SIR BRIAN'S TROUBLES.
The Oak of Kildhurm does not date back a thousand years. Its exact age
is not known, but it grew to be a sturdy vegetable, great of girth
and royal in its spread of limb. It was first recognisable as a tree
in the hither outskirts of Queen Elizabeth's time, or in King James's
earlier years: about the epoch, say, of the Gunpowder Treason, when the
struggles between King and Parliament which culminated in the rebellion
of two-score years later were just beginning: when people wore ruffs
and tight waists, and cultivated a stiffness of aspect as if they were
continually sitting for their portraits; when the names of Bacon,
Raleigh, Shakespeare, and Drake had as yet acquired no legendary halo;
when gentlemen were haughty and punctilious, wore long swords with
basket hilts, and were bloodthirstily polite in using the same; when
women were almost as beautiful and virtuous as they are at the present
day, but less squeamish upon certain points; when Spain was as much
of a scapegoat for English vituperation as Russia is now; when popery
was not merely a picturesque opinion, but a matter of blazing faggots
and iron virgins; when El Dorado still gleamed along the horizons of
the Spanish main. At about this time it was that two men, riding in
opposite directions along a lonely road, met beneath a huge oak tree,
whose gnarled limbs, thickly clothed with sombre foliage, extended
nearly across the way.
The name of only one of these men has been preserved to us by
tradition. Sir Brian Kildhurm, a valiant knight of Queen Elizabeth's
manufacture, had fought with distinction in the Spanish wars, and
afterwards (though himself of Irish descent) had unsheathed his sword
for the repression of the Irish difficulties of that day. He owned a
fair estate on the coast of Cumberland, a castle with a broad-bottomed
tower on its seaward corner, a little black-haired son, and a very
beautiful wife. With regard to this same wife, however, there was
a difficulty, it would be hard to say exactly what: but, at all
events, the personage who chanced to encounter Sir Brian beneath the
overhanging branches of the oak tree on the lonely road was, in Sir
Brian's opinion, in some way responsible for it.
They reined-in their horses, and exchanged a few words, which were
doubtless of a courteous but hardly of a conciliating tendency. Each
wore some light armour on head, arms, and breasts, high heavy boots,
and the customary sword and dagger. But it is to be noted that, whereas
Sir Brian's sword was of the rapier description, that of his opponent
was a ponderous double-edged weapon, fitter to be wielded with two
hands than with one. Its owner, however, was a man of vast size and
strength, broad of beam and massive of limb, and with a great sheaf
of rough red beard blowing about his face and chest; and he could
flirt the huge sword about as lightly as if it had been a bamboo
walking-stick. Sir Brian, on the other hand, like all the men of his
race, was tall, lithe, agile, and terribly skilful of fence.
It will be understood that these details would not have been dwelt
upon, had the encounter between the two gentlemen been destined to pass
off peacefully. But peace was far from the hearts of either of them.
They meant deadly mischief to one another; and Sir Brian at least had
long looked for an opportunity of doing his share of it. Accordingly,
after levelling a proper amount of fantastic and quaint abuse at one
another, these two sons of Adam dismounted from their steeds, placed
themselves face to face on the greensward beneath the oak tree, and
then and there presently set to work to spill each other's life-blood.
Meanwhile, their horses peaceably cropped the herbage, and took the
little intermission in their labours in very good part.
Sir Brian never appeared to have a chance against his gigantic
adversary. What avails a cunning guard, when sheer strength beats it
down, and when blow follows blow so rapidly and with such outrageous
force, that the wiriest opponent has much ado to hop out of the
way of them, leaving all attempt at retaliation out of the question
for the present? In spite of Sir Brian's best activity, the giant's
weapon several times reached his body, crushing the light plates of
iron armour, and once or twice biting through them to the flesh. 'The
caitiff must needs wax scant of breath ere long,' thought Sir Brian
to himself, as he saw that steel flail flash up and down; but it was
dangerous work waiting for that time to arrive. In a moment a blow
fell upon his helmet, sheared away the left side of it, and grazed the
scalp, so that blood rushed forth and made gory the knight's face and
gorget. A little giddy from this shock, Sir Brian staggered, his knees
bent, and his neck felt an inch or two shorter than was comfortable.
Perceiving this, his enemy resolved to make an end of him forthwith;
for there was no question of giving quarter in this fight, but one
or both must never fight again. Grasping his sword with both hands,
therefore, he poised it for a back-stroke into which he threw the whole
force and weight of his body. Sir Brian, glancing dizzily up, saw the
keen blade glitter above him; then down it came--but not all the way
down! For in mid-descent it came in contact with a low-lying limb of
the oak tree--nine inches thick of hard living wood--sheared through
it to the last half-inch, and the hilt flew from the striker's grasp.
His arms dropped to his sides, tingling to the shoulder. At the same
moment Sir Brian had lunged forward with the strength of despair,
and his rapier passed clean through the neck of the other, who fell
backwards with a groan and a gurgle, breaking the rapier-blade short
off in the wound. He never spoke a word, but bled like a bull, and in a
few minutes was dead.
Sir Brian Kildhurm leaned upon the fragment of his sword, recovering
his breath, and staring at the red-bearded face of his dead enemy.
'So much for my Lady Ursula's sweetheart!' he muttered to himself.
After standing a little longer, he wiped his sword and slapped it home
in the sheath; unlaced and flung away the pieces of his helmet; and at
length, kneeling on one knee beside the burly corpse, he cut open with
his dagger the front of the doublet. A broad gold chain and locket were
revealed, the sight whereof caused Sir Brian's lean visage to wrinkle
itself painfully. He took up the locket, sticky as it was with blood,
and opened it. It contained, not the lock of crisp black hair that he
had put in it ten years ago, but a soft brown coil of a woman's braid.
He closed the locket and thrust it into his bosom. He took his enemy's
dagger, which was richly inlaid and wrought; and finally he broke off
from the branch whose interposition had saved his life a twig with a
cluster of acorns growing upon it. These also he dabbled with blood;
then he mounted and rode slowly away, leaving the corpse and the other
horse beneath the oak tree.
This fight took place on a cool and breezy afternoon in the month of
October, in a small valley between Dent Hill and Ennerdale Water in
Cumberland. The horse remained beside his dead master until nightfall,
because the latter's beard, blowing to and fro in the breeze, made
him seem to be alive. But at night the horse trotted away, and by
sunrise was standing at the gates of a Catholic monastery, fifty miles
south-eastward of that fatal spot.