TELLETH HOW SIR BENEDICT WENT A-FISHING
Next day Sir Bertrand died of his hurts, so they buried him beside
young Sir John of Griswold and sturdy old Hubert of Erdington and a
hundred and twenty and five others of their company who had fallen in
that desperate affray; therefore tarried they a while what time their
sick and wounded grew towards health and strength by reason of the
skill and tender care of the lady Abbess and her nuns.
Now on the afternoon of this day. Sir Benedict being sick a-bed of his
wound, Beltane sat in council among the oldest and wisest of the
knights, and presently summoned Walkyn and Ulf, Roger and Jenkyn o'
the Ford, speaking them on this wise:
"Good comrades, list ye now! These noble knights and I have hither
summoned ye for that ye are of good and approved courage and moreover
foresters born and cunning in wood-lore. As ye do know, 'tis our intent
to march for Belsaye so soon as our wounded be fit. But first must we
be 'ware if our road be open or no. Therefore, Walkyn, do ye and Ulf
take ten men and haste to Winisfarne and the forest-road that runneth
north and south: be ye wary of surprise and heedful of all things. You,
Roger and Jenkyn, with other ten, shall seek the road that runneth east
and west; marching due south you shall come to the northern road where
ye shall wait two hours (but no longer) for Walkyn. Ye are woodsmen!
Heed ye the brush and lower branches of the trees if any be broken,
mark well the track in dusty places and seek ye the print of feet in
marshy places, learn all ye may from whomsoever ye may and haste ye
hot-foot back with tidings good or ill. Is it understood?"
"Aye, lord!" quoth the four.
"And look'ee master," said Jenkyn, "there be my comrade Orson the
Tall, look'ee. His hurt is nigh healed and to go wi' us shall be his
cure--now, look'ee lord, shall he go wi' us?"
"Nay, Roger shall answer thee this, Jenkyn. So now begone and God speed
ye, good comrades all!" Hereupon the mighty four made their obeisance
and hasted away, rejoicing.
Now Sir Benedict's hurt had proved an evil one and deep, wherefore the
Abbess, in accent soft and tender, had, incontinent, ordered him to
bed, and there, within the silken tent that had been Sir Pertolepe's,
Beltane oft sat by, the while she, with slim and dexterous fingers,
washed and anointed and bound the ugly wound: many times came she,
soft-treading, gentle and gracious ever; and at such times Beltane
noticed that full often he would find her deep, sad gaze bent upon him;
he noticed also that though her voice was low and gentle, yet she spake
ever as one 'customed to obedience. Thus it was, that Sir Benedict
being ordered to his couch, obeyed the soft-spoke command, but being
kept there all day, grumbled (albeit to Beltane): being kept there the
second day he fell to muttered oaths and cursing (albeit to Beltane):
but at sunset he became unruly, in so much that he ventured to
remonstrate with the lady Abbess (albeit humbly), whereon she smiled,
and bidding Beltane reach her cup and spoon, forthwith mixed a
decoction and dosed Sir Benedict that he fell asleep and slumbered
amain.
Thus, during this time, Beltane saw and talked much with the lady
Abbess: oft went he to watch her among the sick and to aid her when he
might; saw how fierce faces softened when she bent to touch fevered
brow or speak them cheerily with smiling lip despite the deep and
haunting sadness of her eyes; saw how eagerly rough hands were
stretched forth to furtive touch her white habit as she passed; heard
harsh voices grow sudden soft and all unfamiliar--voices that broke in
murmurous gratitude. All this saw and heard he and failed not, morn and
eve, to kneel him at her feet to hear her bless him and to feel that
soft, shy touch among his hair.
So passed two days, but neither Roger, nor Walkyn, nor Ulf, nor indeed
any of the twenty chosen men had yet returned or sent word or sign,
wherefore Beltane began to wax moody and anxious. Thus it was that upon
a sunny afternoon he wandered beside a little rivulet, bowered in
alder and willow: here, a merry brook that prattled over pebbly bed and
laughed among stones and mossy boulders, there a drowsy stream that,
widening to dreamy pool, stayed its haste to woo down-bending branches
with soft, kissing noises.
Now as Beltane walked beside the stream, head a-droop and very
thoughtful, he paused of a sudden to behold one richly dight in
gambeson of fair-wrought leather artificially quilted and pinked, who
sat ensconced within this greeny bower, his back to a tree, one
bandaged arm slung about his neck and in the other hand a long
hazel-branch trimmed with infinite care, whereunto a line was tied.
"Sir Benedict!" cried Beltane, "methought thee asleep: what do ye so
far from camp and bed?"
"I fish, lad, I fish--I ply a tentative angle. Nay--save thy breath, I
have caught me nothing yet, save thoughts. Thoughts do flock a many,
but as to fish--they do but sniff my bait and flirt it with their
wanton tails, plague take 'em! But what o' fish? 'Tis not for fish
alone that man fisheth, for fishing begetteth thought and thought,
dreams--and to dream is oft-times sweet!"
"But--Benedict, what of the Abbess?"
"The Abbess? Ha, the Abbess, Beltane! Sweet soul, she sleepeth. At noon
each day needs must she sleep since even she is mortal and mortals must
sleep now and then. The Abbess? Come sit ye, lad, what time I tickle
the noses of these pestilent fish. Sit ye here beside me and tell me,
how think ye of this noble and most sweet lady?"
