HOW BELTANE FOUND PEACE AND A GREAT SORROW
It had been an evening of cloud, but now the sky was clear and the moon
shone bright and round as they reached that desolate, wind-swept heath
that went by the name of Hangstone Waste, a solitary place at all
times but more especially wild and awful 'neath the ghostly moon;
wherefore Roger went wide-eyed and fearful, and kept fast hold of
Beltane's stirrup.
"Ha--master, master!" cried he 'twixt chattering teeth, "did'st not
hear it, master?"
"Nay," answered Beltane, checking his horse, "what was it? where away?"
"'Twas a cry, master--beyond the marsh yonder. 'Tis there again!"
"'Twas an owl, Roger."
"'Twas a soul, master, a poor damned soul and desolate! We shall see
dire and dreadful sights on Hangstone Waste this night, master--holy
Saint Cuthbert! What was yon?"
"Nought but a bat, Roger."
"A bat, lord? Never think so. Here was, belike, a noble knight or a
lusty fellow be-devilled into a bat. Good master, let us go no further
--if thou hast no thought for thyself, have a little heed for poor
Roger."
"Why look ye, good Roger, canst go where thou wilt, but, as for me, I
ride for the White Morte-stone."
"Nay then, an thou'rt blasted this night, master, needs must I be
blasted with thee--yonder lieth the Morte-stone, across the waste. And
now, may Saint Cuthbert and Saint Bede have us in their blessed care,
Amen!"
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.