So they began to cross the rolling desolation of the heath and presently espied a great boulder, huge and solitary, gleaming white and ghostly 'neath the moon.

Being come very nigh, Beltane checked his horse and was about to dismount, when Roger, uttering a sudden gasping cry, cowered to his knees, for in the air about them was a sound very sweet to hear—the whisper of lute-strings softly plucked by skilled and cunning fingers, and thereafter a man's voice, rich and melodious, brake forth into tender singing: and the words were these:—

"O moon! O gentle moon, to-night Unveil thy softest, tend'rest light Where feet I love, so small and white, Do bear my love to me!"

"Stand up, Roger, here is nought to harm us, methinks," quoth Beltane softly, "stand up, and hold my bridle."

"But see now, master, there be devil-goblins a many that do pipe like very angels."

"Nathless here's one that I must speak with," said Beltane, slipping to earth and looking about him with wondering eyes, for the voice had seemed to come from the grass at his feet. And while he yet sought to and fro in frowning perplexity the melodious voice brake forth anew:

"O little feet, more white than snow, If through the thorny brake ye go, My loving heart I'll set below To take the hurt for thee."

Now as the voice sank and the lute-strings quivered to silence, Beltane, coming behind the great rock, beheld a glow, very faint and feeble, that shone through thick-clustering leaves; and, putting aside a whin-bush that grew against the rock, perceived a low and narrow alley or passage-way leading downwards into the earth, lighted by a soft, mellow beam that brightened as he advanced and presently showed him a fair-sized chamber cunningly hollowed within the rock and adorned with rich furs and skins. And behold one who reclined upon a couch of skins, a slender, youthful figure with one foot wondrously be-wrapped and swathed, who, beholding Beltane's gleaming mail, sprang up very nimbly and fronted him with naked sword advanced.

"Nay, hast forgot thy friend, Sir Jocelyn?"

Incontinent the sword was tossed aside, and with a joyous cry Sir Jocelyn sprang and caught him in close embrace.

"Now by sweet Venus her downy dove—'tis Beltane!" he cried. "Now welcome and thrice welcome, my lordly smith, thou mighty son of noble father. Ah, lord Duke, I loved thee that day thou didst outmatch Gefroi the wrestler in the green. Since then much have I learned of thee and thy valiant doings, more especially of Barham Broom—how thou didst slay the vile Sir Gilles 'neath the eyes of Ivo and all his powers and thereby didst snatch from shame and cruel death one that is become the very heart of me, so needs must I love and honour and cherish thee so long as I be Jocelyn and thou thy noble self. Come, sit ye—sit ye here, for fain am I to question thee—"

"But," said Beltane, wrinkling puzzled brow, "how came you hither—and art wounded, Jocelyn?"

"Aye, my lord, to desperation—O direly, Beltane. I do languish night and day, sleep doth bring me no surcease and music, alack, abatement none. Food—base food repelleth me and wine no savour hath. Verily, verily, wounded deep am I."

"Forsooth," said Beltane, "thy foot doth wear bandages a many, but—"

"Bandages?" cried Jocelyn, staring. "Foot? Nay, nay, my torment is not here," and he flourished his beswathed foot in an airy, dancing step. "Indeed, Beltane, herein do I confess me some small artifice, yet, mark me, to a sweet and worthy end. For my hurt lieth here,—sore smit am I within this heart o' mine."

"Thy heart again, Jocelyn?"

"Again?" said the young knight, wrinkling slender brows.

"Aye, thou did'st sing thy heart's woe to me not so long since—in an hundred and seventy and eight cantos, and I mind thy motto: 'Ardeo'."

"Nay, Beltane, in faith—indeed, these were folly and youthful folly, the tide hath ebbed full oft since then and I, being older, am wiser. Love hath found me out at last—man's love. List now, I pray thee and mark me, friend. Wounded was I at the ford you wot of beside the mill, and, thereafter, lost within the forest, a woeful wight! Whereon my charger, curst beast, did run off and leave me. So was I in unholy plight, when, whereas I lay sighful and distressed, there dawned upon my sight one beyond all beauty beautiful. Y-clad in ragged garb was she, yet by her loveliness her very rags were glorified. To me, shy as startled doe, came she and, with saintly pity sweet, did tend my hurt, which done, with much ado she did hither bring me. Each day, at morn and eve, came she with cates rare and delicate, and her gentle hands did woo my wound to health, the which indeed so swift grew well that I did feign divers pains betimes lest she should vanish from me quite—so grew my love. At the first loved I her something basely, for the beauty of her body fair, whereat she grieved and sorrowed and fled from my regard, and for an eternity of days came not again until yestere'en. And, Beltane, though base her birth, though friendless, poor and lonely, yet did my heart know her far 'bove my base self for worthiness. So did I, yestere'en, upon my knightly word, pledge her my troth, so shall she be henceforth my lady of Alain and chatelaine of divers goodly castles, manors, and demesnes. To-night she cometh to me in her rags, and to-night we set forth, she and I, to Mortain, hand in hand—nor shall my lips touch hers, Beltane, until Holy Church hath made us one. How think ye of my doing, friend?"

"I do think thee true and worthy knight, Sir Jocelyn, and moreover—"

But of a sudden, Roger's voice reached them from without, hoarse with terror.

"Master—O master, beware! 'Tis the witch, lord—O beware!"

And with the cry, lo! a hurry of feet running swift and light, a rustle of flying garments, and there, flushed and panting, stood the witch— the witch Mellent that was the lady Winfrida. Now, beholding Beltane, her eyes grew wide with swift and sudden fear—she quailed, and sank to her knees before him; and when Sir Jocelyn, smitten to mute wonder, would have raised her, she brake forth into bitter weeping and crouched away.

"Nay, touch me not my lord, lest thou repent hereafter—for now do I see that happiness is not for me—now must I say such words as shall slay thy love for me, so touch me not."

"Ha, never say so!" cried Sir Jocelyn, "not touch thee? art not mine own beloved Mellent?"

"Nay, I am the lady Winfrida—"

"Thou—Winfrida the rich and proud—in these rags? Thou, Winfrida the Fair?—thy raven hair—"

"O, my hair, my lord? 'twas gold, 'tis black and shall be gold again, but I am that same Winfrida."

"But—but I have seen Winfrida betimes in Mortain ere now."

"Nay, then, didst but look at her, my lord, for thine eyes saw only the noble Helen's beauty. Alas! that ever I was born, for that I am that Winfrida who, for ambition's sake and wicked pride, did a most vile thing—O my lord Beltane, as thou art strong, be pitiful—as thou art deeply wronged, be greatly merciful."

"How—how—mean you?" said Beltane, slow-speaking and breathing deep.

"Lord—'twas I—O, how may I tell it? My lord Beltane, upon thy wedding night did I, with traitorous hand, infuse a potent drug within the loving-cup, whereby our lady Duchess fell into a swoon nigh unto death. And—while she lay thus, I took from her the marriage-robe—the gown of blue and silver. Thereafter came I, with my henchman Ulf the Strong and—found thee sleeping in the chapel. So Ulf—at my command—smote thee and—bound thee fast, and, ere the dawn, I brought thee—to Garthlaxton—O my lord!"

"Thou—? It was—thou?"

"I do confess it, my lord Beltane—traitor to thee, and base traitor to her—"

"Why, verily—here was treachery—" quoth Beltane speaking slow and soft, "truly here—methinks—was treachery—and wherefore?"

"O my lord, must I—tell this?"

"I do ask thee."

Then did Winfrida shrink within herself, and crouched yet further from Sir Jocelyn as though his eyes had hurt her.

"Lord," she whispered, "I was—jealous! Duke Ivo wooed me long ere he loved the Duchess Helen, so was I jealous. Yet was I proud also, for I would suffer not his love until he had made me wife. And, upon a day, he, laughing, bade me bring him captive this mighty man that defied his power—that burned gibbets and wrought such deeds as no other man dared, swearing that, an I did so, he would wed with me forthright. And I was young, and mad with jealousy and—in those days—I knew love not at all. But O, upon a day, I found a new world wherein Love came to me —a love so deep and high, so pure and noble, that fain would I have died amid the flame than thus speak forth my shame, slaying this wondrous love by my unworthiness. Yet have I told my shame, and love is dead, methinks, since I am known for false friend and traitor vile—a thing for scorn henceforth, that no honourable love may cleave to. So is love dead, and fain would I die also!"

Now, of a sudden, while yet Beltane frowned down upon her, came Sir Jocelyn, and kneeling beside Winfrida, spake with bent head:

"Messire Beltane, thou seest before thee two that are one, henceforth. So do I beseech thee, forgive us our trespass against thee, an it may be so. But, if thy wrongs are beyond forgiveness, then will we die together."

"O Jocelyn!" cried Winfrida breathlessly, "O dear my lord—surely never man loved like thee! Lord Beltane, forgive—for this noble knight's sake—forgive the sinful Winfrida!"

"Forgive?" said Beltane, hoarsely, "forgive?—nay, rather would I humbly thank thee on my knees, for thou hast given back the noblest part of me. She that was lost is found again, the dead doth live. Helen is her noble self, and only I am vile that could have doubted her. The happiest man, the proudest, and the most woeful, I, in all the world, methinks. O kneel not to me—and pray you—speak on this matter no more. Rise, rise up and get ye to your joy. Lady, hast won a true and leal knight, and thou, Sir Jocelyn, a noble lady, who hath spoken truth at hazard of losing her love. And I do tell ye, love is a very blessed thing, greater than power, or honour, or riches, or aught in the world but love. Aye, surely Love is the greatest thing of all!" So saying, Beltane turned very suddenly, and strode out, where, beside the great horse Mars, stood Roger, very pale in the moonlight, and starting and staring at every rustling leaf and patch of shadow.