"That, for thy truancy, she will incontinent mix thee another sleeping
draught, Benedict."
"Ha--then I'll never drink it!" quoth Sir Benedict, settling his
shoulder against Beltane and frowning at his line. "Am I a babe,
forsooth, to be dosed to slumber? Ha, by the foul fiend his black dam,
ne'er will I drink it, lad!"
"Then will she smile on thee, sad-eyed, and set it to thy lip, and woo
thee soft-voiced, so shalt thou swallow it every drop--"
"Not so--dear blood of all the saints! Must I be mewed up within an
accursed bed on such a day and all by reason of a small axe-stroke?
Malediction, no!"
"She is wondrous gentle with the sick, Benedict--"
"She is a very woman, Beltane, and therefore gentle, a noble lady sweet
of soul and body! To die for such were joyful privilege, methinks, aye,
verily!" and Sir Benedict, forgetful of his line, drooped his head and
sighed.
"And thou didst know her well--long years agone, Benedict?"
"Aye, long--years--agone!"
"Very well, Benedict?"
"Very well."
"She was 'Yolande' then, Benedict?"
"Aye," quoth Sir Benedict, lifting his head with a start and looking at
Beltane askance, "and to-day she is the lady Abbess Veronica!"
"That shall surely dose thee again and--"
"Ha! bones and body o' me, not so! For here sit I, and here angle I,
fish or no fish, thunder o' God, yes! Aye, verily, here will I sit till
I have caught me a fish, or weary and go o' my own free will--by
Beelzebub I vow, by Bel and the Dragon I swear it! And furthermore--"
Sir Benedict paused, tilted his head and glancing up, beheld the lady
Abbess within a yard of them. Gracious she stood in her long white
habit and shook her stately head in grave rebuke, but beholding his
abashed look and how the rod sagged in his loosened hold, her lips
parted of a sudden and her teeth gleamed in a smile wondrous young and
pleasant to see.
"O Benedict!" said she, "O child most disobedient! O sir knight! Is
this thy chivalry, noble lord--to steal away for that a poor soul
must needs sleep, being, alas! so very mortal?"
"Forsooth and indeed, dear my lady," quoth Sir Benedict, fumbling with
his angle, "the sun did woo me forth--and the wind, see you--the wind--"
"Nay, I see it not, my lord, but I did hear something of thy fearsome,
great oaths as I came hither."
"Oaths, lady?" said Sir Benedict, fingering his chin, "Forsooth and did
I so? Mayhap 'twas by reason that the fish, see you, the pestilent
fish--Ha! Saint Benedict! I have a bite!" Up sprang Sir Benedict,
quite forgetting his wounded arm, capering lightly to and fro, now in
the water, now out, with prodigious stir and splash and swearing oaths
galore, until, his pallid cheek flushed and bright eyes a-dance, he had
won the fish into the shallows and thence landed it right skilfully,
where it thrashed and leapt, flashing in the sun.
"Ha, Yolande!" he cried, "in the golden days thou wert ever fond of a
goodly trout fresh caught and broiled upon a fire of--"
"Benedict!" cried the Abbess, and, all forgetful of his hurt, caught
him by his wounded arm, "O Sir Benedict!" Now, man of iron though he
seemed, Sir Benedict must needs start and flinch beneath her hold and
grow livid by reason of the sharp pain of it; whereat she loosed him of
a sudden and fell away, white hands tight clasped together.
"Ah Benedict!--I have hurt thee--again!" she panted.
"Not so, 'twas when I landed the fish--my lady Abbess!" Now at this she
turned away and standing thus awhile very silent, presently raised her
hand, whereat came two of her gentle nuns.
"Dear my daughters," said she, "take now Sir Benedict unto the camp and
look to his hurt, anoint it as ye have seen me do. Go!"
Nothing speaking, Sir Benedict bowed him humbly to the stately Abbess
and went away between the two white-robed sisters and so was gone.
Slowly the Abbess turned to Beltane who had risen and was regarding her
with a new and strange intensity, and meeting that look, her own glance
wavered, sank, and she stood awhile gazing down into the murmurous
waters; and as she stood thus, aware of his deep-searching eyes, into
her pale cheek crept a flush that deepened and ever deepened.
"My lord," said she, very low and placid-seeming, "why dost thou look
on me so?"
And for all her stately calm, her hand, which had clenched itself upon
the silver crucifix, was woefully a-tremble. "What--is it--my lord
Beltane?"
"A thought, noble lady."
"What is thy thought?"
"Lady, 'tis this--that, an I might find a mother such as thee, then
would I pay her homage on my knees, and love her and honour her for
what I do know her, praying God to make me worthy--!" So saying, he
came a step towards her, faltered, stopped, and reached out appealing
hands to her.
From red to white and from white to red again the colour flushed in
cheek and brow while the Abbess hearkened to his words; then she
looked on him with proud head uplifted and in her eyes a great and
wondrous light, quick and passionate her slim hands came out to meet
his--
A sudden clamour in the air! A clash of arms! A running of swift feet
and Walkyn sprang betwixt them, his face grimed with dust and sweat,
his armour gone, his great axe all bloody in his hand: "Master!" he
cried, "in Winisfarne lieth Pertolepe with over a thousand of his
company, I judge--and in the woods 'twixt here and Winisfarne is Hollo
of Revelsthorne marching on us through the woods with full five
thousand of Ivo's picked levies, new come from Barham Broom!"