meadow-land by patient and efficient monks. The knight was glad to
encounter one day in a neighboring castle a Carthusian prior whom he had
once known in Normandy,--Hugh of Avalon. He invited this churchman to
visit him and discuss this and more important matters. It so happened
that soon after his arrival Marcel the falconer, Eleanor and Roger, and
the squires, Ralph Courtenay and John Lake, were going to try the young
falcons on the border of the marsh. There was nothing strange in Sir
Walter Giffard suggesting that he and Prior Hugh ride along with the
party, for hawking was a sport considered very suitable for churchmen.
But on the way to the marsh the knight and the Prior paid little
attention to the diversion of falconry. They were deep in consideration
of the best way to drain the swamp and deal with it generally.
Eleanor's heart beat fast as they neared the heronry. It was not a
heron, however, which claimed the maiden flight of Mabonde. It was a
woodcock flushed in the edge of a copse. Instantly Roger unhooded the
cherished hunting-bird, Eleanor gave her a toss into the air, and both
sat their horses, eagerly watching her flight. Aloft she soared, the
little bells singing like fairy chimes--then dropped like a plummet.
There was a ripple in the undergrowth where she pounced, she was
recalled to her perch, and presently Marcel, smiling broadly, came up
with the woodcock, its gray-brown feathers hardly even ruffled, though
it was quite dead.
Then Eleanor remembered something. “Oh!” she said pitifully. “O-h!”
She was recalling a summer day when she and Roger had startled a mother
and her chicks from their nest of dead leaves among the grass, the
cleverness with which the tiny balls of fluff had matched themselves
with the foliage and the utter audacity of the mother bird as she
carried them off one by one to safety, under the very eyes of her giant
foes. And now she was setting Mabonde to kill those dainty chicks for
her own pleasure!
Roger had gone off with the squires after a tercel of which great things
were expected, but Sir Walter Giffard, coming up just then, caught sight
of his daughter's woe-begone face. “What is the matter, my little maid?”
he asked.
“Nothing,” Eleanor answered, swallowing with some difficulty and winking
very fast, “but--I--don't think I care to hunt any more to-day, father.
Will you please take Mabonde?”
The knight's eyebrows lifted rather quizzically, but he did not question
this sudden decision. “Ride with me instead, daughter,” he said kindly,
and Eleanor, very subdued and thoughtful, paced along by her father's
side.
On the edge of the fen a cottager came out to beg audience of the
knight, and the Prior began talking with Eleanor about the birds of that
region. She found that he knew them both by their French and English
names, and seemed to love them well. He told her that in the Carthusian
monastery he lived, as did the other monks, in a little cell opening on
a narrow garden-plot. In this garden he toiled during certain hours each
day, tending the pulse, kale, and herbs which made a great part of his
food. One evening a little bird came to share his simple supper, and
returned each day. He fed her, and she earned her food by keeping his
garden clear of grubs, worms and insects. Then for a long time she did
not appear. He feared she had been killed, but at last she came proudly
back with three nestlings just able to fly. This monk had always from
his boyhood had bird-companions. The latest was a wild swan that came
out of the marshes to follow him about. When he went away the swan would
disappear in the marsh, but watched for his return and was always there
to welcome him.
“Sometimes I think,” he added, half to Eleanor and half to her father,
“that there are people like that in this ancient stubbed land--men
like the bittern and the eagle, who will not be tamed. They come to you
sometimes, but they will not be driven.”
“I see,” said the knight thoughtfully. “But what of a man who will take
a gift with one hand and thieve with the other?”
“Some men,” said Hugh of Avalon, “are your friends because you have done
them service, but now and then one is bound to you by service he has
done you--and that is the stronger tie. My swan would not love me as he
does if he came only to be fed.”
The cottager had been complaining that Tammuz and his tribe had been
destroying his crops, and wished them punished. The knight had ridden
over to see, and came back doubtful. He said to the cottager that it
did not seem to him like the work of a spiteful neighbor. Was it not
possible that some four-footed creature had ravaged the crops? The
cottager did not believe that it was. He was sure it was Tammuz. Neither
knew that a lean black-haired peasant, lying along close to the limb of
a great beech tree, had heard every word of the conversation and also
witnessed the little scene with the falcon.