"Roger," said he, "thou art afraid of bats and owls, yet, forsooth, art a wiser man than I. Bring hither the horse."

In a while cometh Sir Jocelyn and the lady Winfrida, hand in hand, aglow with happiness, yet with eyes moistly bright under the moon.

"Good comrade-in-arms," quoth Beltane, "Mortain lieth far hence; now here is a goodly horse—"

"O!" cried Winfrida shrinking, "surely 'tis the horse that bore Sir Gilles of Brandonmere in the lists at Barham Broom—"

"So now, my lady Winfrida, shall it bear thee and thy love to Mortain and happiness—O loved Mortain! So mount, Jocelyn, mount! Haste to thy happiness, man, and in thy joy, forget not Pentavalon, for her need is great. And thou hast goodly men-at-arms! How think ye, messire?"

"Beltane," cried Sir Jocelyn gleefully, "Beltane, O dear my friend, doubt me not—I do tell thee we shall ride together yet, when the battle joins!" So saying, be sprang to saddle. Now turned Beltane to aid the lady Winfrida to Sir Jocelyn's hold; but, even then, she fell upon her knees, and catching his hand to her bosom, kissed it.

"Lord Beltane," said she, looking up 'neath glistening lashes—"as thou hast dealt with me, so may heaven deal with thee. May thy sore heart find solace until love find thee—and—dear my lord, I pray you where is—he—the young knight that rode with thee—for where he is, there also is—Helen—"

"And thou dost know, too?"

"I knew her that day in the forest when I fled away, for though I would have confessed my sin to thee, yet her cold scorn I could not have borne. Where is she now, my lord?"

"Safe within Mortain, I pray."

"Then come you to Mortain. Come with us this night—ah! come you to Mortain and—Helen!"

Now hereupon Beltane turned to look with yearning eyes towards the gloom of the forest beyond which lay the soft and peaceful valleys of fair Mortain, and she that called herself Fidelis, who had indeed been so faithful in all things, so patient and enduring; and, as his eyes yearned, so yearned the great passionate soul of him, insomuch that he must needs fall a-trembling, whereat Roger the watchful drew a soft pace nearer. So stood Beltane awhile, hands clenched, head bent, staring ever northwards, his blood aglow with eager love, his heart a-throb with passionate remorse.

"Come, my lord," breathed Winfrida, "O come—in Mortain is rest and solace—and love!"

"Rest?" said Beltane softly, "solace and love—O sweet thought! Yet I may not go hence, for here is sorrow and shame and suffering—sword and fire and battle. So must I bide here in Pentavalon—with my duty." So saying, he lifted Winfrida to Sir Jocelyn's ready clasp and thereafter spake with head downbent: "An thou chance to see—her— within Mortain, I pray you say that the blind doth see at last and is gone to his duty, that, peradventure, he may be, some day, more worthy her great love. And now fare ye well, good friends, God have ye ever in His tender care. Come, Roger!"

Then Beltane turned him suddenly away, and with broad back set towards Mortain, strode off across the desolate moor.



CHAPTER L

TELLETH HOW BELTANE WENT FORTH TO HIS DUTY

Silent went Beltane, his lips firm-set, his wistful eyes staring ever before him, nor paused he once, nor once glanced back towards that happy Mortain which held for him all that was fair and sweet and noble; that pure and faithful heart wherein no evil could exist; that radiant body in whose soft, white loveliness lay all the joy, all the happiness the wide world might ever yield him.

And now, because of her proved innocence, he was uplifted by a great and mighty joy, and therewith his step was light and swift; anon, because of his base doubt of her, he writhed 'neath the sharp-gnawing tooth of bitter remorse, and therewith his step grew heavy and slow. Now was he proud of her so great love for him, and again, he knew a profound and deep humility because of his so great unworthiness. Thus went he, nothing speaking, now with flying feet, now with steps that dragged, insomuch that watchful Roger fell to solemn wonderment, to a furtive unease, and so, at last, to speech.

"Lord," quoth he in a voice of awe, but Beltane strode on unheeding, whereat Roger's eyes grew round and his ruddy cheek pale, and clenching his fist, he raised aloft his first and little fingers so that they formed two horns, and with the horns he touched Beltane lightly on the shoulder. "Master!" said he.

Then Beltane started, and turning, looked at Roger, whereupon Roger immediately crossed his fingers.

"Ha, Roger, I was deep in my thoughts, what would ye?"

"Master, hast ever a pricking in the hairs of thy head?"

"Not I."

"Dost ever feel a tingling in the soles of thy feet?"

"Not so, in truth."

"Why then a shivering, quaking o' the back-bone?"

"Roger, man, what troubles thee now?"

"I do fear thou'rt be-devilled and moon-struck, master!"

"Why so?"

"Betimes thou dost smile upon the moon—for no reason; scowl upon the earth—for no reason; work with thy lips yet speak no word, and therewith do bite thy fingers-ends, clench thy fists—and all for no reason. Moreover, thou'rt quick and slow in thy gait, sighing gustily off and on—so it is I do sweat for thee."

"And wherefore?"

"Master," quoth Roger, glancing furtively about, "in my youth I did see a goodly man be-devilled by horrid spells by an ancient hag that was a noted witch, and he acted thus—a poor wight that was thereafter damnably be-devilled into a small, black rabbit, see you—"

"Saw you all this indeed, Roger?"

"All but the be-devilling, master, for being young and sore frighted I ran away and hid myself. But afterwards saw I the old woman with the black rabbit in a cage—wherefore the vile hag was stoned to death, and the black rabbit, that was her familiar, also—and very properly. And, lord, because I do love thee, rather would I see thee dead than a rabbit or a toad or lewd cur—wherefore now I pray thee cross thy fingers and repeat after me—"

"Nay, my faithful Roger, never fear, here is no witchcraft. 'Tis but that within the hour the blind doth see, the fool hath got him some little wisdom."

"Master, how mean you?"

"This night, Roger, I have learned this great truth: that white can never be black, nor day night, nor truth lie—and here is great matter for thought, wherefore as I walk, I think."

Now hereupon Black Roger halted and looked upon Beltane glad-eyed.

"Lord," he cried, "is it that ye do know the very truth at last—of Sir Fidelis—that glorious lady, thy Duchess Helen?"

"Aye, the very truth at last, Roger."

"Ha!—'tis so I petitioned the good Saint Cuthbert this very night!"

"And lo! he hath answered thy prayer, Roger."

"Verily he regardeth poor Roger these days, master, e'en though my belt doth yet bear many accursed notches."

"They shall be fewer anon, Roger; there be many poor souls for thee to save in woeful Pentavalon."

Hereafter went they a while in silence, until of a sudden Roger halted and clapped hand to thigh.

"Master, we go the wrong way, methinks."

"Not so, we be close upon the forest road, Roger."

"But thou dost know her faithful, master, pure and holy in mind and body—at sure of this at last!"

"Aye," sighed Beltane, "at last!"

"Why then, lord, let us incontinent seek her out."

"She is in for Mortain, Roger, moreover—"

"Nay, master, forsooth she is—hum! aye, she's in Mortain, mayhap, but 'tis none so far to Mortain for such legs as thine and mine. And belike we may—chance upon her by the way, or—or she with us, or both!"

"Even so, needs must I to my duty."

"Thy duty!—aye, master—thy duty is to woo her, wed her, take her to thy arms and—"

"I tell thee, Roger, ne'er will I speak word of love to her until I have proved myself in some sense fit and worthy. First will I free Pentavalon as I did swear—"

"Nay, master, wed first thy Duchess, so shall she aid thee in thy vows, and thereafter—"

"Enough!" cried Beltane, "think ye 'tis so easy to thus gainsay the love that burns me? But shame were it that I, beggared in fortune, my friends few, should wed her in my dire need, dragging thereby peaceful Mortain to mine aid and the bloody arbitrament of battle. Moreover, hast forgot the oath I sware—that nought henceforth should let or stay me?"

"Master," sighed Roger, "there be times, methinks, thou dost swear over-many oaths. Art man and woman full of youth and love, wherefore not marry? Wherefore heed a vow here or there? Needs must I wrestle with the good Saint Cuthbert in the matter."

But here Beltane fell again to meditation and Roger likewise. So came they presently to the forest-road, and turning north towards Winisfarne they strode on, side by side, in silence profound and deep. And of a sudden upon this silence, rose a voice high-pitched and quavering:

"O ye that have eyes, have pity—show mercy on one that is maimed and helpless, and creepeth ever in the dark."



CHAPTER LI

HOW BLACK ROGER WON TO FULLER MANHOOD

Forthwith Beltane paused, and presently beheld one that sat by the wayside—a man who crouched 'neath a dusty cloak and kept his white head down-bent and who now reached out a hand to grope and grope for the staff that lay near; wherefore Beltane took hold upon this hand and raised the white-haired traveller, and thereafter put the cudgel in his grasp.

"Messire," said the blind man, "though I have no eyes I do know thee young, for thy clasp is strong and quick with life, yet wondrous gentle. God bless thee, youthful sir, for 'tis well to meet with gentleness within a world so cruel. Tell me, I pray, doth this road lead unto Belsaye town?"

"Verily," answered Beltane, "but 'tis a long day's march thither."

"Yet needs must I reach there, since I do bear a message. But, O young messire, when cruel men put out mine eyes, the good God, in His sweet clemency, made sharp mine ears. So do I know thy voice, methinks, for voice of one who, long months since, did cherish me in my need and hunger, and sent me unto the saintly Ambrose."

"Ha!" cried Beltane joyously, "and is it thou indeed? Tell me, how doth my father?—is he well?—what said he?—how looked he? O, I do yearn for word of him!"

"Thy father? How, young sir, is he indeed thy father? Then is thy name Beltane, for I have heard him name thee oft—"

"Forsooth, and did he so? But how came you here, and wherefore?"

