WHICH SPEAKETH FOR ITSELF
It was not the piping of throstle or sweet-throated merle that had
waked my Beltane, who with slumberous eyes stared up at carven canopy,
round him upon rich arras, and down upon embroidered bed-covering and
silken pillow, while through the narrow lattice the young sun played
upon gilded roof-beam and polished floor. So lay Beltane, blinking
sleepy eyes and hearkening to a soft and melodious whistling from the
little garden below his casement.
Being thus heavy with sleep, he wondered drowsily what great content
was this that filled him, and wherefore? Wondering yet, he sighed, and
because of the sun's radiance, closed slumberous eyes again and would
have slept; but, of a sudden the whistling ceased, and a rich, sweet
voice fell to gentle singing.
"Hark! in the whisper of the wind
Love calleth thee away,
Each leaf a small, soft voice doth find,
Each pretty bird doth cry in kind,
O heart, haste north to-day."
Beltane sat up broad awake, for Blaen lay to the north, and in Blaen--
But Giles was singing on:
"Youth is quick to speed away,
But love abideth ever.
Fortune, though she smile to-day,
Fickle is and will not stay,
But true-love changeth never.
"The world doth change, as change it must,
But true-love changeth never.
Proud ambition is but dust,
The bow doth break, the sword doth rust,
But love abideth ever."
Beltane was leaning half out of the casement, of the which fact who so
unconscious as Giles, busily furbishing armour and bascinet.
"Giles!" he cried, "O Giles--rouse ye, man!"
"How, lord--art awake so early?" questioned Giles, looking up innocent
of eye.
"Was it not for this thou didst sing, rogue Giles? Go now, bid Roger
have three horses saddled, for within the hour we ride hence."
"To Mortain, lord?" questioned Giles eagerly.
"Aye, Giles, to Mortain--north to Blaen; where else should we ride
to-day?"
So saying, Beltane turned back into his sumptuous chamber and fell to
donning, not his habiliments of state, but those well-worn garments,
all frayed by his heavy mail. Swift dressed he and almost stealthily,
oft pausing to glance into the empty garden below, and oft staying to
listen to some sound within the massy building. And thus it was he
started to hear a soft knocking at the door, and turning, beheld Sir
Benedict.
"Forsooth, art up betimes, my lord Duke," quoth he, bright eyes
a-twinkle, "and verily I do commend this so great zeal in thee since
there be many and divers matters do need thy ducal attention--matters
of state and moment--"
"Matters of state?" saith Beltane, something troubled.
"There be many noble and illustrious lords come in to pay thee homage
and swear to thee divers fealty oaths--"
"Then must they wait, Benedict."
"Wait, my lord--men so illustrious! Then this day a deputation waiteth
on thee, merchants and what not--"
"These must wait also, Benedict--" saith Beltane, his trouble growing.
"Moreover there is high festival at the minster with much chanting and
glorification in thy behalf--and 'tis intended to make for thee a
triumphal pageant--fair maidens to strow flowers beneath thy horse's
feet, musicians to pleasure thee with pipe and tabor--and--"
"Enough, enough, Benedict. Prithee why must I needs endure this?"
"Such things do wait upon success, Beltane, and moreover thou'rt Duke!
Aye, verily thou'rt Duke! The which mindeth me that, being Duke, it
behoveth thee--"
"And yet, Benedict, I do tell thee that all things must wait awhile,
methinks, or better--do you attend them for me--"
"Nay--I am no Duke!" quoth Sir Benedict hastily.
"Yet thou art my chiefest counsellor and lord Seneschal of Pentavalon.
So to thy wise judgment I do entrust all matters soever--"
"But I have no warranty, thou cunning boy, and--"
"Shalt have my bond, my ducal ring, nay, the very crown itself, howbeit
this day--"
"Wilt ride for Mortain, O lover?" said Sir Benedict, smiling his wry
smile.
"Aye, verily, dear Benedict, nor shall aught under heaven let or stay
me--yet how knew ye this, Benedict?"