The marsh was very dry, and Sir Walter had a mind to ride into it
a little way and see how far one could really go. If wild hogs were
rooting about the place it would be well to know it. Bidding Eleanor
wait for him in the tiny clearing, he and the Prior pushed their horses
in among the reeds where a ridge offered a fair foothold. Marcel, the
squires and Roger were not far off, having great sport.
Roger was rather disappointed in Eleanor. If she objected to killing
things, why had she been so happy to come, and so fond of her falcon?
The truth was that Eleanor had never thought of Mabonde as a cruel bird.
It was the nature of a falcon to kill its own food. The spice of danger
in the keen talons and fierce beak made her pet even a little more
fascinating. But it seemed different, somehow, when she herself sent the
merlin forth to kill. As she sat waiting for her father, she felt that
never again would she wish to fly falcon at quarry.
There was a grunting and squealing, a rustle and crash in the tangled
undergrowth of the bog, and an immense black boar stumbled out into the
open and charged straight at Eleanor's horse. The startled animal reared
and sprang, Marcel and the squires spurred in toward the clearing and
checked the great brute on that side, and Eleanor had all she could do
to avoid being thrown directly into the path of the furious beast. It
seemed incredible that anything so heavy on such short legs and small
hoofs could move so quickly. The wild boar's tusks, several inches
long and sharp as razors through constant tearing and whetting, slashed
viciously at the terrified horse, and in that cramped space his rage was
as deadly as a lion's. Then a roughly-clad, wild-looking peasant dropped
from a limb on the very back of the creature and sunk his knife to the
hilt in its thick bristling neck. With a snort it bolted into the marsh,
just as Sir Walter and the Prior came out a little distance away and the
falconer and the squires came up on the other side. The peasant, who
had swung himself up into another tree, slid to earth and stood staring
sulkily, as if half minded to follow his late adversary to cover.
The knight and the Prior were pale as ghosts, Marcel was shaking from
head to foot, and the lads gazed at Eleanor as if she had come back from
the dead. She almost had. It was an exceedingly narrow escape. Any one
but a very good rider must have been thrown. The wicked tusks of the
wild boar will easily kill a strong hunting-dog, and the tough, hard
hide was almost like armor. Rarely did a boar-hunt end without the
killing of at least one dog and the wounding of a hunter. If there had
been the slightest reason to think that such danger lurked in the swamp,
the knight would never have left Eleanor where he did. But the herd of
wild hogs had evidently been living on the high ground in the middle,
and not come out until this drought gave them foothold.
Sir Walter beckoned to Tammuz, and the man came like a half-tamed dog,
eyeing his lord warily. “You have given me more than mine own life this
day, Tammuz of the Ford,” he said a trifle unsteadily. “Kneel.” And then
and there Tammuz received his freedom and a hide of land for his own and
his children's after him.
In the following months many hidden things came to light. Tammuz and his
people had enjoyed many a good meal of the flesh of the wild hog, which
is better than that of common swine. They had not encouraged strangers
to come about, partly from a natural dislike to company and partly
because they did not wish to be held responsible for anything that might
happen. A boar-hunt, even with the big powerful mastiffs and the best of
steel spears, was dangerous enough to be called the sport of kings, and
it was only through long practice and unusual strength and agility that
the marshmen had been able to kill any of the herd at all.
The first time that Tammuz ever entered the castle was on the night
of the grand boar-hunt after the marsh was drained, when Sir John
Courtenay, Sir Guilhem de Grantmesnil, Sir Yves de Vescey, and King
Henry himself with several of his courtiers, went forth to slay the
monster of the marsh, and the head of the three-hundred-pound brute was
borne in triumph into the hall. The second time was on a dark night a
little later, when he slipped in at the gate, no one knew how, and asked
to see Sir Walter Giffard.
It was a serious tale he had to tell. The Welsh were on their way to
invade England, knowing that the King was between Shrewsbury and Chester
and had no very great force with him. Tammuz was among the disaffected
peasants who had been relied upon to aid the enemy. But for a long time
now he had had growing doubts about lending his aid to such work. He was
neither blind nor foolish, and he could not help seeing that the people
of the farms and hamlets dwelt in greater security and comfort than they
ever had before that he could remember. He was well aware also that if
the Welsh crossed the border the lords of the frontier castles would
suffer, whoever else did or did not. When Tammuz thought of the brave
and spirited little maiden who had had pity on the woodcock her falcon
killed, and her gracious mother who had nursed sick children and heard
the troubles of the poor, ever since she came to that rude land, he did
not like to think of the torch and the pike of the half-barbaric Welsh
let loose upon the valley. Therefore he had finally made up his mind to
come and warn his lord of the peril in good season.
