It needs not that I should tell of the farewell of the next day. I
went from Pembroke with many messages for Owen, and a promise that
if I might ever come over with him I would do so. The princess was
busy with the lady who was to cross with Thorgils, and I did not
find one chance of telling her that I thanked her for her warning,
but I found the page who gave me the letter, and bade him tell his
mistress when we had gone that she had taught me to look in the
face of a fellow passenger, which would be token enough that I
understood.
Dunwal and his daughter had some few men and pack horses with them,
and one Cornish maiden who attended Mara, so that we were quite a
little train as we rode from Pembroke toward Tenby in the late
afternoon, with a score of Howel's guards to care for us in all
honour. Part of the way, too, Howel rode, and when we came to the
hill above the Caerau woods, and looked down on the winding waters
again, he said to me:
"I have forgotten to tell you that my men took Evan. By this time
he has met his deserts. I have done full justice on him."
"Thanks, Prince," I said with a shudder, as I minded what I had
saved the man from. "Did your men question him?"
Howel smote his thigh.
"Overhaste again!" he cried in vexation. "That should have been
done; but I bade them do justice on him straightway if they laid
hands on him. They did it."
I said no more, nor did the prince. It was in my mind that he was
blaming himself for somewhat more than carelessness. So presently
he must turn and leave us, and we bade him farewell with all thanks
for hospitality, and he bade me not forget Pembroke, and went his
way.
Then I found Dunwal pleasant enough as a companion, and so also was
Mara, and the few miles passed quickly, until we rode through the
gates of the strong stockade which bars the way to the Danes' town
across the narrow neck of the long sea-beaten tongue of cliff they
have chosen to set their place on. The sea is on either side, and
at the end is an island that they hold as their last refuge if need
is, while their ships are safe under one lee or the other from any
wind that blows.
Far down below us at the cliff's foot, as we rode through the town,
where the houses had been set anywise, like those at Watchet, and
were like them timber built, we could see to our left a little
wharf, and beside it the ship that waited us. And the wind was
fair, and the winter weather soft as one might wish it for the
crossing.
Now, so soon as Thorgils had seen the baggage of the Cornish folk
safely bestowed I had time for a word with him, taking him apart
and walking up the steep hill path from the haven for a little way,
as if to go to the town. And so I told him who this man was, and
what possible danger might be.
He heard with a long whistle of dismay:
"'Tis nigh as bad as crossing with Evan," he said--"but one is
warned. Let them have the after cabin, and do you take the forward
one; it will be safer. Leave me to see to him when we get to
Watchet, for it is in my mind that Gerent will want him. Moreover,
so long as he thinks that you fear him not he will be careless, and
I will watch him. He will want to learn more before he meddles with
you. As for the priest, I will tend him."
So we were content to leave the matter. Presently, when we were at
sea, I do not think that Dunwal or Morfed had spirit left to care
for aught. I know that I had not. I need not speak of that voyage,
save to say that it was speedy, and fair--to the mind of Thorgils,
at least.
At last I slept, nor did I wake till we had been alongside the
wharf at Watchet for two hours, being worn out. Then I found that
Dunwal and his party had gone already, and I wondered, with a mind
to be angry, whereat Thorgils laughed.
"I have even sent them on to Norton with a few of our men to help
him, and they will see that he goes there and nowhere else. You
will find him waiting. I did not want him to fall on you on the
road."
"What is the news?" I asked. "Have you heard aught?"
"The best, I think. Gerent is hunting Tregoz, and Owen has swept up
every outlaw from the Quantocks. Our folk helped him. Some of them
told all they knew when they were taken."
"Then," I said gladly, "Owen knows that I am safe."
"Not so certainly," Thorgils said. "None of our folk can say that
you crossed with me, and as this is the only ship afloat at this
time of the year there is doubt as to where you are. It will be
good for Owen to see you again. What a tale you have for him! On my
word, I envy you the telling."
"Well, then, ride with me to Norton straightway, and you shall tell
all and save me words. Owen shall thank you also for your care for
me."
"What, for letting you sit on my deck while the wind blew? Nay, but
there are no thanks needed between us. You and I have seen a
strange voyage together, and it has ended well. Maybe you and I
will see more sport yet side by side, for I think that we are good
comrades. Let us be going, then, for it was in my mind that I could
not rest until I had seen you safe to your journey's end."