"For that 'tis so my heart would have prompted had I been so blessed as
thou art, dear my Beltane. And knowing thou needs must to thy beauteous
Helen, I have a meal prepared within my chamber, come your ways and let
us eat together."
So came they to a handsome chamber hard by where was spread a goodly
repast whereto they did full justice, though talking much the while,
until one tapped lightly upon the door, and Roger entered bearing
Beltane's new-burnished mail.
"Nay, good Roger," said Beltane, smiling, "need for that is done
methinks; we ride light to-day!" But Sir Benedict shook wise head.
"My lord 'tis true our wars be ended I thank God, and we may sheathe
our swords at last, but the woods be full of Black Ivo's scattered
soldiery, with outlaws and other masterless men."
"Ha, verily, lords," quoth Roger, "there shall many turn outlaw,
methinks--"
"Then must we end outlawry!" said Beltane, frowning.
"And how would'st do it, Beltane?"
"Make an end of the game laws, Benedict--throw wide the forests to all
who will--"
"But master, thus shall every clapper-claw rogue be free to kill for
his base sport thy goodly deer, or belike a hart of ten, fit for sport
of kings--"
"Well, let them in this thing be kings. But I do hold a man's life
dearer than a stag's. So henceforth in Pentavalon the woods are free--I
pray you let this be proclaimed forthwith, my lord."
Quoth Sir Benedict, as with Roger's aid Beltane did on his armour:
"There is a postern beyond the pleasaunce yonder shall bring you forth
of the city and no man the wiser."
"Why, then, bring ye the horses thither, Roger, and haste ye!"
Now when Roger was gone, Sir Benedict arose and setting his hands on
Beltane's shoulders questioned him full serious:
"Mean ye forsooth to make the forests free, Beltane?"
"Aye, verily, Benedict."
"This shall cause much discontent among the lords--"
"Well, we wear swords, Benedict! But this I swear, whiles I am Duke,
never again shall a man hang for killing of my deer. Moreover, 'tis my
intent forthwith to lower all taxes, more especially in the market
towns, to extend their charters and grant them new privileges."
"Beltane, I fear thy years shall be full of discord."
"What matter, an my people prosper? But thou art older and much wiser
than I, Benedict, bethink thee of these things then, I pray, and judge
how best such changes may be 'stablished, for a week hence, God
willing, I summon my first council. But now, dear Benedict, I go to
find my happiness."
"Farewell, my lord--God speed thee, my Beltane! O lad, lad, the heart
of Benedict goeth with thee, methinks!" and Sir Benedict turned
suddenly away. Then Beltane took and clasped those strong and able
hands.
"Benedict," said he, "truer friend man never had than thou, and for
this I do love thee--and thou art wise and valiant and great-hearted,
and thou didst love my noble mother with a noble love, and for this do
I love thee best of all, dear friend."
Then Benedict lifted his head, and like father and son they kissed each
other, and together went forth into the sweet, cool-breathing morn.
Beyond the postern were Giles and Black Roger with the horses, and
Giles sang blithe beneath his breath, but Roger sighed oft and deep.
Now being mounted, Beltane reined close beside Sir Benedict and smiled
full joyous and spake him thus, low-voiced:
"Dear Benedict, to-day one that loveth thee doth ride away, but in a
week two that love thee shall return. And needs must these two love
thee ever and always, very greatly, Benedict, since but for thee they
had not come to their joy." So saying, he touched spur to flank and
bounded away, with Giles and Roger spurring behind.
Soon were they free of the city and reaching that rolling down where
the battle had raged so lately, Beltane set his horse to a stretching
gallop, and away they raced, over upland and lowland until they beheld
afar to their right the walls and towers of Belsaye. But on they rode
toward the green of the woods, and ever as they rode Giles sang full
blithely to himself whiles Roger gloomed and sighed; wherefore at last
the archer turned to clap him on the shoulder.
"What aileth thee, my Rogerkin?" quoth he.