"To seek thee, lord Beltane, according to thy saintly father's word. And the manner of it, thus: As we sat together of a certain fair noon within Holy Cross Thicket, there came to us thither a woman, young, methinks, and fair, for her speech was soft and wondrous sweet in mine ears. And she did hail thy father 'Duke,' and thereafter spake thy name full oft, and so they fell to many words, walking together up and down before the hut. Anon, sudden and silent as she came, she was gone, and thy father walked full long, praying oft as one that rejoiceth greatly, and oft as one in deep perplexity. In a while cometh he to me and gave me scrip and therewith food and money, and bade me seek thee in Belsaye and speak thee thus: 'Tell Beltane, my well-beloved, that I, his father, have heard of his great and knightly deeds and that I do glory in them, praising God. Say that through him my youth and strength are renewed and my great sin made easier to bear. Tell him that the woes of Pentavalon draw to an end, and that ere long she shall arise above her sorrows. Bid him be of good courage yet a little longer, for the lion is waked at last, and the leopard also.' Behold now, messire, all's said." And the blind man stood with down-bent head, one hand grasping the staff, his other arm hid within his wide sleeve, what time Roger watched him furtive and askance, and moreover, his bow-stave shook and quivered in his grasp; as for Beltane, he stood as one lost in happy thought, upon his lips a smile ineffably tender. Smiling yet, he turned and touched the blind man's stooping shoulder. Quoth he:

"Greatly welcome is thy news and greatly would I thank thee. Pray you now, how may I show my gratitude?"

"Messire, fain would I shelter me in Belsaye, for there is fire and sword and battle on the marches. But the way is long, and on my road hither two rogues took from me purse and scrip. Give me, therefore, enough to bear me on my way."

"Aye, verily! Roger, thou dost bear the purse. Give him store of money and some of our food—see that he lacketh for nothing, Roger." So saying, Beltane turned him away and fell again to pondering his father's words.

Now at sound of Roger's name the blind man started round and fixed Roger with the horror of his eyeless sockets, and, therewith, flung up an arm as though fearing a blow; and behold! this arm was but a mutilated stump, for hand was there none.

"Roger!" he whispered, "not Roger the Black? No, no! There be a many Rogers. But who art thou dost bear such a name, and wherefore cower and gasp ye?"

Then stood the blind man with head out-thrust and awful arm upraised, before which Black Roger shrank and shrank to cower in the deeper shadow.

Of a sudden the blind man turned and coming beside Beltane, grasped him by the mantle.

"Lord," he questioned, "who is he that trembleth before the maimed and blind?—who is he that croucheth yonder?"

"Nay, fear ye nothing," said Beltane, "'tis none but my trusty Roger, my good comrade in arms—comfort ye!" Then he beckoned Roger and took the purse and gave to the blind man bounteously, saying:

"See now, when you shall come to Belsaye go you to Eric that hath command of the town and to Giles that is captain of the archers, and say that I, Beltane, will come to Belsaye within the week, and all our company with me, God willing. Bid them be vigilant and watch for our coming; let bows be strung and wall and turret manned night and day. So now fare thee well, and God's hand guide thy sightless going."

Then the blind man blessed Beltane, and turning, forthwith set out upon his way, and his staff tapped loud upon the forest-road. Right joyfully Beltane strode on again, his mind ever busied with thought of his father; but Roger's step was listless and heavy, so that Beltane must needs turn to look on him, and straightway marvelled to see how he hung his head, and that his ruddy cheek was grown wondrous pale and haggard.

"Roger?" quoth he, "art sick, Roger?"

"Sick, lord? nay—not sick, 'tis but that I—I—" But when he would have said more his voice failed him, his lip fell a-quivering, and even as Beltane stared in wonder, Black Roger groaned and flung himself upon his knees, and hid his face within his hands.

"Why Roger! What ails thee, Roger, man?" said Beltane and laid a hand upon his shoulder, whereat Roger groaned again and shrank away.

"Ah, lord, touch me not!" he cried, "unfit am I for hand of thine, unfit and all unworthy—"

"Nay, good friend—"

"Master—master!" groaned Roger, and therewith a great cry brake from him and he cast himself face downwards in the dust. "Unworthy am I to be thy man, so must I leave thee this night—aye, leave thee! For O my lord! yon poor blind man—'twas I—at the Red Pertolepe's command— 'twas I—did burn out his eyes and—cut off his hand—'twas I—I—Black Roger! O Saint Cuthbert! O sweet Jesu! So all unworthy am I to be thy man!"

And now great sobs shook him, fierce sobs and bitter, and he writhed there in the dust, groaning in the agony of his remorse. Little by little his passion spent itself, but still he lay there, yearning mightily for sound of his master's voice or touch of his hand, yet dared he not look up because of his abasement.

At last, whenas his sobs had ceased, he lifted his wretched head and stared in wide-eyed wonder to see Beltane upon his knees, his mailed hands clasped and his lips moving in silent prayer; when, his prayer ended, he raised his head and straightway Roger's wonder grew, for behold! the eyes of Beltane were wondrous gentle, his mouth sweet-curved and tender, the old harsh lines of grim-curled lip and lowering brow had vanished quite; and thus at last Black Roger saw again the face of my Beltane that had smiled on him long since amid the green across the prostrate form of poor Beda the Jester. So now, my Beltane smiled, and smiling, reached forth his hand.

"Roger," said he, "by shame and agony some men do win to new life and fuller manhood, and such a man, methinks, thou art. So hath God need of thee, and from this the dust of thy abasement, mayhap, shall lift thee, one day, high as heaven. Stand up, Roger, good my friend, stand up, O man, for he only is unworthy that ne'er hath wept remorseful in the dust for evil past and done."

Then Roger grasped that strong, uplifting hand, and stood upon his feet, yet spake he no word; and presently they went on along the road together.

And Roger's habit was stained with dust, and on his cheek the mark of bitter tears—but his head was high and manfully uplifted.



CHAPTER LII

HOW THEY HAD NEWS OF WALKYN

Now went they in silence again for that Beltane dreamed of many things while Roger marvelled within himself, oft turning to look on my Beltane's radiant face, while ever his wonder grew; so oft did he turn thus to gape and stare that Beltane, chancing to meet his look, smiled and questioned him, thus:

"Why gape ye on me so, Roger man?"

"For wonder, master."

"Wherefore?"

"To see thee so suddenly thyself again—truly Saint Cuthbert is a potent saint!"

"And thou a sturdy pray-er, good Roger."

"And most vile sinner, lord. Howbeit I have dared supplicate on thy behalf and behold! thou art indeed thyself again—that same sweet and gentle youth that smote me on my knavish mazzard with thy stout quarter-staff in Shevening Thicket in the matter of Beda, Red Pertolepe's fool—a dour ding, yon, master—forsooth, a woundy rap!"

Now fell they to thoughtful silence again, but oft Black Roger's stride waxed uneven, and oft he stumbled in his going, wherefore Beltane slackened his pace.

"What is it, Roger?"

"Naught but my legs, master. Heed 'em not."

"Thy legs?"

"They be shorter than thine, lord, and love not to wag so fast. An thou could'st abate thy speed a little—a very little, master, they shall thank thee dearly."

"Art so weary, Roger?"

"Master, I was afoot ere sunrise."

"Why truly, Roger. Yet do I, to mine own selfish ends, keep thee from thy slumber thus. Verily a selfish man, I!"

"Not so, master, indeed—"

"So now will we halt, and thou shalt to thy rest."

"Why then, lord, let us to the Hollow—it lieth scarce a mile through the brush yonder, and 'twas there I did appoint for Walkyn to meet with thee again—so shall we sleep secure; moreover I have a feeling—as it were one calling us thither, a wondrous strange feeling, master! Mayhap we shall come by news of Walkyn there—"

"'Tis well bethought, Roger. Come thy ways."

Forthwith turned they from the forest-road, and forcing their way through a leafy tangle, presently came out into a ride, or narrow glade; but they had gone only a very little distance when they espied the red glow of a fire within a thicket hard by, and therewith the sound of voices reached them:

"Three great bags, I tell thee!" cried one voice, high and querulous, "three great, fair and goodly bags full crammed of sweet gold pieces! All my lord Duke's revenue of Winisfarne and the villages adjacent thereunto! Taxes, see ye, my lord Duke's taxes—and all stolen, reft, and ravished from me, Guido, Steward and Bailiff of the northern Marches, by clapper-claws and raveners lewd and damned! Woe's me for my lord's good money-bags!"

"O, content thee!" spake another voice, sleepy and full-fed, "for, an these monies were the Duke's they were not thine, and if they were not thine thou wert not robbed, and, since thou wert not robbed, wherefore groan and glower ye on the moon? Moreover, thou hast yet certain monies thou didst—collect—from yon blind fellow, the which remindeth me I have not yet my share. So pray thee now disburse, good steward."

Hereupon, ere Beltane could stay him, Roger slipped, soft-treading, into the undergrowth; upon whose vanishing the air grew very suddenly full of shouts and cries, of scuffling sounds and woeful pleadings; and striding forward, Beltane beheld two men that crouched on bended knees, while Roger, fierce and threatening, stood betwixt, a hairy hand upon the throat of each. Now beholding Beltane, they (these gasping rogues) incontinent beset him with whimpering entreaties, beseeching of him their lives. Ragged knaves they seemed, and in woeful plight—the one a lank fellow and saturnine, with long, down-trending, hungry nose; the other a little man, plump and buxom, whose round eyes blinked woefully in his round and rosy face as he bent 'neath Roger's heavy hand. Yet spake he to Beltane in soft and soothing accents, on this wise:

"Resplendent sir, behold this thy most officious wight who doth my tender throat with hurtful hand encompass—doubtless to some wise and gracious end an he doth squeeze me thus at thy command. Yet, noble sir, humbly would I woo of thee the mercy of a little more air, lest this right noble youth do choke me quite!"

