HOW BELTANE SWARE AN OATH
Slowly the days sped, dewy dawn and tender eve, days of sun and shadow
and gentle rain; golden days wherein Beltane lay 'twixt sleep and
wake, and nights of silver wherein he slept full deep and dreamed
wondrously of gentle hands that soothed him with their touch, and warm
soft lips on cheek and brow that filled him with a great and deep
content.
And in these days, who so cheery as Black Roger, full of a new-found
gaiety, who laughed for small reason and ofttimes for none at all and
was forever humming snatches of strange song as he stooped above pipkin
and pannikin. Much given was he also to frequent comings and goings
within the green to no apparent end, while Beltane, within the little
cave, lay 'twixt sleep and waking; moreover, full oft as they ate their
evening meal together, he would start, and falling to sudden silence,
sit as one that hearkens to distant sounds. Yet withal was he ever
heedful of Beltane's many wants, who, as health came, grew more eager
to be gone, but finding himself too weak, straightway waxed moody and
rebellious, whereat smiling Roger waxed firm, so needs must frowning
Beltane be bathed and bandaged and swallow his draught--because of She
who had so commanded.
Now it befell upon a certain evening as Roger bent to peer into the pot
that seethed and bubbled upon the fire and to sniff its appetising
savour, he presently fell a-singing to himself in a voice gruff yet
musical withal; whereupon Beltane, turning languid head, fell to
watching this new Roger, and thereafter spake on this wise:
BELTANE. "What do ye so oft within the green?"
ROGER. "Hunt, that we may eat, master."
BELTANE. "I have seen thee go full oft of late and leave thy bow
behind, Roger."
ROGER. "Whereby I judge that though thine eyes be shut ye do not always
slumber, master, and methinks our supper is done--"
BELTANE. "Nay--what do ye in the green?"
ROGER. "Master, thy horse Mars hath a proud spirit and snorteth against
his bonds. So, lest he break thy slumber, have I made him a shelter of
wattles in the green."
BELTANE. "Truly, Roger, thou art greatly changed methinks."
ROGER (starting). "As how, master?"
BELTANE. "I have heard thee called Roger the grim, and Roger the surly,
ere now."
ROGER (shaking woeful head). "Ere now, lord, I hanged men, conceiving
it my duty."
BELTANE. "And to-day you sing--and wherefore?"
ROGER. "For joy in life, master."
BELTANE. "And thou dost laugh, surly Roger--oft-times for little
reason, meseemeth."
ROGER. "For that my heart is renewed within me, master. Happiness is my
bedfellow and companion--here is good reason for laughter, methinks."
BELTANE. "And wherefore art thou happy, Roger?"
ROGER. "Item first: thou dost mend apace, lord. Item second: this mess
of venison hath a savour most delectable. Item third: happiness is the
birthright of every man. Moreover I have learned that behind the
blackest cloud is a glory of sun, and beyond sorrow, joy. So do I
rejoice that all is like to be well with thee."
BELTANE (bitterly). "Well with me, say you? Is Pentavalon free, Roger?
Do I not lie here, weak and helpless--my company scattered? O, call you
this well, forsooth?"
ROGER. "'Tis true thou art weak as yet, master, but thou shalt rise
again stronger than aforetime--aye, thou shalt arise indeed, and all
Pentavalon with thee. So let thine heart rejoice and sing, as mine
doth."
BELTANE (fiercely). "O evil day, that ere I gave my heart to woman's
love, so do I lie here a useless thing--O day accursed!"
ROGER. "O day most blessed, since woman's love hath lifted thee from
death and shall be thy glory and Pentavalon's salvation, master!"
BELTANE (eagerly). "Roger--Roger, speak you of the Duchess Helen? What
mean you, man?"
ROGER. "There be signs and portents, master, the very air is full o'
them. Whiles we tarry here, others be up and doing--"
BELTANE. "Others, Roger?"
ROGER. "Notably Walkyn o' the Axe, master!"
BELTANE. "Ha! and what of Walkyn?"
ROGER. "He smiled, master, as I told thee ere this, and when Walkyn
smileth it behoveth others to be wary. So now do I tell thee that
Walkyn hath taken and burned Duke Ivo's great Castle of Brandonmere,
that Winisfarne city hath risen 'gainst the Duke and all the border
villages likewise--aha! master, there be scythe-blades and good brown
bills a-twinkle all along the marches eager to smite for freedom and
Pentavalon when time is ripe!"
BELTANE (rising upon his knees). "Forsooth, is this so? O Roger, is
this so in very truth?"
ROGER. "'Tis very truth, master. Upon my sword I swear it!"
BELTANE. "But whence had ye the wondrous news--how--when?"
ROGER. "Master, 'twas three nights agone, as I wrestled prodigiously in
prayer on thy behalf, one came to me and spake me many things
marvellous good to hear. Moreover, I have met divers folk within the
greenwood and upon the forest-road yonder, and with all do I hold
converse."
Then to Roger's amaze Beltane rose up, and standing square upon his
feet lifted hands and eyes to heaven. "Now glory be to the living God,"
quoth he, "that hath heard the prayers of such as I. So now do I swear,
come life, come death, to walk my appointed way sword in hand,
henceforth, nor will I turn aside for man or woman, heeding not the
lure of friendship or of love. I do swear never to look upon a woman to
love--"
ROGER (fearfully). "Master--master!"
BELTANE. "Nor to suffer woman's love to come 'twixt me and my duty--"
ROGER (despairingly). "O master, swear it not--swear it not--"
BELTANE. "Nor shall aught let or stay me until Pentavalon win to
freedom or my poor soul return whence it came. And this do I swear to
the ears of God!"
Now turned he to Roger, bright-eyed and with hands tight-clenched.
"Roger," said he, "thou art witness to this my oath, an I do fail or
falter henceforth, then in that same hour may sharp death be mine. So
now bring to me sword and armour, for this night must I hence."
Now was Roger sore troubled and fain was to speak, but beholding his
master's flashing eye, he presently did as he was commanded. So Beltane
took hold upon the sword and drew it, and looked glad-eyed upon its
broad and shining blade. But when he would have wielded it, behold! he
scarce could lift it; with teeth fierce-clenched he strove against his
weakness until his breath waxed short and the sweat ran from him, but
ever the great blade grew the heavier. Then he groaned to find himself
so feeble, and cried aloud an exceeding bitter cry, and cast the sword
from him, and, staggering, fell into Roger's waiting arms. Forthwith
Roger bare him to the cave and laid him down upon his bed.
"Master," quoth he, "O master, grieve not thyself, thou shalt be hale
and strong anon, but the time is not yet. Comfort ye, comfort ye, my
lord--ere long thou shalt be strong, aye, and mightier e'en than
aforetime. So grieve not nor repine, my master!"
But Beltane lay heeding not, nor would he eat despite all Roger's
wheedling arts; but being fevered and athirst, drank deep of the
sleeping draught, and thereafter, falling to his black humour, turned
his face to the shadows, and, lying thus, straightway fell to weeping,
very silently, because of his so great weakness, until, like a child,
he had wept himself to sleep.
Slowly the moon sank, the fire burned low and Roger snored blissfully
hard by, but Beltane, blessed within his slumbers, dreamed again of one
who stole, light of foot, to lie beside him watchful in the dark and
with warm, soft arms set close about him like the sheltering arms of
that mother he had never known.
Thus slept Beltane, like a weary child upon a mother's breast, and knew
great peace and solace and a deep and utter content.