Then I found that he had his own horses ready for us, and two more
men, well armed and mounted also, were waiting with them on the
green where I had been set down in the litter. So in a very short
time Thorgils had told his men all that he would have done about
the ship, and we were riding fast along the road to Norton, while
the thawing snow told of the going of the frost at last.
I had been gone but these few days, but each of them seemed like a
month to look back upon as I rode under the shadow of the hills
that I had last seen as a hopeless captive. It grew warm and soft
as the midday sun shone on us, and the road was muddy underfoot
with the chill water that had filled all the brooks again, but I
hardly noticed the change, so eager was I to be back. Glad enough I
was when we saw the village and the mighty earthworks above it, and
yet more glad when the guards at the gate told us that Owen was
even now in the palace.
I left Thorgils and his men to the care of the guard for the time,
while I went straightway to the entrance doors and asked for speech
with him.
"It is the word of the king that you shall have free admittance
into the palace and to himself at any time, Thane," the captain of
the guards said.
So I passed into the great chamber of the palace that was used as
audience hall for all comers, and also as the court of justice.
The place was full of people, and those mostly nobles, so that I
had to stand in the doorway for a moment to see what was going on.
It was plainly somewhat out of the common, for there were guards
along one end of the room. It seemed as if there were a trial.
Gerent sat in the great chair which one might call his throne at
the upper end of the room, and beside him was Owen. I thought that
my foster father seemed pale and troubled in that first glance, but
I had every reason to know why this was so. Before these two stood
a man, with his back to me therefore, and for the moment I did not
recognise him. On either side of this man were guards, and it was
plainly he who was in trouble, if any one. Gerent was speaking to
him.
"Well," he said, "hither you have come as a guest, and as a guest
you shall be treated. But you must know that here within the walls
of the place you shall abide. If you will give your word to do that
I shall not have to keep you so closely."
"This is not what I had looked for from you, King Gerent," the man
said.
I knew the voice at once, for it was that of Dunwal, my fellow
passenger. So the treachery of his brother must be known, and he
was to be held here as a hostage, as one might say. Gerent's next
words told me that it was so.
"If there is any fault to be found, it is in the ways of your
brother. Blame him that I must needs have surety for his behaviour.
It cannot be suffered that he should go on plotting evil against
us, unchecked in some way."
Dunwal shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that all this was no
concern of his.
"Shall you hold my daughter as well?" he said. "I trust that your
caution will not make you go so far as that."
Gerent's eyes flashed at the tone and words, but he answered very
coldly:
"She will bide here also, and in all honour."
Then he beckoned to a noble who stood near him, and spoke to him
for a moment. It chanced that this was one of the very few whom I
knew here. His name was Jago, and I had often seen him at
Glastonbury, for he was a friend of our ealdorman, Elfrida's
father, holding somewhat the same post in Norton as my friend in
our town. Owen liked him well also, and he was certainly no friend
to Morgan and his party.
"Jago's wife will give your daughter all hospitality in his house,"
Gerent said, turning again to Dunwal. "Have I your word as to
keeping within bounds during my pleasure?"
"Ay, you have it," answered Dunwal curtly.
Then I slipped out of the door quietly, and went to that room where
Owen and I waited on our first coming here, and I sent a steward to
tell him of my arrival. There is no need for me to tell how he
greeted me, or how I met him.
Then when those greetings were over I heard all that had been going
on, and my loss had made turmoil enough. My men had brought back
the news, having missed me very shortly, but it was long before
they found traces of me. The first thing that they saw was my hawk,
as I expected, and after that the bodies of the slain. As I was not
with them, they judged that I had escaped in some way, but they
lost the track of the feet in the woodlands, and so rode back to
Owen in all haste.
Then was a great gathering of men for the hunting of the outlaws,
for it would take a small army to search the wild hills and
woodlands of the Quantocks to any effect. The whole countryside
turned out gladly, and the Watchet Norsemen helped also.