But hereupon the lank fellow cried out, bold and querulous:

"Take ye heed, for whoso dareth lay hand on me, toucheth the person of Duke Ivo's puissant self!"

"Ha—say ye so?" growled Roger, and forthwith squeezed him until he gasped again.

"Loose me, knave!" he panted, "Duke Ivo's Steward, I—Bailiff of the northern Marches with—towns and villages—adjacent thereunto—"

"Unhand them, Roger," said Beltane, "entreat them gently—in especial my lord Duke's Steward and Bailiff of the Marches, if so he be in very truth."

"Yea my lord, in very truth!" cried the Bailiff. "But two days since in ermined robe and chain of office, a notable man, I, courted by many, feared by more, right well be-seen by all, with goodly horse betwixt my knees and lusty men-at-arms at my beck and call. To-night, alas and woe! thou see'st me a ragged loon, a sorry wight the meanest rogue would scorn to bow to, and the very children jeer at—and all by reason of a lewd, black-avised clapper-claw that doth flourish him a mighty axe—O, a vile, seditious fellow ripe for the gallows."

"Ah! with an axe say'st thou, sir Bailiff?"

"O most infallibly an axe, messire—a ponderous axe with haft the length of this my leg. A vilely tall, base, and most unseemly dog that hath spoiled me of my lord's sweet money-bags, wherefore I yearn to see him wriggle in a noose. To the which end I journey in these my rags, unto my lord Duke on Barham Broom, with tale of wrong and outrage most abominable."

"And dared they rob thee indeed?" quoth Beltane, "and thou my lord Duke's High Steward and Bailiff of the Marches! Come, sit ye down and tell me of the matter—and Roger, methinks he shall talk the better an thou keep thy fingers farther from his wind-pipe."

So down sat they together round the fire, and, what time the little buxom man viewed Beltane 'twixt stealthy lids from golden spur to open bascinet, the Bailiff fell to his tale, as followeth:

"Know then, good and noble sir knight, that I sat me, but two days since, in right fair and goodly estate, my lackeys to hand, my men-at-arms at my back (twenty tall fellows). I sat me thus, I say, within the square at Winisfarne, whither, by sound of trumpet, I had summoned me the knavish townsfolk to pay into my hand my lord Duke's rightful dues and taxes, which folk it is my custom to call upon by name and one by one. When lo! of a sudden, and all uncalled, comes me a great, tall fellow, this same black-avised knave, and forthwith seized him one of my lord's great money-bags, and when I would have denied him, set me his axe beneath my very nose. Thereafter took he the bags all three and scattered (O hateful—hateful sight!) my lord's good monies among the base rabblement. And, when my lusty fellows sought to apprehend me this rogue, he smote them dolefully and roared in hideous fashion 'Arise— Pentavalon!' And straightway, at this lewd shout, forth of the crowd leapt many other rogues bedight as gentle knights in noble mail, cap-a-pie, and fell upon us and smote us dire, and stripped me of my goodly apparel, and drave me forth of the town with stripes and blows and laughter most ungentle. So here sit I, poor Guido, Steward and Bailiff of the Marches, in most vile estate, very full of woe yet, alack, empty of belly."

"But," says Beltane, shaking his head, "within thy pouch, methinks, a blind man's money."

"How—a blind man?" gasped the Bailiff, "a blind man's monies, say'st thou? Nay messire, in very truth."

"Search him, Roger."

Hereupon Roger, having straightway choked him to silence with the one hand full soon had found the money with the other, and thereafter, he loosed the Bailiff that he might get his breath again; the which he no sooner had done than he fell to prayers and humble entreaties:

"Sir knight—right noble sir, sure thou wilt not take thus from a woeful wight all that he hath."

"Nay," answered Beltane, "I take only from my lord Duke's Steward and Bailiff of the Marches. And now," said he, turning upon the small, round man, "thou hast marked me well, how say you, Pardoner?"

"First, most truly potent, wise, yet very youthful, noble sir, that for all the world and all the glory thereof I would not anger thee."

"Hast good eyes, Pardoner, and art quick to heed."

"Nay, dull am I, sweet lord, aye, dull forsooth and slow beyond belief."

"Would'st know me again? could'st bear my likeness in thy memory?"

"Never, lord. Never, O never! I swear it by the toe of the blessed Didymus, by the arm of Saint Amphibalus thrice blessed, by—"

"Why then, Pardoner, behold here my belt of silver, my good, long-bladed sword. And here—behold my yellow hair!" and off came bascinet, and back fell mail-coif, whereat the Bailiff started and caught his breath and stared on Beltane in sudden awe.

"Dost mark me well, Pardoner?"

"Aye, noble sir, verily and in truth do I. So, next time I think on thee thou wilt be a squat man, middle-aged and black-haired. For, my lord, a poor Pardoner I, but nought beside."

Then Beltane did on coif and bascinet and rose to his feet, whereat the Bailiff cried out in sudden fear and knelt with hands upraised:

"Slay me not, my lord! O messire Beltane, spare my life nor think I will betray thee, outlaw though thou art!"

"Fear not, sir Bailiff," answered Beltane, "thy life is safe from me. But, when thou dost name me to thy lord, Duke Ivo, tell him that I spake thee this: That, whiles I do lie within the green he shall not sleep o' nights but I will be at work with fire and steel, nor rest nor stay until he and the evil of him be purged from this my father's duchy of Pentavalon—say I bid him remember this upon his pillow. Tell him that whiles I do hold the woods my powers grow daily, and so will I storm and burn his castles, one by one, as I did burn Garthlaxton. Say I bid him to think upon these things what time he wooeth slumber in the night. As to thee, thou wily Pardoner, when thou shalt come to betray this our meeting, say that I told thee, that as Belsaye rose, and Winisfarne, so shall town and village rise until Ivo and his like are driven hence, or Beltane slain and made an end of. And so—fare ye well! Come, Roger!" Then Beltane strode away with grim Roger at his heels what time the Bailiff and the Pardoner stared in dumb amaze.

"Here," quoth the Pardoner at last, stroking his round chin, "here was a man, methinks, wherefore are we yet alive!"

"Here," quoth the Bailiff, scratching his long nose, "here was a fool, methinks, for that we are alive. A traitor, see ye, Pardoner, whose yellow head is worth its weight in gold! Truly, truly, here was a very fool!" So saying, he arose, albeit furtively, and slipping forthwith into the shadow, crept furtively away until the fire-glow was lost and hidden far behind him. Then, very suddenly, he betook him to his heels, and coming to the forest-road, fled southwards towards Duke Ivo's great camp that lay on Barham Broom.



CHAPTER LIII

OF JOLETTE, THAT WAS A WITCH

"Lord," said Roger, shaking his head, as they halted upon the edge of the Hollow, "lord, 'twere better thou hadst let me strangle them; those dogs will bay of thee to Black Ivo ere this time to-morrow!"

"'Tis so I hope, Roger."

"Hope?"

"Could I but lure Black Ivo into the wild, Roger, where swamp and thicket should fight for us! Could I but draw him hither after me, of what avail the might of his heavy chivalry upon this narrow forest-road, his close-ranked foot-men a sure mark for the arrows of our war-wise foresters? Thus, our pikes in front, a charge in flank, his line once pierced needs must follow confusion and disorder. Then press we where his banner flieth, and, hemmed in by our pikes and gisarms and Giles's bowmen, he once our prisoner or slain, his great army would crumble and melt away, since they do serve but for base hire, whiles we, though few, do smite amain for home and children. O Roger man, could I but lure him into the green!"

"Yet methinks there is a surer way, master."

"How—as how, Roger?"

"Wed thou thy Duchess, and so bring down on him all the powers of Mortain!"

"Roger, dost well know my mind on this matter; prate ye no more!"

"Then will I pray, master—so I do warn thee! Forsooth, I will this night fall to work upon the good saint and plague him right prayerfully that thy Duchess may come and save thee and thy Duchy in despite of thee, and having made thee Duke of Pentavalon with her lances, thereafter make thee Duke of Mortain in her own sweet body, for as I do know—"

But Beltane was already descending the steep path leading down into the great green hollow that lay all silent and deserted 'neath the ghostly moon, where nought stirred in the windless air, where bush and tree cast shadows monstrous and distorted, and where no sound brake the brooding quiet save the murmurous ripple of the brook that flowed to lose itself in the gloomy waters of that deep and sullen pool.

Swift and sure-treading as only foresters might, they descended the steep, and lured by some elfin fancy, Beltane must needs come to stand beside the pool and to stare down into those silent waters, very dark by reason of that great tree 'neath whose writhen branches Tostig the outlaw had fought and died; so stood Beltane awhile lost in contemplation, what time Roger, drawing ever nearer his master's elbow, shivered and crossed himself full oft.

"Come away, master," said he at last, low-voiced, "I love not this pool at any time, more especially at the full o' the moon. On such nights ghosts do walk! Tostig was an ill man in life, but Tostig's ghost should be a thing to fright the boldest—prithee, come away."

"Go get thee to thy rest, Roger. As for me, I would fain think."

"But wherefore here?"

"For that I am so minded."

"So be it, master. God send thy thoughts be fair." So saying, Roger turned where, on the further side of the Hollow, lay those caves 'neath the rocky bank wherein the outlaws had been wont to sleep. But, of a sudden, Beltane heard a hoarse scream, a gasp of terror, and Roger was back beside him, his naked broad-sword all a-shake in his trembling hand, his eyes wide and rolling.

"Master—O master!" he whimpered, "ghosts! 'neath the tree—Tostig— the Dead Hand!"

"Nay, what folly is here, Roger?"

"Lord, 'twas the Dead Hand—touched me—on the brow—in the shadow yonder! Aye—on the brow—'neath the tree! O master, dead men are we, 'tis Tostig come to drag us back to hell with him!" And crouching on his knees, Roger fell to desperate prayers.

