar shivered violently
and hid his eyes.

"Why, good brother Martin," said Beltane, setting an arm about him,
"doth memory pain thee so, indeed? good Brother Martin, be comforted--"

"Nay, nay--'tis past, but--O my son, I--had a sister!" said the good
friar, and groaned. Yet in a while he raised his head and spake again:
"And when Duke Ivo had wrought his will upon the city, he builded the
great gibbet yonder and hanged it full with men cheek by jowl, and left
Sir Gui the cruel with ten score chosen men for garrison. But the men
of Belsaye have stubborn memories; Sir Gui and his butchers slumber in
a false security, for stern men are they and strong, and wait but God's
appointed time. Pray God that time be soon!"

"Amen!" said Beltane. Now, even as he spake came the sound of a distant
tucket, the great gates of Belsaye swung wide, and forth rode a company
of men-at-arms, their bascinets agleam 'neath the moon.

"Now!" spake the friar, "and you are for Belsaye, my brother, follow
me; I know a way--albeit a moist way and something evil--but an you
will follow,--come!" So saying Friar Martin set off among the trees,
and Beltane, beckoning to the others, followed close. Fast strode the
friar, his white robe fluttering on before, through moonlight and
shadow, until they reached a brook or freshet that ran bubbling betwixt
flowery banks; beside this strode the tall friar, following its winding
course, until before them, amid the shadow--yet darker than the shadow
--loomed high an embattled flanking tower of the walls of Belsaye town;
but ever before them flitted the friar's white gown, on and on until
the freshet became a slow-moving river, barring their advance--a broad
river that whispered among the reeds on the one side and lapped against
rugged wall on the other.

Here the friar stayed to glance from gloomy wall and turret to fast
waning moon on their left, then, girding up his gown, he stepped down
into the reeds, and a moment later they saw him--to their amaze--
fording the river that flowed scarce knee deep.

So, needfully, Beltane followed, and, stepping into the water found his
feet upon a narrow causeway cunningly devised. Thus, slowly and
carefully, because of the flowing of the water, they came betimes to
where the friar waited in the shadow of the massy wall; yet, even as
they came near, the friar waved his arm, stooped--and was gone; whereon
my Beltane stared amazed and the three muttered uneasily behind him.
But, coming nearer, Beltane espied above the hurrying waters the curve
of an arch or tunnel, and pointing it to the others, took a great
breath and, stooping beneath the water, stumbled on and on until it
shallowed, and he was free to breathe again.

On he went, through water now breast-high, with slimy walls above him
and around, seeing naught by reason of the pitchy blackness, and
hearing only the smothered splash of those behind, and gasping breaths
that boomed hollow in the dark. Yet presently he saw a gleam before him
that broadened with each step, and, of a sudden, was out beneath the
sky--a narrow strip wherein stars twinkled, and so beheld again friar
Martin's white frock flitting on, ghost-like, before. In a while he
brought them to a slimy stair, and climbing this, with ever growing
caution, they found themselves at last beneath the frowning shadow of
the citadel within the walls of Belsaye town. Now, looking north,
Beltane beheld afar a fiery gallows that flamed to heaven, and from the
town thitherward came a confused hum of the multitude who watched; but
hereabouts the town seemed all deserted.

"The dungeons lie beneath our feet," whispered Friar Martin. "Come!"

So, keeping ever in the shadow of the great square keep, they went on,
soft-treading and alert of eye till, being come to the angle of the
wall, the friar stayed of a sudden and raised a warning hand. Then came
Beltane with Walkyn close behind, and peering over the friar's broad
shoulders, they beheld a sentinel who stood with his back to them,
leaning on his spear, to watch the burning gallows, his chain-mail
agleam and his head-piece glittering as he stirred lazily in time to
the merry lilt he sang softly.