In the end, on the next day they penned the outlaws into some
combe, and took most of them, and then all was told by them, so far
as they knew it. Gerent laid hands on four of the men who had sworn
the oath Evan told me of, that evening after some leading outlaw
had given their names, but Tregoz had escaped.
He had been one of the most active in the matter of the hunt, to
all seeming, and had ridden out with Owen and Jago and the rest.
Then he took advantage of some turn in the hills, when men began to
scatter, and was no more seen. Presently it was plain enough why
this was, when those who were taken were made to speak. Yet it
seemed that he was not so far off, for already an attack had been
made on Owen as he rode beyond the village, though it was no very
dangerous one. Now it was to be hoped that the danger from him was
past, for his brother had been taken the moment he rode into the
gate, and he would suffer if more harm was done.
Then I asked if our king had been told of all this, and I learnt
that he had heard at once, and had written back to Owen to say that
he would pay any ransom that might be asked for me if I yet lived,
as was hoped. The outlaws had told of Evan's plan, but it was not
known if I had been taken out of the country yet.
"All is well that ends well," Owen said; "but I asked Ina not to
say aught of the matter yet for a while. There is one at least in
Glastonbury who might be sorely terrified for you."
He laughed at my red face, for I knew that he meant Elfrida. It was
in my mind, however, that I wished she had heard, for then,
perhaps, she would have been sorry that she had not been kinder to
me--unless, indeed, she was glad that I was out of the way, in all
truth.
Then there was my own long tale to be told, and of course I told
Owen all. It was good to hear him say that he himself could have
done nought but free Evan.
Thereafter we sought Thorgils, who was happy in the guardroom, and
had seemingly been telling my tale there, for the men stared at me
somewhat. I do not suppose that it lost in the telling.
Owen thanked him for his help, and took him to see Gerent; which
saved me words, for the Norseman must needs tell how Evan had
brought me on board his ship, and so we even let him say all that
there was to be said.
After that Gerent loaded him with presents, and so let him go well
pleased.
I went out to his horse with him, and saw him start. His last word
as he parted from me was that if I needed a good axeman at my back
at any time I was to send for him, and so he went seaward, singing
to himself, with the men who had brought Dunwal hither behind him.
After that there was more to say of Howel and his court. It seemed
that Gerent and Owen liked him well, and I wondered that Owen had
not sought him when the trouble fell on him. I think he would not
go to Dyfed as a disgraced man, for I know he could not clear
himself at the time.
Now at supper, presently, there was Dunwal, looking anxious, as I
thought, but trying not to shew it. His daughter Mara was there
also, and as it happened she sat next to me. I suppose the
seneschal set her there as we had crossed from Dyfed together,
unless she had asked it, or gone to that seat without asking. She
was very pleasant, talking of the troubles of the voyage, and so
went on to speak sadly enough of the greater trouble that had
waited her.
"I am glad the king has kept us, however," she said. "I can be
content with the court rather than with our wild Dartmoor, as you
may guess. But all these things are too hard for me, and how any
man can plot against so wonderful looking a prince as Owen passes
me. I cannot but think that there is some mistake, and that my
uncle has no hand in the affair. That will be proved ere long, I do
believe."
I answered that indeed I hoped that it would prove so, and then
asked for Morfed, the priest who had crossed with us, as I did not
see him among the other clergy at the table. She told me that he
had left them, on foot, at the gate of Watchet, making his way
westward, as she believed. He had only joined their party for
easier travelling in Dyfed.
Then she must needs ask me questions about Thorgils' song, and
specially of Elfrida. I had no mind to tell her much, but it is
hard to refuse to answer a lady who speaks in all friendly wise and
pleasantly, so that I had to tell her much the same that I told
Nona the princess, and began to wonder if every lady who had the
chance would be as curious to know all about what story there was.
And that was a true foreboding of mine, for so it was, until I grew
used to it. But all this minded me of Nona and her warning, and I
was half sorry that the priest had not come here, to be taken care
of with Dunwal.
After that night we saw little of these two. Mara went to the house
of Jago, and Dunwal kept to himself about the palace boundaries
within the old ramparts, and seemed to shun notice. As for me, word
went to Ina that all was well, and he sent a letter back to say
that it would please him to know that I was with Owen for a time
yet. So I bided with him, and for a time all went well, for we
heard nought of Tregoz in any way, while another of his friends was
taken and imprisoned in some western fortress of Gerent's. Nor were
there any more attacks made on Owen, so that after a little while
we went about, hunting and hawking, in all freedom, for danger
seemed to have passed with the taking of Dunwal as hostage.