Then Beltane turned whither Roger's shaking finger had pointed, and strode beneath the great tree. And peering up through the dark, he presently espied a shadowy thing that moved amid a gloom of leaves and branches; and, beholding what it was, he drew sword and smote high above his head.

Something thudded heavily upon the grass and lay there, mute and rigid, while Beltane, leaning upon his sword, stared down at that fell shape, and breathing the noxious reek of it, was seized of trembling horror; nevertheless he stooped, and reaching out a hand of loathing in the dimness, found the cord whereby it had swung and dragged the rigid, weighty thing out into the radiance of the moon until he could see a pallid face twisted and distorted by sharp and cruel death. Now in this moment Roger sware a fierce, great oath, and forthwith kicked those stiffened limbs.

"Ha!" cried he, "methought 'twas Tostig his ghost come for to drag us down into yon accursed pool—and 'tis naught but the traitor-rogue Gurth!"

"And dead, Roger!"

"Forsooth, he's dead enough, master—faugh!"

"And it availeth nothing to kick a dead man, Roger."

"Yet was he an arrant knave, master."

"And hath paid for his knavery, methinks!"

"A very rogue! a traitor! a rogue of rogues, master!"

"Then hath he the more need of our prayers, Roger."

"Prayers! How, lord, would'st pray for—this?"

"Nay, Roger, but thou shalt, since thou art potent in prayer these days." So saying, Beltane knelt upon the sward and folded reverent hands; whereupon Roger, somewhat abashed, having set his sword upright in the ling as was his custom, presently knelt likewise, and clearing his throat, spake aloud in this fashion:

"Holy Saint Cuthbert, thou see'st here all that is left of one that in life was a filthy, lewd, and traitorous knave, insomuch that he hath, methinks, died of roguery. Now, most blessed saint, do thy best for the knavish soul of him, intercede on his behalf that he may suffer no more than he should. And this is the prayer of me, Black Roger, that has been a vile sinner as I have told thee, though traitor to no man, I praise God. But, most blessed and right potent saint, while I am at the ears of thee, fain would I crave thy aid on matter of vasty weight and import. To wit, good saint: let now Sir Fidelis, who, as ye well know, doth hide womanly beauties in ungentle steel—let now this brave and noble lady muster forthwith all the powers within her Duchy of Mortain —every lusty fellow, good saint—and hither march them to my master's aid. Let her smite and utterly confound Black Ivo, who (as oft I've told thee—moreover thine eyes are sharp), is but a rogue high-born, fitter for gallows than ducal crown, even as this most unsavoury Gurth was a rogue low-born. So when she hath saved my master despite himself, sweet saint, then do thou join them heart and body, give them joy abounding and happiness enduring, nor forget them in the matter of comely children. So bring to woeful Pentavalon and to us all and every, peace at last and prosperity—and to sorrowful Roger a belt wherein be no accursed notches and a soul made clean. In nomen Dominum, Amen!"

"Master," quoth he, yet upon his knees and viewing Beltane somewhat askance, "here is the best I can do for such as yon Gurth; will't suffice, think ye?"

"Aye, 'twill serve, Roger. But, for the other matter—"

"Why see you, master, a man may freely speak his dear desires within his prayers—more especially when his prayers are potent, as mine. Moreover I warned thee—I warned thee I would pray for thee—and pray for thee I have." Now hereupon Beltane rose somewhat hastily and turned his back, what time Roger sheathed his sword.

Then spake Beltane, turning him to the pool again:

"We had store of tools and mattocks, I mind me. Go and look within the caves if there be ever a one left, for now must we bury this poor clay."

"Ha, must we pray for him—and bury him, master?"

"And bury him, Roger."

Then Roger sighed and shook his head and so left Beltane, who fell again to profound meditation; but of a sudden hearing a cry, he turned to behold Roger running very fleetly, who, coming near, caught him by the arm and sought to drag him away.

"Run!" he panted, "run, master—I ha' just seen a goblin—run, master!"

Now beholding the terror in Roger's eyes, Beltane unsheathed his sword. "Show me, Roger," said he.

"Nay, lord—of what avail? Let's away, this place is rank o' deviltries and witchcraft—"

"Show me, Roger—come!"

Perforce, Roger led the way, very heedful to avoid each patch of shadow, until they were come opposite that cave where aforetime Beltane had been customed to sleep. Here Roger paused.

"Master," he whispered, "there is a thing within that groaneth— goblin-groans, master. A thing very like unto a goblin, for I ha' seen it —a pale thing that creepeth—holy saints, 'tis here again—hark to it!"

And in very truth Beltane heard a sound the which, soft though it was, checked his breath and chilled his flesh; and, as he peered into the gloomy recesses of the cavern, there moved something vague amid the shadows, something that rose up slow and painfully.

Roger was down gasping on his knees, Beltane's hand was tight-clenched upon the hilt of his sword, as out into the moonlight crept one, very bent and feeble, shrouded in a long grey cloak; a pitiful figure, that, leaning a hand upon the rock, slowly raised a drooping head. Then Beltane saw that this was the witch Jolette.

A while she stood thus, one hand supporting her against the rocky bank, the other hid within the folds of her long mantle.

"O my lord!" said she, low-voiced, "all day long my heart hath been calling—calling to thee; so art come at last—thanks be to God—O my lord Beltane!"

Now as she spake, she reached out a hand to him so that the shrouding mantle fell away; then, beholding what it had hid, Beltane let fall his sword, and leaping forward, caught her within his arm.

"Ah!—thou'rt hurt!" he cried.

"My lord, I—strove to bind it up—I am cunning in herbs and simples— but my hurt is too deep for any leechcraft. To-night—soon—I must die. Lay me down, I pray thee. Thine arms are strong, lord Beltane, and— very gentle. How, dost grieve for a witch, lord—for poor Jolette? Nay, comfort ye—my life has been none so sweet I should dread to lose it."

"How cometh this?" he questioned gently, on his knees beside her.

"'Twas the Red Pertolepe's men—nay, messire, they have but killed me. But O, my dear lord—heed me well. A week agone lord Pertolepe marched hither seeking thee with a great company led by yon Gurth. And when he found thee not he hanged Gurth, yet tarried here awhile. Then I, knowing a secret path hither that none else do know, came and hearkened to their councils. So do I know that he is marched for Winisfarne—"

"Ha, is this so!" cried Beltane, clenching his fist, "then will he hang and burn!"

"Aye, 'tis like enough, messire. But—O heed me! He goeth for a deeper purpose—list, Beltane—O list—he goeth to seize upon the noble and saintly Abbess Veronica—to bear her captive unto Pentavalon city, there to hold her hostage for—for thee, Beltane—for thee!"

"How mean you?"

"When he hath her safe, Duke Ivo, because he hath learned to fear thee at last, will send envoys to thee demanding thou shalt yield up to him the town of Belsaye and thy body to his mercy, or this fair and noble lady Abbess shall be shamed and dishonoured, and know a death most dire. And—ah! because thou art the man thou art, thou must needs yield thyself to Ivo's cruel hands, and Belsaye to flame and ravishment."

"Not so," answered Beltane, frowning, "within Belsaye are many women and children also, nor should these die that one might live, saintly abbess though she be."

Now hereupon the witch Jolette raised herself, and set her two hands passionately on Beltane's shoulders, and looked upon him great-eyed and fearful.

"Ah, Beltane—Beltane, my lord!" she panted, "but that I am under a vow, now could I tell thee a thing would fire thy soul to madness—but, O believe, believe, and know ye this—when Duke Ivo's embassy shall tell thee all, thou—shalt suffer them to take thee—thou shalt endure bonds and shame and death itself. So now thou shalt swear to a dying woman that thou wilt not rest nor stay until thou shalt free this lady Abbess, for on her safety doth hang thy life and the freedom of Pentavalon. Swear, O swear me this, my lord Beltane, so shall I die in peace. Swear—O swear!"

Now, looking within her glowing eyes, feeling the tremble of her passionate-pleading hands, Beltane bowed his head.

"I swear!" said he.

"So now may God hear—this thy oath, and I—die in peace—"

And saying this, Jolette sank in his arms and lay a while as one that swoons; but presently her heavy eyes unclosed and on her lips there dawned a smile right wondrous to behold, so marvellous tender was it.

"I pray thee, lord, unhelm—that I may see thee—once again—thy golden hair—"

Wondering, but nothing speaking, Beltane laid by his bascinet, threw back his mail-coif, and bent above her low and lower, until she might reach up and touch those golden curls with failing hand.

"Lord Beltane!—boy!" she whispered, "stoop lower, mine eyes fail. Hearken, O my heart! Even as thy strong arms do cradle me, so—have these arms—held thee, O little Beltane, I—have borne thee oft upon my heart—ere now. Oft have hushed thee to rosy sleep—upon this bosom. 'Twas from—these arms Sir Benedict caught thee on—that woeful day. For I that die here—against thy heart, Beltane—am Jolette, thy foster-mother—wilt thou—kiss me—once?"

So Beltane stooped and kissed her, and, when he laid her down, Jolette the witch was dead.

Full long Beltane knelt, absorbed in prayer, and as he prayed, he wept. So long knelt he thus, that at last cometh Roger, treading soft and reverently, and touched him.

"Master!" he whispered.

Then Beltane arose as one that dreams and stood a while looking down upon that pale and placid face, on whose silent lips the wondrous smile still lingered. But of a sudden, Roger's fingers grasped his arm.

"Master!" he whispered again. Thereon Beltane turned and thus he saw that Roger looked neither on him nor on the dead and that he pointed with shaking finger. Now, glancing whither he pointed, Beltane beheld, high on the bank above them, a mounted knight armed cap-a-pie, who stared down at them through closed visor—a fierce and war-like figure looming gigantic athwart the splendour of the sinking moon. And even as they stared in wonder, a broad shield flashed, and knight and horse were gone.