The knight wasted no time. He sent swift messengers to rouse the
neighboring castles, armed guards turned out to patrol the marches,
another messenger rode eastward to call the King and his troops to the
threatened border. Moreover, the Norman lords did not wait for invasion;
they made the first move themselves. They had no mind to risk their
people and their homes if the thing could be avoided. Thanks to Tammuz,
they knew in what direction the enemy might be expected, and some of the
Welsh chiefs, seeing what was afoot, refused to join in the war at all.
The actual trial of strength took place on bare moorland some ten miles
from the castle of the Giffards. From the battlements it was possible to
see in a very distant way what went on. Lady Philippa, Eleanor and Roger
stood together at a high window, and saw morions glitter in the sun,
lances ranged like an orderly mass of reeds, and at last the King's
banner dipping and lifting over the uneven ground as his reenforcements
rode up. Then far through the fine cold air came trumpet-calls, and
the enemy emerged from their cover in the woods. In comparison with the
disciplined and controlled forces of the English, they seemed a motley
rabble. Moreover, the Norman crossbowmen and the English archers with
their long bows had the pike-bearing Welsh at a terrible disadvantage.
This Roger explained, hopping with excitement, for he was full of
information gathered from Ralph the bowyer, his firm friend.
The battle was a brief one. Before sunset Sir Walter Giffard and his men
came riding home to tell of a speedy and easy victory.
“'Tis all the better,” said the knight, as Lady Philippa helped him
remove his armor. “There is no use in chasing these half-wild chiefs
through their forests. Some day perhaps they will come to us of their
own accord. They know now that it is hopeless to attempt to beat us back
from our own frontier, and I think they will not readily try it again.
There is wisdom in Hugh of Avalon. As he says,--the truest service ever
comes by the road of the wild swan.”
THE LANCES
Straight stood we with our brethren in the wood--
High-crested, strong, and proud,
Fearing no fury of the threatening storm--
Our chanting voices loud
Rose to the mighty bourdon of the gale,
The yelling tempest or the raging sea,
Chanting and prophesying of great days
In centuries yet to be.
The falcon flying down the windy sky,
The swallow poised and darting in the sun,
The guillemot beating seaward through the mist--
We knew them every one,
And heard from them of trumpets wakening war,
Of steadfast beams that roofed our people warm,
Of ships that blindfold through uncharted seas
Triumphant rode the storm.
Now come we to the battle of our dreams,--
The trumpets neigh, the ranks are closing fast
In that stern silence that men keep who know
This hour may be their last--
That they, like us, may riven and useless lie
Ere once again the bright steel greets the sun.
This only pray we--that we may not die
Until our work be done.
IX
THE SWORD OF DAMASCUS
Dickon the smith stood under the great oak tree that sheltered the
forge, weary and sick at heart. There was no better man of his inches in
all Sussex, but the world is not always good to see, even at nineteen.
Dickon's world had been empty ever since the departure of Audrey of the
Borstall Farm, cousin to Edwitha, the wife of his friend Wilfrid the
Potter.
Audrey had made one brief visit to her old home since she had gone to
be a maid to Lady Adelicia Giffard, and in that time not only Dickon but
other youths of the neighborhood had found her comely. Tall and straight
and lissome, with the blue eyes and yellow hair of her people, white as
milk and fair as a wild rose, she was a girl to be remembered--Audrey.
But she cared for none of them and went back to Winchester with her
lady. Since that time Sussex had been no home for Dickon.
He had learned all that any smith of those parts could teach him and all
that he could teach himself, or he might have set his mind to his work.
To Dickon work was more than bread and meat; it was the heart of life.
Now his unquiet mind returned to an old ambition of his, to be a master
armorer. This desire dated from a day in his early teens, when in his
father's absence a Templar stopped to have his horse shod. Dickon could
shoe horses as well as anybody. But when the knight wished a bit of
repairing done on his helmet it was beyond the lad's knowledge, and the
work had to wait until old Adam Smith came back from Lewes.