Then one day a guard from the gate brought me a folded paper, on
which my name was written in a fair hand, saying that it had been
left for me by a swineherd from the hill, who said that it was from
some mass priest whom I knew. The guard had let the man go away,
deeming that, of course, there was no need to keep him. Nor had
they asked who the priest might be, as it was said that I knew him.
I took the letter idly and went to my stables with it in my hand,
and opened and read it as I walked.
"To Oswald, son of Owen.--It is not good to sleep in the
moonlight."
That was all it said, and there was no name at the end of it. I
thought it foolish enough, for every one knows that the cold white
light of the moon is held to be harmful for sleepers in the open
air. But I was not in the way of sleeping out in this early season
with its cold, though, of course, it was always possible that one
might be belated on the hills and have to make a night in the
heather of it when hunting on Exmoor or the Brendons. There was not
much moon left now, either.
So I showed the note to Owen presently, and he puzzled over it,
seeing that it could not have been sent for nothing. At last we
both thought that whoever wrote it, or had it written, knew that
some attack would be made on us with the next moon, when it would
be likely that we might be riding homeward by its light with no
care against foes. That might well be called "sleeping in the
moonlight" as things were; and at all events we were warned in
time. The trouble to me was that it seemed to say that danger was
not all past.
However, when there was no moon at all I forgot the letter for the
time, no more trouble cropping up, and but for a chance word I
think that it had not come into my mind again until we were out in
the moonlight at some time. As we sat at table one evening when the
moon was almost at the full again, some one spoke of moonstruck
men, and that minded me, and set me thinking. He said that once he
himself had had a sore pain in the face by reason of the moonlight
falling on it when he was asleep, and another told somewhat the
same, until the talk drifted away to other things and they forgot
it. But now I remembered how that at our first coming here I had
waked in the early hours and seen a patch of moonlight from a high
southern window on the outer wall of the palace passing across
Owen's breast as he slept. Then I was on the floor across the door,
but now I slept in the same place that Owen had that night, while
he was on the couch across the room and under the window. It was
possible, therefore, that the light did fall on my face, but I was
pretty sure that if so it would have waked me.
At all events, if the letter had aught to do with that, it was a
cumbrous way of letting me know that my bed was in a bad place for
quiet sleep. The only thing that seemed likely thus was that the
good priest who wrote had left the palace before he had remembered
to tell me how he had fared in that room once, and so sent back
word. There were many priests backward and forward here, as at
Glastonbury with Ina. Then it seemed plain that this was the
meaning of the whole thing, and so I would hang a cloak over the
window by and by.
And, of course, having settled the question in my own mind, I
forgot to do that, and was like to have paid dearly for forgetting.
Two nights afterward, when the moon was at the full, I woke from
sleep suddenly with the surety that I heard my name called softly.
I was wide awake in a moment, and found the room bright with
moonlight that did indeed lie in a broad square right across my
chest on the furs that covered me. I glanced across to Owen, but he
was asleep, as there was full light enough to see, and then I
wondered why I seemed to have heard that call. In a few moments I
knew that, and also that the voice I heard was the one that had
come to me in sore danger before.
Idly and almost sleeping again I watched the light, to see if
indeed it was going to cross my face, and then a sudden shadow
flitted across it, and with a hiss and flick of feathers a long
arrow fled through the window and stuck in the plaster of the wall
not an inch above my chest, furrowing the fur of the white bearskin
over me, so close was it.
In a moment I was on the floor, with a call to Owen, and it was
well that I had the sense to swing myself clear from the light and
leap from the head of the bed, for even as my feet touched the
floor a second arrow came and struck fairly in the very place where
I had been, and stood quivering in the bedding.