CHAPTER LIV

HOW BELTANE FOUGHT WITH A DOUGHTY STRANGER

"Lord!" quoth Roger, wiping sweat from him, "yonder certes was Hob-gob! Forsooth ne'er saw I night the like o' this! How think ye of yon devilish things? Here was it one moment, and lo! in the twinkle of an eye it is not. How think ye, master?"

"I do think 'twas some roving knight."

"Nay but, lord—how shall honest flesh and blood go a-vanishing away into thin air whiles a man but blinketh an eye?"

"The ground hath sudden slope thereabouts, belike."

"Nay, yonder was some arch-wizard, master—the Man o' the Oak, or Hob-gob himself. Saint Cuthbert shield us, say I—yon was for sure a spirit damned—"

"Hark! Do spirits go in steel, Roger?" said Beltane, stooping for his sword; for indeed, plain and loud upon the prevailing quiet was the ring and clash of heavy armour, what time from the bushes that clothed the steep a tall figure strode, and the moon made a glory in polished shield, it gleamed upon close-vizored helm, it flashed upon brassart, vanbrace and plastron. Being come near, the grim and warlike figure halted, and leaning gauntleted hand upon long shield, stood silent a while seeming to stare on Beltane through the narrow slit of his great casque. But even as he viewed Beltane, so stared Beltane on him, on the fineness of his armour, chain and plate of the new fashion, on his breadth of shoulder and length of limb—from shining casque to gleaming shield, whereon was neither charge nor blazon; and so at last, spake my Beltane, very gentle and courteous:

"Messire, an thou be come in peace, now shalt thou be right welcome—"

"Peace!" quoth the knight loud and fierce, and his laughter rang hoarse within his helm. "Peace, forsooth! Thou art a tall and seemly youth, a youth fair spoken, and yet—ha! A belt of silver! And golden hair! And yet—so very youthful! Art thou in very truth this famous rogue whose desperate deeds do live on every tongue, who hath waked Duke Ivo from his long-time security, insomuch that he doth yearn him for that yellow head o' thine—art thou Beltane the Outlaw and Rebel?"

"'Tis so men do call me, messire."

"Verily, youth, methinks dost lie, for I have heard this outlaw is beyond all men wild and fierce and weaveth him demoniac spells and enchantments most accurst, whereby he maketh gate and door and mighty portcullis to ope and yield before his pointed finger, and bolt and bar and massy wall to give him passage when he will, as witness the great keep of Garthlaxton that he did burn with hellish fire. I have heard he doth commonly burn gibbets to warm him, and beareth off great lords beneath his arm as I might a small coney and slayeth him three or four with his every stroke. 'Tis said that he doth wax daily mightier and more fierce, since he doth drink hot blood and batteneth on flesh o' tender babes beneath the orbed moon—"

"Messire," said Beltane beginning to frown, "within thy wild and foolish talk is this much truth, that I, with divers trusty comrades, did indeed burn down the shameful gallows of Belsaye, and bore captive a certain lordly knave. As for Garthlaxton, the thing was simple—"

"O boastful boy!" quoth the knight, tossing aside his shield, "O beardless one, since thou dost proclaim thyself this desperate rogue, here is reason just for some small debate betwixt us. Do on thy coif forthwith, for now will I strive to make an end of thee," and speaking, the knight unsheathed a long and ponderous sword.

"How an I fight thee not, sir knight?"

"Then must I needs belabour thee to the good of thy soul, sir outlaw. So on with thy coif, I say!"

Incontinent ran Roger to fetch his bascinet the which Beltane slowly fitted on above his hood of mail, and thereafter, albeit unwillingly, fronted this doughty knight, foot to foot and point to point. Now stepped they a moment about each other, light-treading for all their weighty armour, and with long blades advanced; then, of a sudden they closed, and immediately the air shivered to the ring and grind of flashing, whirling steel. To and fro, and up and down they fought upon the level sward what time Black Roger rubbed complacent hands, grim-smiling and confident; and ever as they fought the stranger knight laughed and gibed, harsh and loud, from behind his grimly casque.

"Ho!—fight, youth, fight!" cried he, "have done with love-taps! Sa-ha, have at thee—fight, I say!" A panther-like side-leap, a whirl of glimmering steel, and his long blade smote sparks from Beltane's bascinet, whereat Roger's smile, incontinent, vanished, and his face waxed suddenly anxious and long.

But fierce and fiercer the stranger knight beset my Beltane, the while he lashed him with mocking tongue:

"Call ye this fighting, sir youthful outlaw? Doth thine arm fail thee so soon? Tap not, I say, lest I grow angered and slay thee forthright!"

Then, blow for blow, did Beltane the mighty fall on right furiously, but ever blade met blade whiles Roger danced on anxious feet, praying for the end. Of a sudden, shouted he joyously, for, flashing high in air, down came Beltane's long blade strong and true upon the knight's helm—a fell, deep-dinting stroke that drave the stranger reeling back. Fierce and swift leapt Beltane to smite again—came a shock of clashing steel, a flurry of stroke and counter-stroke, and thereafter, a hoarse shout of dismay from Roger: for Beltane stood as one dazed, staring upon his empty right hand what time the knight boomed derisive laughter through his vizor. Then sprang grim Roger, dagger aloft, but swifter than he, the knight's sword swung; flat fell that long blade on Roger's bascinet, wielded by an arm so strong that Roger, staggering aside, rolled upon the ling, and thereafter, sat up, round-eyed and fearful:

"O master!" he panted, "here is none of—honest flesh and blood, 'tis— Hob-gob himself, as I did warn thee. May Saint Cuthbert, Saint Bede, Saint Edmund—"

"Go to—cease thy windy prattling, Roger Thick-pate!" spake the knight, and letting fall his sword, he lifted his visor. And behold! a face lean and hawk-like, with eyes quick and bright, and a smiling mouth wry-twisted by reason of an ancient wound.

"Know ye me not, lord Beltane?" quoth he, with look right loving, "hast forgot me indeed, most loved lad?" But swift came my Beltane, glad-eyed and with arms out-flung in eager welcome.

"Sir Benedict!" he cried, "hast come at last? Now do I joy to see thee!"

"My lord," says Benedict, wagging mailed finger. "Ha, Beltane, canst burn gibbets, storm mighty castles and out-face desperate odds, yet is old Benedict thy master at stroke of sword still—though, forsooth, hast dinted me my helm, methinks! O sweet lad, come to my arms, I've yearned for thee these many days." Herewith Sir Benedict caught Beltane within his close embrace, and patted him with gauntleted hands, and laughed for very gladness.

"O foolish youth—O youthful fool!" quoth he, "surely thou of all fools art greatest, a youthful, god-like fool! O mighty son of mighty father, how mighty hath thy folly been! O lovely lad that hath attempted deeds impossible, pitting thyself 'gainst Ivo and all his might! Verily, Beltane, thou'rt the loveliest fool that ever man did love—"

"Nay, but dear messire," says Beltane as Sir Benedict stayed for breath, "pray thee, where is thy meaning?"

"Sweet lad, I do but strive to tell thee thou'rt a fool, yet so glad am I of thy foolish company the words do stick somewhat, but my meaning shall be manifest—now mark me! Didst not carry off the Red Pertolepe 'neath the lances of his men-at-arms?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Didst not have thy hand on the throat of that cold, smiling rogue Sir Gui of Allerdale?"

"Verily, messire."

"And hold within thy grasp the life of that foul-living Gilles of Brandonmere, whose father I slew twelve years agone, I thank God!"

"'Tis true, good Benedict."

"And didst not suffer these arch-knaves to live on and work their pestilent wills, Beltane?"

"Sir, I did, but—"

"So art thrice a fool. When we see a foul and noxious worm, to tread it under foot is a virtuous act. So when a man doth constant sin 'gainst man and maid, to kill him—"

Quoth Beltane:

"Sir Gui and Gilles of Brandonmere have made an end of sinning, methinks."

"Why 'tis so I've heard of late, Beltane, and herein is some small comfort; but Red Pertolepe is yet to slay—"

"Truly!" cried Beltane, clenching his fists, "and he marcheth on Winisfarne, to burn and hang—"

"Content you, my lord Beltane, Waldron of Brand lieth in Winisfarne, and I am here—"

"So doth my heart rejoice for thee, Benedict, thou right trusty and doughty friend. But how came ye hither, and wherefore? Methought thee yet in Thrasfordham!"

"Aha, dear lad, so doth Ivo at this moment, I pray God. A week agone and, ere the investment was complete, wondrous news reached me from Waldron of Brand, whose sire bore my pennon in thy noble father's wars. And because I knew Waldron's word is ever less than his deed, and, belike, that I grow weary of sieges (seven have I withstood within these latter years) I, at dead of night, by devious and secret ways, stole forth of Thrasfordham—dight in this armour new-fashioned (the which, mark me! is more cumbrous than fair link-mail) howbeit, I got me clear, and my lord Beltane, here stand I to aid and abet thee in all thy desperate affrays, henceforth. Aha! methinks shall be great doings within the greenwood anon!"

"Aye, but what of Thrasfordham? An Duke Ivo besiege it—"

"He shall find five hundred and more right doughty fellows, with Sir Richard of Wark and Sir Brian of Shand (that were armour-bearers to thy knightly sire) to keep him in play."

"And what would ye here, Sir Benedict?"

"Fight, Beltane, fight! Methinks he shall lack nothing for hard smiting that rideth with thee—hey, boy, I do yearn amain for the shock of a charge!"

"My company is but small, alas!" sighed Beltane.