Then, or ever Beltane could stay him, Walkyn o' the Dene laid by his
axe, and, his soaked shoes soundless upon the stones, began to steal
upon the unconscious singer, who yet lolled upon his spear some thirty
paces away. With great body bowed forward and hairy fingers crooked,
Walkyn stole upon him; six paces he went, ten--twenty--twenty-five--
the soldier ceased his humming, stood erect and turned about; and
Walkyn leapt--bore him backward down into the shadow--a shadow wherein
their bodies writhed and twisted silently awhile. When Walkyn rose out
of the shadow and beckoned them on.

So, following ever the friar's lead, they came to a narrow doorway
that gave upon a small guard-room lighted by a smoking torch socketed
to the wall. The place was empty, save for a medley of arms stacked in
corners, wherefore, treading cautiously, the friar led them a-down a
narrow passage and so to a second and larger chamber where burned a
fire of logs. Upon the walls hung shining head-pieces; cloaks and
mantles lay where they had been flung on bench and floor, but none was
there to give them let or hindrance. Then Friar Martin took a torch
that smoked near by, and, crossing to the hearth, reached down a massy
key from the wall, and with this in his hand, came to a door half
hidden in a corner, beyond which were steps that wound downwards into
the dark, a darkness close and dank, and heavy with corruption.

But on went the friar--his torch lighting the way--down and ever down
until they trod a narrow way 'twixt reeking walls, where breathed an
air so close and foul the very torch languished. At length the friar
stopped before a mighty door, thick-banded with iron bars and with
massy bolts, and while Beltane held the torch, he fitted key to lock
and thereafter the great door swung on screaming hinge and showed a
dungeon beyond--a place foul and noisome, where divers pale-faced
wretches lay or crouched, blinking in the torch's glare.

"What?" cried one, coming to his feet, a squat broad-shouldered man--
"be this the dawn so soon? Well, we be ready, better to hang i' the
clean air than rot in a dungeon, say I. So we be ready, eh, my
brothers?"

But now, some groaned and wept and others laughed, while yet others got
them to their knees, bowed of head and silent. Then went in the friar
to them and laid his hands upon the squat man's shoulder and spake him
gently.

"And is it Osric," said he. "Day is not yet, my son, nor with the day
shalt thou die nor any here, an ye be silent all and follow where we
lead, soft-footed, so will we bring you to God's good world again.
Rise, then, each one, speak nothing, but follow!"

So then did these men, snatched of a sudden from the horror of death to
the hope of new life, follow on stumbling feet, out from the noisome
gloom of the dungeon, out from the clammy air breathing of death, up
the narrow winding stair; and with each step came strength and manhood.
Thus as they strode forth of the frowning keep, each man bore sword or
gisarm. So, with breath in cheek, but hearts high-beating, they came
one and all, to where the slimy stair led down into the gloom. Yet here
Friar Martin paused, sighing, to look behind, whence rose the distant
hum of those thronging townsfolk who yet crowded wall and street and
market square to watch the gallows burn.

"Now sweet Christ shield ye, good people of Belsaye!" he sighed.

"What mean ye, my brother?" questioned Beltane.

"Alas! my son," groaned the friar, "I needs must think upon the coming
day and of the vengeance of Sir Gui for this our work!"

"His vengeance, friar?"

"There will be torture and death busy hereabouts tomorrow, my son,
for, the prisoners being gone, so will Sir Gui vent his anger on the
townsfolk--'tis ever his custom--"

"Ha!" quoth my Beltane, knitting his brows, "I had not thought on
this!"--and with the word, he turned him back, drawing on his hood of
mail.

"Come, lord," whispered Black Roger in his ear, "let us be going while
yet we may."

"Aye, come, my son," spake the friar, low-voiced. "Tarry not, Belsaye
is in the hand of God! Nay, what would you?"

"I must go back," said Beltane, loosening sword in scabbard, "for needs
must I this night have word with Gui of Allerdale."