Then was a yell from outside, and before Owen could stay me I
looked through the window, recklessly enough maybe, but with a
feeling that no more arrows would come now that the archer was
disturbed. It needed more than a careless aim to shoot so well into
that narrow slit. Across the window I could see the black line of
the earthworks against the light some fifty paces from the wall of
the palace, with no building between them on this side at all; and
on the rampart struggled two figures, wrestling fiercely in
silence. One was a man whose armour sparkled and gleamed under the
moon, and the other seemed to be unarmed, unless, indeed, that was
a broad knife he had in his hand. Then Owen pulled me aside.
"The sentry has him," he said, after a hurried glance. "Let us out
into the light, for there may be more on hand yet."
Now I hurried on my arms, but another look showed me nothing but
the bare top of the rampart. No sign of the men remained. I could
hear voices and the sounds of men running in the quiet, and I
thought these came from the guard, who were hurrying up from the
gate.
"The men have rolled into the ditch," I said. "I can see nothing
now."
Then we ran out, bidding the captain of the guard to stand to arms
as we passed through the great door of the palace, and so we went
round to the place whence the arrows had come. A score of men from
the gate were already clustered there on the earthworks, talking
fast as Welshmen will, but heedful to challenge us as we came. I
saw that they had somewhat on the ground in the midst of them.
"Here is a strange affair, my Prince," one of them said, as he held
out his hand to help Owen up the earthworks.
The group stood aside for us to look on what they had found, and
that was a man, fully armed in the Welsh way of Gerent's guards,
but slain by the well-aimed blow of a strong seax that was yet left
where it had been driven home above the corselet. There was a war
bow and two more arrows lying at the foot of the rampart, as if
they had been wrested from the hand of the archer and flung there.
The men had not seen these, but I looked for them at once when I
saw that there was no bow on the slain man.
"Who is this?" Owen said gravely, and without looking closely as
yet.
"It is Tregoz of the Dart, whom the king seeks," one or two of the
men said at once.
I had known that it must be he in my own mind before the name was
spoken. There fell a silence on the rest as the name was told, and
all looked at my foster father. There was plainly some fault in the
watching of the rampart that had let the traitor find his way here
at all.
"Which of you was it who slew him?" asked Owen.
"None of us, Lord. We cannot tell who it may have been. Even the
sentry who keeps this beat is gone."
"Doubtless it was he who slew him, and is himself wounded in the
fosse. Look for him straightway."
There they hunted, but the man was not to be found. Nor was it his
weapon that had ended Tregoz.
Then Owen said in a voice that had grown very stern: "Who was the
sentry who should have been here?"
The men looked at one another, and the chief of them answered at
last that the man was from Dartmoor, one of such a name. And then
one looked more closely at the arms Tregoz wore, and cried out that
they were the very arms of the missing sentry, or so like them that
one must wait for daylight to say for certain that they were not
they.
It was plain enough then. In such arms Tregoz could well walk
through the village itself unnoticed, as one of the palace guards
would be, and so when the time came he would climb from some hiding
in the fosse and take the place of his countryman on the rampart,
and the watchful captain would see but a sentry there and deem that
all was well.
Yet this did not tell us who was the one who had wrestled with and
slain him, and Owen told what had been done, while I went and
brought the bow and arrows from the foot of the rampart, in hopes
that they might tell us by mark or make if more than Tregoz and the
sentry were in this business. Then I looked at my window, and,
though narrow, it was as fair a mark in the moonlight as one would
need. Without letting my shadow fall on the sleeper, it was
possible to see my couch and the white furs on it, though it would
be needful to raise the arm across the moonlight in the act of
shooting. It was all well planned, but it needed a first-rate
bowman.
"It was surely Tregoz who shot," one of the men said. "The sentry
who was here was a bungler with a bow. None whom we know but Tregoz
could have made sure of that mark, bright as the night is. Well it
was, Lord, that you were not sleeping in your wonted place."
Owen glanced at me to warn me to say nothing, and bade the men take
the body to the guardroom. They were already cursing the sentry who
had brought shame on their ranks by leaguing himself with a
traitor, and it was plain that there was no need to bid them lay
hands on him if they could. That was a matter that concerned their
own honour.
So we left the guarding of the place in their hands, and they
doubled the watches from that time forward. Then we went and spoke
with the captain of the guard, who yet kept his post at the doors,
as none had called him.