"'Tis so I've heard, my Beltane," quoth Sir Benedict, and smiling his wry smile, he took a small hunting-horn that hung about his neck, "let us therefore make it larger—"

"How so—how so, good Benedict?—Ha! mean you—"

"Watch now!"

So saying, Sir Benedict set the horn to his lip and winded it three times loud and shrill, and thereafter stood with hand upraised. And lo! upon the stillness a sound that grew and grew—a whisper, a rustling as of strong wind in trees, and presently upon the high banks to north and east and west a great company appeared, horse-men and footmen, whose armour flashed 'neath the moon, while high o'er bascinet and helm rose deadly pike and ponderous lance, rank upon rank, a very forest.

Quoth Sir Benedict loud-voiced, and pointing to the grim array:

"Behold, lord Duke, hither have I brought thee five hundred archers and pike-men, with three hundred knights and men-at-arms, and each and every a man well tried and chosen, all vowed to follow thee and smite in Pentavalon's cause even as I, their lord, that do love thee for thy noble father's sake and for thine own sweet and knightly worth!"

So saying, Sir Benedict fell upon his knee before that great assemblage and caught Beltane's hand and kissed it; whereon, from those gleaming ranks rose a deep and thunderous shout while lance and spear-head flashed again.

Now looking from this right goodly array to the proud and war-like figure that bent so humbly at his feet, Beltane's heart swelled amain and all things grew blurred and misty in his sight.

"Sir Benedict," said he hoarse-voiced, "thou good and noble knight—O Benedict, dear my friend, kneel not to me. For thy so great love, thy faith and loyalty, fain would I thank thee—yet words be so poor, and I—O, Benedict—"

"Lord," said Benedict, "our camp lieth scarce three miles westward, come, I pray thee—"

"Nay, first come ye, friend, and look upon a dead witch that was indeed a noble woman."

So Beltane brought Sir Benedict where lay the dead Jolette, smiling yet as though into the eyes of God. Now beholding her, Sir Benedict beckoned Roger and bid him stimmon certain of his company, forthwith; and when Roger hasted back with divers awestruck fellows at his heels, they stood staring, amazed to behold these two great knights humbly kneeling side by side to pray for the soul of her who, all her days, had been scorned of men as the witch Jolette.



CHAPTER LV

HOW THEY MARCHED FOR WINISFARNE

At peep of day the trumpets blew, and Beltane, starting up from slumber, found the great camp all astir about him; the smoke of a hundred watch-fires rose up into the stilly air of morning and made a fragrant mist amid the trees beneath which armour glinted as guard relieved guard and the new-waked companies mustered under arms. And ever as the sun rose the bustle waxed and grew, with a coming and going about the fires where the morning meal was preparing; here a mighty furbishing of arms and armour, yonder a prodigious hissing and so-hoing where chargers and pack-horses were picketed, line upon line—goodly beasts that stamped and snorted and whinnied joyously—and everywhere was noise and cheer of talk and laughter; yet everywhere was method and a strict orderliness in all things, wherefore Beltane's very heart sang within him.

Now as he stood thus, viewing all things keen-eyed and watchful, he was presently aware of Sir Benedict and Black Roger who walked together within a distant alley; and as they passed them to and fro Black Roger talked amain, what time Sir Benedict seemed to hearken right solemn and attentive, oft pausing to question him quick and eager, and oft to clap hand to Roger's brawny back; and sometimes laughed he blithe and joyous and sometimes hearkened with grizzled head a-droop, until a turn in the glade hid them from sight.

Little by little, above the resinous fragrance of the fires rose other scents more delectable to the nostrils of a hungry man, thus, waking from his meditations Beltane turned him wistfully towards where, above the nearest fire, a goodly cooking pot seethed and bubbled invitingly. But even now a hand slipped within his arm and holding him thus, Sir Benedict viewed him joyful-eyed and smiled on him his wry and twisted smile.

"Beltane," said he, wagging his head, "O Beltane, thou wilt mind how upon a time as I drank a bowl of milk with thee amid the green in Mortain, I did warn thee that she had red hair and was like to prove a spit-fire, therefore!"

Now hereupon my Beltane must needs catch his breath and flush to the ears of him, and therewith strive to look at his ease, like the very youth he was.

"How, messire, hath Roger babbled to thee?"

"Babbled?" quoth Sir Benedict, shaking his head, "nay, Roger is no babbler of secret matters, for many do ken of thy love, Beltane—and I am thy friend, so is thy happiness my happiness. Thus do I say God and the sweet saints bless thee in thy love, dear lad, for a right noble lady is Helen the Beautiful and meet to thine embracements. By her so great love, by her proved faithfulness shalt thou yet win to happiness—"

"Nay, dear my Benedict, first must Pentavalon win to peace."

"Aye, by Helen's noble love, for—"

"O Sir Benedict, I have sworn an oath!"

"Aye, sweet lad, but Roger hath prayed a prayer!"

"Hath he told thee so much, Benedict?"

"So much," quoth Sir Benedict, pressing his arm, "so much, O man, that hereafter needs must I love thee and honour thee the more. Since man art thou, my Beltane, for all thy so great youthfulness."

"Nay, Benedict, am none so youthful."

"Thy very speech doth prove thee so, yet, being boy, thou art forsooth a man to-day."

"And wherefore?"

"For that to-day I do know more of thee. 'Tis suffering, 'tis sorrow nobly borne doth make the man, Beltane."

"Suffering, messire?"

"Yon lock of hair showeth very white amid the gold, Beltane, but thou art better man therefore, methinks. The fetters of thy dungeon yet gleam upon thy wrists, Beltane. But truly I do think within thy prison was forged the sword shall avenge our woes and free Pentavalon at last."

"Think you indeed, thou wise Benedict, that we by grief and sorrow do rise to find our nobler selves?"

"Aye verily! 'Tis but by sorrow and suffering our strength or weakness groweth manifest, Beltane."

"Yet—O Benedict—I did doubt her—plied her with scornful tongue and— drave her lonely from me!"

"And dost grieve amain, and sorrow therefore, O youth!"

"Yea, indeed, indeed—sleeping and waking!"

"And do yearn to woo her to forgiveness on thy knees, to crush her in thine arms and kiss her breath away, O Lover?"

"Aye, dear Sir Benedict, in such sort and so greatly that my passion oft doth fright me, so fiercely do I yearn and long—yet tremble and grow faint at thought of it!"

"Yet art thou here, bedight in arms, O man—thy yearning body far removed from all temptation till thou hast proved thee worthy her embrace! And thus it is I know thee for a man, my Beltane!"

"And thou, Benedict, thou hast yearned and trembled with love ere now, thou hast been a lover once, methinks?" But here Sir Benedict fell to silence, walking with face averted and gaze bent towards the dewy grass, and quickened his steps until they were come nigh unto the camp. Then lifted he his head; quoth he:

"My lord Beltane, how think you of this thy new-found company?"

"Men—ha! men, good Benedict—soldiers born and bred!"

"Forsooth, and 'neath mine own eye, Beltane. There is not one but I have watched him in the stress of battle. Body o' me, but I have chosen needfully, there is none but hath proved his worthiness! See you the little man yonder, in half-mail with sword as great as himself—he that pipeth shrill-voiced as a boy? 'Tis Prat who alone stood off a score what time I lay wounded and pinned beneath my charger. Mark ye yon lusty fellow beside him? 'Tis Cnut that, single-handed, hewed him a path through Ivo's battle and bare away his own banner, the which doth grace my hall at Thrasfordham e'en now. And yonder is Dirk that was a slave, yet fighteth like a paladin. And there again is Siward, that with his brother maintained the sallyport 'gainst Ivo's van what time they drave us from the outer bailey. And yonder Cedric—but so could I name them each and every—ha! there sounds the welcome tucket! Come, let us break our fast, and there be many knights and esquires and gentles of degree do wait to pay thee homage."

So presently came they into the midst of the camp, where, seated on the mossy ling, hungry and expectant, were many noble lords and gentle knights and esquires of degree, who, beholding Sir Benedict with Beltane, rose up with one accord. Young men were these for the most part, yet were there many grizzled heads and wrinkled brows among them— grim lords of the old Duke's following much versed in war, calm of judgment and wise in council; but one and all did they stare upon my Beltane in wonder at his youth because of his so famous deeds.

Now spake to them Sir Benedict, short and soldier-like:

"My lords, this is he of whom ye all have heard, Beltane hight, son of Beltane our Duke, for whom we together have held Thrasfordham so long and painfully. My lord Beltane, of all the knights and nobles of the Duke thy father's days, here do stand, sire or son, all that have withstood Black Ivo. Behold here Sir Bertrand, that was thy father's seneschal of Pentavalon City. Here, Sir John of Griswold whose sire bare thy father's banner, wherefore Griswold is ashes long since. Here Hubert of Erdington, that was thy father's marshal-of-the-field. Here, Hacon of Trant, that was wont to lead thy father's vanward, and here, Sir Brian of Hartismere, brother to Eric, called the Wry-neck. So now, all's said, my lord, wherefore I pray, let us eat."

Forthwith down they sat together on the grass, all and sundry, and ate and drank and laughed and talked, insomuch that in brake and thicket near and far the birds carolled and chattered in pretty mockery.

"Lord Beltane," quoth Sir Benedict when the meal was ended, "ere I met thee, 'twas my intent this hour to march on Winisfarne, according to my promise to Waldron of Brand, how say you?"

"Forsooth," nodded Beltane, "as soon as ye will."

Thus, within the hour, the trumpets brayed 'to horse' and all was seeming hurry and confusion; yet a confusion, this, governed by soldierly method, so that, ere long, horsemen were mounted and footmen in array what time Beltane, bedight in goodly vizored casque, with lance and shield borne behind him, came where stood Sir Benedict beside a great and noble war-horse.

Forthwith Beltane mounted, and forthwith from these well-ordered ranks a great shout arose:

"Beltane—the Duke—the Duke!"