"Nay," whispered the friar, with pleading hand on Beltane's arm, "'tis
thing impossible--"

"Yet must I try, good brother--"

"Ah, dear my son, 'twill be thy death--"

"Why look you, gentle friar, I am in Belsaye, and Belsaye 'is in the
hand of God!' So fear not for me, but go you all and wait for me beyond
the river. And, if I come not within the hour, then press on with speed
for Thrasfordham within Bourne, and say to Sir Benedict that, while
_he_ liveth to draw sword, so is there hope for Pentavalon. But now--
quick!--where lodgeth Sir Gui?"

"Within the keep--there is a stair doth mount within the thickness of
the wall--nay, I will be thy guide if go indeed thou must--"

"Not so, good friar, be it thy duty to lead these prisoners to freedom
and to safety within Bourne."

"Then will I come," whispered Roger hoarse and eager, as the friar
turned slow-footed to follow the others adown the slippery stair,
"beseech thee, lord, thy man am I, twice sworn to thee till death, so
suffer me beside thee."

"Nay," said Beltane, "Pentavalon's need of thee is greater e'en than
mine, therefore will I adventure this thing alone. Go you with the
friar, my Roger, and so farewell to each."

"God keep thee, noble son!" whispered the friar, his hand upraised in
blessing: but Roger stood, chin on breast and spake no word.

Then Beltane turned him and sped away, soft-treading in the shadow of
the great keep.

The waning moon cast shadows black and long, and in these shadows
Beltane crept and so, betimes, came within the outer guard-room and to
the room beyond; and here beheld a low-arched doorway whence steps led
upward,--a narrow stair, gloomy and winding, whose velvet blackness
was stabbed here and there by moonlight, flooding through some deep-set
arrow-slit. Up he went, and up, pausing once with breath in check,
fancying he heard the stealthy sound of one who climbed behind him in
the black void below; thus stayed he a moment, with eyes that strove to
pierce the gloom, and with naked dagger clenched to smite, yet heard
nought, save the faint whisper of his own mail, and the soft tap of his
long scabbard against the wall; wherefore he presently sped on again,
climbing swiftly up the narrow stair. Thus, in a while, he beheld a
door above: a small door, yet stout and strong, a door that stood ajar,
whence came a beam of yellow light.

So, with sure and steady hand, Beltane set wide the door, that creaked
faintly in the stillness, and beheld a small, square chamber where was
a narrow window, and, in this window, a mail-clad man lolled, his
unhelmed head thrust far without, to watch the glow that leapt against
the northern sky.

Then Beltane sheathed his dagger and, in three long strides was close
behind, and, stooping above the man, sought and found his hairy throat,
and swung him, mighty-armed, that his head struck the wall; then
Beltane, sighing, laid him upon the floor and turned toward a certain
arras-hung arch: but, or ever his hand came upon this curtain, from
beyond a voice hailed--a voice soft and musical.

"Hugo--O Hugo, spawn of hell, hither to me!"

Then Beltane, lifting the curtain, opened the door and, striding into
the chamber beyond, closed and barred the door behind him, and so
stood, tall and menacing, looking on one who sat at a table busied with
pen and ink-horn. A slender man this, and richly habited: a sleepy-eyed
man, pale of cheek, with long, down-curving nose, and mouth thin-lipped
and masterful, who, presently lifting his head, stared up in amaze,
sleepy-eyed no longer: for now, beholding Beltane the mighty, sheathed
in mail from head to foot, the pen dropped from his fingers and his
long pale hands slowly clenched themselves.

So, for a space, they fronted each other, speaking not, while eye met
eye unswerving--the menacing blue and the challenging black, and,
through the open casement near by came a ruddy glow that flickered on
arras-hung wall and rugged roof-beam. Now raising his hand, Beltane
pointed toward this glowing window.

"Sir Gui," quoth he, "Lord Seneschal of Belsaye town, thou hast good
eyes--look now, and tell me what ye see."