Meanwhile Dickon had eyed with a great fascination the Templar's sword,
a magnificent piece of steel-work, blade and scabbard ornamented with
curious inlay-work of gold. He dared not ask about it even if he could
have made his question understood. The knight spoke only Norman and a
little mixed French and English, and Dickon knew scarcely a word of any
language but Saxon. When his father had come home and the knight had
gone on his way, Dickon asked eager questions.
“'Tis a sword of Damascus,” the old smith said shortly. “Belike he got
it where he's been--in the Holy Land.”
“Is't holy work then?” The boy knew as much of Palestine as he did of
the planet Mars, the folk of his acquaintance being little given to
pilgrimage.
Adam Smith snorted. “Nay, 'tis paynim work. Damascus is a heathen city.
I mind somebody telling me that the only man that could forge that steel
had been carried off to another country, so that no more of it could be
made. They have a won'erful knowledge of metal-work, those infidels.”
“Belike Satan taught 'em,” grunted Wat of the Weald. “I don't hold wi'
such trickery myself.”
Adam straightened his back and shook his white head. “Satan never did
work as good as yon sword,” he chuckled. “'Tis a joy to the touch. Nay,
lad, Satan teaches men to be idle--that's his cunning.”
Dickon grinned, for Wat was never known to work save when driven, and
like many others of his temper, looked at all devices for the increase
of output with disfavor. Evidently there was no light on the subject of
Damascus blades to be gained here, but the boy never forgot the look of
that sword.
As he grew up he saw and heard other things which fitted in with the
memory--Toledo blades that were said to be Moorish work, damascened
and jeweled daggers, now and then a piece of splendid armor worn in
tournaments where royalty itself looked on--Milanese and Spanish work
rich with gold. But always the keenest edge and finest steel came of
that mysterious heathen forging. Now, thinking of Audrey out in the
great world, he determined to see that world for himself and find out
whether he, a common smith's son, had any chance of learning the secrets
of the Armorer's Guild.
Winchester was a greater city than he had any idea it would be, but he
found his way to the house of Lady Adelicia only to learn that she had
gone to Normandy, taking with her some of her household. Audrey, her own
waiting-woman, had gone with her. Dickon went down to Southampton and
took passage to Calais. He had not much money, but a smith as good as he
was could get a living almost anywhere. There were plenty of English in
Normandy, for both that province and Aquitaine were fiefs held by the
King of England as a vassal of the King of France. It was often said
that the vassal in this case held more land than his lord.
Without much trouble Dickon found the Norman castle he sought, but
to his dismay, the lady was just about to set out on a pilgrimage to
Jerusalem. Sir Stephen Giffard, her husband, had been fighting against
the Moors in Spain, and she feared that he was dead. She had decided
upon this pilgrimage in the hope that her prayers and offerings at the
shrine of Our Lady might avail to bring her husband back to her.
The Sussex youth used all his powers of language, which were limited,
and all his strength of will, which was great, in trying to induce
Audrey to leave service and go home to her people. Audrey was quiet, but
she was as set as Blackcap Down.
“'Tis not my own fancy, Dickon,” she pleaded at last, her blue eyes dim
with tears. “I ha' no love for strange lands,--nor strange folk neither.
But my lady has been ever kind to me, and she is in great trouble. If
she fall ill on the journey there is none but me that knows her ways.
I should ha' no peace if I left her in strange hands. 'Tis my duty,
Dickon. There's no two ways of duty for any christened soul.”
Dickon grew bolder at the sight of those tears. “Audrey,” he said, “when
you come back, and your lady is among her own folk again--then will you
break the silver penny with me?”
“Oh,” said Audrey shyly and quickly, her eyes downcast, “I'll do that
now, if ye like,--Dickon, lad.”
So they broke the coin and each kept half, and said farewell, she for
the sake of her duty and he for the sake of his own honor, which was
bound up with hers. But after she had gone away he was troubled by many
doubts whether he should not have held on, and made her come with him in
spite of herself.
Meanwhile he had no mind to return to England, and found work where he
was. The little shop of Gaston of Abbeville would have interested any
lad in love with the armorer's trade, and it had more attraction for
Dickon than anything else he had found in that place. Wedged in, like
a nutshell in the jaws of a nutcracker, between a round tower built by
Rollo's men and the far older wall of a Roman basilica, it was partly
built of Norman stone-work and partly of oak. Set close to the old Roman
road through Gaul, it was in view of any knight or squire or man-at-arms
who went by, and it was so arranged that all the contents could be seen
at a glance.