Now, reining in his eager beast, Beltane looked upon that stern array, and as he looked his eye kindled and his heart swelled within him.

"O men!" said he, "I that ye do acclaim am but a man even as ye are men, to bear with ye the heat and labour of the day. What ye must endure that will I endure with you. Here stand I, ready to spill my blood that Wrong may cease. Even as ye, I am prepared to adventure me, life and limb, that Lust and Murder may cease to be and Innocence and Truth may walk again all unashamed. So shall I lead ye into battles and affrays desperate and bloody, where foes shall be a-many and we, few. But we do fight for hearth and home, and the thought of this, methinks, shall nerve us strong as giants. Yet is our way a perilous way, and some of us, belike, must die. But, by the blood of such, this our country is hallowed unto those that shall come after us, so shall our memories teach others how to die—and better—how to live that this our country may stand, hereafter, for all things great and noble. He that dieth for home and children shall, mayhap, from the floor of heaven, look down upon a great and happy people whose freedom he—by weary marches, by pain of wounds, by sharp and sudden death—he himself hath helped to purchase, and, in their peace and happiness, find an added joy.

"O men! who would not be a man to fight in such just cause? Who would not cherish life that he might lose it to such noble purpose?

"Now therefore, all ye that do love Pentavalon—follow!"

Thus saying, my Beltane wheeled his horse; and with rhythmic ring and clash, together, rank on rank, horsemen and footmen, they followed hard behind, a silent, grim array, with eyes that gleamed 'neath helm and bascinet, and purposeful hands that griped full strong on lance and spear-shaft, as, coming to the forest-road, they swung away northwards towards Winisfarne.



CHAPTER LVI

WHAT THEY FOUND AT WINISFARNE

Two and two they rode—for the way was oft-times narrow—their flanks well covered by light-armed archers who marched within the green, with mounted archers far in their van and others in their rear.

A glory of sun dappled their way with dancing shadows, flowers were a-bloom in bank and hedgerow, and birds carolled blithe in the fragrant air, what time Sir Benedict rode beside Beltane, his ponderous casque a-swing at saddle-bow; and oft he turned his grizzled head to view my thoughtful Beltane as one might look upon a son, new-found.

Now in a while Beltane turned and meeting his look reached out to him his hand.

"Dear Benedict," said he, "how much—how very much I owe to thee. Thou art methinks the greatest knight that e'er couched lance—"

"Save thy noble father!" quoth Sir Benedict with solemn nod.

"My father—you were his esquire and much-loved comrade, Benedict?"

"I was, Beltane."

"Knew you my mother well, also?"

"Thy mother? Why—aye, forsooth, I—knew thy mother—very well, Beltane."

"What manner of woman was she, I pray?"

"The fairest and noblest these eyes have e'er beheld!"

"The—noblest?"

"And purest! Hark ye, Beltane, and mark me well—there ne'er lived wife of so stainless honour as the noble woman that bare thee!"

"And yet," sighed Beltane, with wrinkled brow, "within the garden of Pentavalon—my father—"

"Thy father was a sick man, faint with wounds and spent with hardship. All that day, as we rode unto Pentavalon City, he and I, his mind oft wandered and he held wild talk in his fever. But hale was I, mind and body, and I do know the Duke thy father fell to strange and sudden madness upon that dreadful day, whereby came woe to Pentavalon, and bitter remorse to him. This do I swear, thy mother was noble wife and saintly woman!"

"Loved she my father?"

"Aye, verily—she was his wife! Thy father was a noble knight and peerless—and oft warring on the marches, but methinks—she was something lonely—at times, Beltane."

"Alas!" sighed Beltane, and again "Alas!" So fell they incontinent to deep thought and rode full long in silence. But ever and anon as they paced along together thus, Sir Benedict must needs lift his head to gaze upon my Beltane, and his grim lips curved to smile infinite tender, and in his eyes was growing wonder.

Quoth he at last:

"Beltane, d'ye mark this our silent company, not a stave have they carolled since we set forth! But how shall a man sing and jest whose heart is set on great emprise? Verily thy words have fired e'en this shrivelled heart o' mine till I, even as they, methinks, do burn to fight Pentavalon's cause, to shield her from woeful shame and—ha!— such vile sights as yon!"

Now looking where Sir Benedict pointed, Beltane beheld a thing, crookedly contorted, a-dangle from a knotted branch that jutted athwart the way, insomuch that the must needs stoop, cowering in his saddle, lest he touch the twisted feet of it.

"Dead three days I judge!" mused Sir Benedict. "Much is possible to the Red Pertolepe in three days. And he hath a great and powerful following, 'tis said!"

Quoth Beltane, pale-cheeked and frowning a little:

"So would I have it, Benedict—they shall be the more for us to smite!"

"I've heard he musters full three thousand, Beltane."

"What then, good Benedict? Yon poor, dead thing we passed but now was worth a score of men to us—and there will be others—Sir Pertolepe loveth to see men hang! So perchance, ere we come to Winisfarne, the strength of thousands shall lie within these arms of ours."

"'Tis a fair thought, lad—aye, 'tis a right fair thought! May all the poor souls done thus to sudden, cruel death, march within our slender ranks and smite with us, shoulder to shoulder, henceforth!"

And now as they went, came they on many and divers signs of the Red Pertolepe's passing; here a smouldering heap of ruin whereby lay pale, stiff shapes half hidden in the grass—yonder a little child outstretched as though asleep, save for wide eyes that looked so blindly on the sun: and there, beyond, upon the white dust of the road, great gouts and pools that had trickled from something sprawled among the underbrush.

And the soft wind crooned and whispered in the leaves—leaves that parting, showed other shapes swung high in air, whose pallid faces looked down on them, awful-eyed, from the tender green, faces drawn and haggard, with teeth agleam or open mouths whence screams had come, but very silent now until the Day of Judgment.

So rode they, with death above them and around, death in many hateful shapes; and oft Sir Benedict bowed his head as one that prayed, the while his strong hands knit themselves to iron fists; and oft from those grim ranks behind a sound went up to heaven, a sound ominous and low, that was like unto a moan.

Thus marched they, through heat and dust, through cool, green shadow, splashing through noisy brook and shallow ford, until, as the sun reached the zenith, they came to the brow of a hill and saw afar the walls and roofs of the prosperous town of Winisfarne.

And ever as they drew nearer. Sir Benedict stared on it, his black brows close-knit, and fingered his square chin as one puzzled.

"Beltane," quoth he at last, "'tis full ten years since I saw Winisfarne, and yet—meseemeth—it looked not so! 'Tis as though I missed somewhat, and yet—"

But now came Roger, a dusty figure, spurring from the rear:

"Master," he cried, pointing with eager finger, "O master, the keep— where is the great keep that stood yonder?"

"Aye, verily—the keep!" nodded Sir Benedict, clapping mailed hand to thigh, "and 'twas a great and mighty hold as I do mind me!"

Now looked they gloomily on each other and halted their array what time Sir Benedict passed word for bows to be strung and every eye and every ear to be strained right needfully; then moved they on again.

Betimes they reached the outskirts of the town, for defences it had none, but no man moved therein and no sound reached them but the noise of their own going. Thus, in a while, with hands tight-clenched and lips firm-set they rode into the desolation of the market-place befouled by signs of battle fierce and fell, while beyond, a mass of charred ruin, lay all that was left of Winisfarne's once great and famous keep.

Now above this ruin divers gibbets had been set up, and behold! these gibbets each bore a heavy burden. Then Beltane lighted from his horse, and going apart, laid by his casque and sat him down, his head bowed betwixt his hands as one that is direly sick. In a while as he sat thus, heedless of all things, cometh Roger.

"Master," said he, "saw ye the gibbets yonder?"

"I saw them, Roger."

"Upon those gibbets be divers of our good fellows, master. There is Diccon and Peter of my company of pikes, and Gregory that was a fair good bowman, and there be others also—and master, these be not hanged men!"

"Not hanged—?"

"No, master! All these our men died in battle, as their wounds do testify—they were dead men already when Pertolepe hanged them on his gibbets. And Walkyn is not here, wherefore, methinks, he liveth yet. And Pertolepe is not here, yet where Pertolepe is, there shall we surely find Walkyn, for Walkyn hath sworn full oft—ha! master— master, behold what cometh here—see, yonder!"

Then Beltane arose, and looking where Roger pointed, beheld a strange, misshapen thing, half beast, half man, that ran wondrous fleetly towards them, and, as it ran, flourished aloft a broken sword; now was he lost to sight behind some bush or quick-set, now he bounded high over stream or stone or fallen tree—nought was there could let or stay him—until he came where stood Sir Benedict's outposts, to whose conduct he yielded him forthwith and so was presently brought into the market-square.

A wild figure this, great and hairy of head and with the arms and shoulders of a very giant; bedight was he in good link-mail, yet foul with dirt and mire and spattered with blood from heel to head, and in one great hand he griped still the fragment of a reddened sword. All a-sweat was he, and bleeding from the hair, while his mighty chest heaved and laboured with his running.

So stood he betwixt his brawny captors what time he panted hoarse and loud, and stared about him fierce-eyed 'neath beetling brows. Thus, of a sudden he espied my Beltane standing bare-headed in his youthful might, whereon this monstrous man forthwith dashed aside his stalwart guards as they had been babes, and ran towards Beltane with hairy hands outstretched, whereon sprang Roger to front him, dagger a-gleam; but lo! Roger was caught up in those mighty arms and shaken helplessly. "Fool!" cried this grim fellow, "think ye I would harm Beltane that is my most loved lord henceforth? I am Ulf, called the Strong, and, as this my hateful body is strong, so is my love—lie there!" So saying, Ulf laid Roger upon his back, and coming to Beltane, fell upon his face before him and caught his mailed feet and kissed them.