"Maybe I am to blame," he said, when he heard all. "I should not
have left a Dartmoor man from the country whence Tregoz came to
keep watch there. I knew that he was thence, and thought no harm."
"There is no blame to you," Owen said. "It is not possible to look
for such treachery among our own men."
Then we went into our room to show the captain what had been done.
And thence the two arrows had already been taken. The hole in the
plaster where the first struck was yet there, and the slit made by
the second in the tough hide of the bear was to be seen when I
turned over the fur, but who had taken them we could not tell.
Only, it was plain that here in the palace some one was in the plot
and had taken away what might be proof of who the archer had been,
not knowing, as I suppose, that the attempt had failed so utterly.
For an arrow will often prove a good witness, as men will use only
some special pattern that they are sure of, and will often mark
them that they may claim them and their own game in the woodlands
if they are found in some stricken beast that has got away for a
time. It was more than likely that Tregoz would have been careful
to use only such arrows as he knew well in a matter needing such
close shooting as this. Indeed, we afterwards found men who knew
the two shafts from the rampart as those of the Cornishman, without
doubt.
This I did not like at all, for the going of these arrows brought
the danger to our very door, as it were. Nor did the captain, for
he himself kept watch over us for the rest of that night, and
afterwards there was always a sentry in the passage that led to our
room.
We were silent as we lay down again, and sleep was long in coming.
I puzzled over all this, for beside the taking of the arrows there
was the question of who the slayer of Tregoz might be, and who had
written the letter that should have warned us.
In all truth, it was not good to sleep in the moonlight!
Somewhat of the same kind Owen was thinking, for of a sudden he
said to me: "Those arrows were meant for me, Oswald. Did you note
what the man said about my not sleeping in my wonted place?"
"Ay, but I did not know that you had slept on this side. Since I
came back, at least, you have not done so."
Owen smiled.
"No, I have not," he said; "but in the old days that was always my
place, and you will mind that there I slept on the night we first
were here together. That was of old habit, and I only shifted to
this side when you came back, because I knew that you would like
the first light to wake you. Every sentry who crosses the window on
the rampart can see in here if it is light within, but he could not
tell that we had changed places, for the face of the sleeper is
hidden."
Then he laughed a little, and added:
"In the old days when I was in charge of the palace this face of
the ramparts was always the best watched, because the men knew that
if I waked and did not see the shadow of the sentry pass and repass
as often as it should, he was certain to hear of it in the morning.
Tregoz would know that old jest. I suppose Dunwal may have had some
hand in taking the arrows hence."
"It is likely enough," I answered. "He will have to pay for his
brother's deed tomorrow, in all likelihood, also. But who wrote the
letter, and who slew Tregoz?"
Owen thought for a little while.
"Mara, Dunwal's daughter, is the most likely person to have
written," he said. "It would be like a woman to do so, and she
seems at least no enemy. Maybe the man was the sentry, after all,
and fled because he had given up his arms, and so was sharer in the
deed that he repented of. Or he may have been some friend of ours,
or foe of the Cornishman, who would not wait for the rough handling
of the guard when they found him there where he should not be. No
doubt we shall hear of him soon or late."
But we did not. There was no trace of him, or of the writer of the
letter. One may imagine the fury of Gerent when he heard all this
in the morning, but even his wrath could not make Dunwal speak of
aught that he might know. But for the pleading of Owen, the old
king would have hung him then and there, and all that my foster
father could gain for him was his life. Into the terrible old Roman
dungeon, pit-like, with only a round hole in the stone covering of
it through which a prisoner was lowered, he was thrown, and there
he bided all the time I was at Norton.
By all right the lands of these two fell again into the hands of
the king, and he would give them to Owen.
"Take them," he said, when Owen would not do so at first: "they owe
you amends. If you do not want them yourself, wait until you sit in
my seat, and then give them to Oswald, that he may have good reason
for leaving Ina for you."
So Owen held them for me, as it were, and was content. Some day
they might be mine, if not in the days of Ina, whom we loved.
But Gerent either forgot or cared not to think of Mara, Dunwal's
daughter, and she bided in the best house in the town, with Jago's
wife, none hindering her in anything. There was no more sign of
trouble now that Tregoz and his brother were out of the way.