The heavy and bulky forge and tools of an English smithy were not to be
seen. Since horses were not shod there, little room was needed, and the
armorer could lay his hand on any tool he needed without taking more
than a step or two. Hammer, tongs, bellows and other belongings not at
the moment in use were hung tidily on the walls. Some of these were most
skillfully shaped to their use, and also ornamented with carving on the
handles. The carving was not only decorative but was so designed as to
give a firmer hold to the hand.
Along the upper part of the rear wall and the end wall on the right,
supported on corbels of stone, was a narrow gallery, built of oak, the
front carved in a series of open interlacing arches. Inside this were
suits of costly armor, and weapons of especial value, which the armorer
kept for sale. A flight of steps closed in by a paneled oaken partition
descended from this gallery to the ground, and on each step was the
straight demure figure of a carved saint in a pointed arch like a
shrine. At the foot the stairway was closed by a door of seasoned oak
reenforced by wrought iron hinges extending almost across its width.
When this door was fastened the treasures in the gallery were safe from
thieves. A little wall-shrine of carved, painted and gilded wood, on
the opposite wall, held a statuette of Saint Eloi, the patron of
metal-workers. In short, the shop, though small, had been made beautiful
with the care of one who loved and reverenced his work.
When Dickon halted there at the close of a dusty summer day Gaston was
engaged in some work for a knight of Saint John, which must be done that
night and needed four hands in place of two. The armorer was doing
it all himself, with the skill of a master-workman, but using much
picturesque French language to relieve his mind.
It did not take a minute after Dickon got a hammer in his hand, for
Gaston's frown to change to a broad and satisfied smile. Here was a
helper after his own ideas--strong, deft, and no talker. Like many men
who love talk for its own sake the master was not fond of chatterboxes.
The job was finished in good and workmanlike fashion, and Gaston,
who knew some English, went on talking while he attended to other odd
matters and waited for his customer.
“If you want to see the world--this is your place. . . . There's not
much that goes along this road that doesn't come to Gaston of Abbeville
some day. . . . Damaskeening? You'll see as much damaskeened work here
as you could in Damascus. . . . Look here, my lad, if you're in want of
work, stay with me till snowfall and see the pilgrims, and the knights,
and the bowmen, and the free companions with their plunder, go by to
the sea. Then ye may go on to Damascus if you're still set on the place,
with some hope of not losing your way.”
This seemed to Dickon a rather good idea. In his brief sojourn in
Abbeville he had come to see the difficulty of travel in a land where no
one understands your questions.
It was as Gaston said. People of all races, kinds and conditions
traveled the highway that ran past the armorers' shop. Once Guy
Bouverel, whom Dickon had met once or twice at Wilfrid's house, gave him
surprised and pleased greeting. A little later came Padraig, the Irish
clerk, on his way to Rouen. Padraig somehow learned about Audrey in the
few hours he spent there.
“I thought 'twas more than hammer and tongs that took you out of
Sussex,” he said. “I wish ye luck, but there's no knowing, Dickon, what
they will do when they are seized with this pilgrimage fever.”
“'Tis not the lass, 'tis her lady,” Dickon muttered, his head in his
hands. “And the worst o't is that I can do nothing but think of her away
there among the paynim. A fine lady's train has no call for such as me.”
Padraig's brows lifted in humorous but sympathetic understanding. “I
see,” he said. “I'll tell the maid, if I see her, that she'll find none
so well worth her while among Saracens--or pilgrims either.”
There was a great jousting at Crecy a little later, and Gaston went
there to deal with certain knights and princes among the tilters, and
left the shop in Dickon's charge. Restless with the magic of a summer
night after he had barred the little place, he wandered away over the
white ancient road. He lay down on a grassy bank, where boughs laden
with drifting blossoms hung over an orchard wall, and looked up at the
stars, thinking.
“'Tes like what they tell of the Saracens' magic,” he said half aloud,
“this that makes a man do what's clean against his own will.”
“Hammer not cold iron, friend,” said a deep voice near by. “Saracen
magic is naught save the wisdom of necessity, and that we all learn in
our time.”