"I see," said Sir Gui, stirring not, "I see a presumptuous knave--a dog
who shall be flung headlong from the turret. Ha! Hugo!" he called, his
black eyes yet unswerving, "O Hugo, son of the fiend, hither to me!"

"Trouble not, my lord," quoth Beltane gently, "behold, the door is
barred: moreover, Hugo lieth without--pray God I have not killed him.
But, as for thee--look yonder, use thine eyes and speak me what thou
dost see."

But Sir Gui sat on, his thin lips upcurling to a smile, his black eyes
unswerving: wherefore came Beltane and seized him in fierce hands and
plucked him to his feet and so brought him to the window.

"Ha!" he cried, "look now and tell me what ye see. Speak! speak--for,
God help me! now am I minded to kill thee here and now, unarmed though
ye be, and cast thy carrion to the dogs--speak!"

Now, beholding the mail-clad face above him, the blue eyes aflame, the
pale lips tight-drawn, Sir Gui, Seneschal of Belsaye, spake soft-voiced
on this wise:

"I see my lord Duke's gallows go up in flame--wherefore men shall die!"

"Aye," sighed Beltane, "said I not thine eyes were good, Lord
Seneschal? Now, use thine ears--hearken! 'Twas I and five others, men
from beyond the marches, fired this night Black Ivo's gibbet, moreover,
to-night also have we broke the dungeon that lieth beneath this thy
keep, and set thy prisoners free--I and these five, all men from the
north, mark me this well! This have we done for a sign and portent--ha!
look!" and Beltane pointed of a sudden to where the great gallows,
outlined against the night in seething flame, swayed to and fro,
crumbled, and crashed to earth 'mid whirling sparks and flame, while,
from the town below rose a murmur that swelled and swelled to a shout,
and so was gone.

"Behold, lord Seneschal, Black Ivo's gallows to-night hath ceased to
be: here is a sign, let those heed it that will. But for thee--this!
To-night have I burned this gallows, to-night have I freed thy
prisoners. Upon me therefore, and only me, be the penalty; for--mark me
this, Seneschal!--spill but one drop of blood of these innocents of
Belsaye, and, as God seeth me, so will I hunt thee down, and take thee
and tear out thine eyes, and cut off thine hands, and drive thee forth
to starve! And this do I swear by the honour of my father, Beltane the
Strong, Duke of Pentavalon!"

But now, even as Sir Gui shrank back before the death in Beltane's
look, amazed beyond all thought by his words, came a sudden shout, and
thereafter a clash and ring of steel upon the stair without. And now,
above the sudden din, hoarse and loud a battle-cry arose, at the sound
of which Sir Gui's jaws hung agape, and he stood as one that doubts his
ears; for 'twas a cry he had heard aforetime, long ago.

"Arise! Arise! I will arise!"

Then Beltane cast up the bar, and, plucking wide the door, beheld the
broad, mail-clad back of one who held the narrow stair where flashed
pike and gisarm.

"Roger!" he called, "Black Roger!"

"Aye, lord, 'tis I," cried Roger, parrying a pike-thrust, "make sure of
thy work, master, I can hold these in check yet a while."

"My work is done, Roger. To me--to me, I say!"

So Roger, leaping back from the stair-head, turned about and ran to
Beltane, stumbling and spattering blood as he came, whereupon Beltane
clapped-to the door and barred it in the face of the pursuit. A while
leaned Roger, panting, against the wall, then, beholding Sir Gui:

"How!" he cried, "lives the pale fox yet? Methought thy work was done,
master!" So saying, he swung aloft his bloody sword, but, even as the
Seneschal waited the blow, smiling of lip, Beltane caught Black Roger's
wrist.

"Stay!" cried he, above the thunder of blows that shook the door,
"would'st slay a man unarmed?"

"Aye, master, as he hath slain many a man ere now!" quoth Roger,
striving to free his arm. "The door is giving, and there be many
without: and, since to-night we must die, so let us slay the white fox
first."

"Not so," said Beltane, "get you through the window--the river runs
below: through the window--out, I say!" and, with the word, he stooped
and bore Black Roger to the window.

"But, lord--"

"Jump!" cried Beltane, "jump, ere the door fall."

"But you, master--"

"Jump, I say: I will follow thee." So, groaning, Black Roger hurled his
sword far out from the window, and leaping from the sill, was gone.

Then Beltane turned and looked upon Gui of Allerdale. "Seneschal," said
he, "I who speak am he, who, an God so wills, shall be Duke of
Pentavalon ere long: howbeit, I will keep my promise to thee, so aid me
God!"

Thus saying, he mounted the window in his turn, and, even as the door
splintered behind him, forced himself through, and, leaping wide,
whirled over and over, down and down, and the sluggish river closed
over him with a mighty splash; thereafter the placid waters went upon
their way, bubbling here and there, and dimpling 'neath the waning
moon.



CHAPTER XIV

HOW BELTANE CAME NIGH TO DEATH


Down went my Beltane, weighted in his heavy mail--down and ever down
through a world of green that grew dark and ever more dark, until,
within the pitchy gloom beneath him was a quaking slime that sucked
viciously at foot and ankle. Desperately he fought and strove to rise,
but ever the mud clung, and, lusty swimmer though he was, his triple
mail bore him down.

And now his mighty muscles failed, lights flamed before his eyes, in
his ears was a drone that grew to a rushing roar, his lungs seemed
bursting, and the quaking ooze yearning to engulf him. Then my Beltane
knew the bitter agony of coming death, and strove no more; but in that
place of darkness and horror, a clammy something crawled upon his face,
slipped down upon his helpless body, seized hold upon his belt and
dragged at him fierce and strong; slowly, slowly the darkness thinned,
grew lighter, and then--Ah, kind mercy of God! his staring eyes beheld
the orbed moon, his famished lungs drank deep the sweet, cool air of
night. And so he gasped, and gasping, strove feebly with arm and leg
while ever the strong hand grasped at his girdle. And now he heard,
faint and afar, a sound of voices, hands reached down and drew him up--
up to good, firm earth, and there, face down among the grass, he lay
awhile, content only to live and breathe. Gradually he became aware of
another sound hard by, a sharp sound yet musical, and in a little, knew
it for the "twang" of a swift-drawn bow-string. Now, glancing up,
Beltane beheld an ancient tree near by, a tree warped and stunted
wherein divers arrows stood, and behind the tree, Giles o' the Bow,
who, as he watched, drew and loosed a shaft, which, flashing upward,
was answered by a cry; whereon Giles laughed aloud.

"Six!" he cried, "six in seven shots: 'tis sweet archery methinks, and
quicker than a noose, my Rogerkin, and more deadly than thy axe, my
surly Walkyn. Let the rogues yonder but show themselves, and give me
arrows enow, so will I slay all Gui's garrison ere the moon fail me
quite."

But hereupon Beltane got him to his knees and made shift to stand, and,
coming to the tree, leaned there, being faint and much spent.

"Aha, sweet lord," cried the archer, "a man after my very heart art
thou. What wonders have we achieved this night--paladins in sooth we
be, all four! By the blessed bones of St. Giles, all Pentavalon shall
ring with our doings anon."

Said Beltane, faintly:

"Where is my good Roger?"

"Here, lord," a voice answered from the shade of a bush hard by: "'twas
my comrade Walkyn dragged me up from death--even as he did thee."

"We thought you gone for good, master."

"Aye!" cried the archer, "so would ye all be dead, methinks, but for me
and this my bow."

"Friends," said Beltane, "'tis by doings such as this that men do learn
each other's worth: so shall the bonds betwixt us strengthen day by
day, and join us in accord and brotherhood that shall outlast this puny
life. So now let us begone and join the others."

So they turned their backs upon Belsaye town, and keeping to the brush,
came at length to where upon the borders of the forest the white friar
waited them, with th

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