"Ha," growled Roger, "the world waggeth well with thee, Giles, these
days, but as for me--poor Roger lacketh. Saint Cuthbert knoweth I have
striven and likewise plagued him sore upon the matter, and yet my
belt--my accursed belt yet beareth a notch--behold!"
"Why, 'tis but a single notch, Roger."
"Yet a notch it is, forsooth, and how shall my heart go light and my
soul clean until I have a belt with notches not one?"
"Belike thou hast forgot some of the lives thou didst save, Roger--mine
thou didst save four times within the battle, I mind me--"
"Nay, 'twas but twice, Giles."
"Why, then 'twas thrice, Roger--the banner hampered me and--"
"'Twas but twice, alack!" sighed Roger, "Saint Cuthbert knoweth 'twas
but twice and being a very watchful saint may not be cheated, Giles."
"Why then, Roger, do ye beset him in prayer, so, while thou dost hold
him in play thus, I will snick away thy solitary notch so sweetly he
shall never know--"
"Alack, 'twill not avail, Giles. I must needs bear this notch with me
unto the grave, belike."
"Nay, Roger, I will to artifice and subtle stratagem on thy behalf as--
mark me! I do know a pool beside the way! Now if I slip within the pool
and thou should'st pull me from the pool--how then? Ha--'tis well
bethought, let's do't!"
"Were it any but Saint Cuthbert!" sighed Roger, "but I do thank thee
for thy kindly thought, Giles."
Now after this went they some way in silence, Beltane riding ahead very
full of thought, and his companions behind, the one smiling and
debonair, the other frowning and sad.
"Forsooth," quoth Giles at last, "as thou sayest, Roger, the world
waggeth well with me. Hast heard, belike, our lady Duchess hath been
pleased to--"
"Aye, I've heard, my lord Bailiff--who hath not?"
"Nay, I did but mention it to two or three," quoth Giles. "Moreover our
lord doth smile on me these days, though forsooth he hath been familiar
with me since first I found him within the green--long ere he found
thee, Rogerkin! I rode a white ass, I mind me, and my lord walked
beside me very fair and soft-spoken, whereupon I called him--Sir Dove!
O me--a dove, mark you! Since when, as ye know, we have been comrades,
he and I, nay, brothers-in-arms, rather! Very close in his counsels!--
very near to all his thoughts and actions. All of the which cometh of
possessing a tongue as ready as my wit, Rogerkin!"
Now as he hearkened, Roger's frown grew blacker and his powerful hand
clenched upon the bridle.
"And yet," quoth Giles, "as I am in my lord's dear friendship, so art
thou in mine, Roger, man, nor in my vaulting fortunes will I e'er
forget thee. Belike within Mortain shalt aid me in my new duties, or
shall I speak my lord on thy behalf?"
"Ha!" cried Roger suddenly, "first tell me this, my lord Steward and
high Bailiff of Mortain, did the Duke my master chance ever to take thy
hand, to wet it with his tears and--kiss it?"
"Art mad, Roger! Wherefore should my lord do this?"
"Aye," nodded Roger, "wherefore?"
And when Giles had whistled awhile and Roger had scowled awhile, the
archer spake again:
"Hast never been in love, Roger?"
"Never, Saint Cuthbert be praised!"
"Then canst know nought of the joy and wonder of it. So will I make for
thee a song of love, as thus: open thine ears and hearken:
"So fair, so sweet, so pure is she
I do thank God;
Her love an armour is to me
'Gainst sorrow and adversity,
So in my song right joyfully
I do thank God for love.
"Her love a cloak is, round me cast,
I do thank God;
To cherish me 'gainst fortunes blast.
Her love, forgetting evils past,
Shall lift me up to heaven at last,
So I thank God for love."
"Here is a fair song, methinks; dost not wonder at love now, Roger, and
the glory of it?"
"I wonder," quoth Roger, "how long thou shalt believe all this when
thou art wed. I wonder how long thou wilt live true to her when she is
thy wife!"
Now hereupon the archer's comely face grew red, grew pale, his bronzed
hands flew to his belt and leapt on high, gripping his dagger; but
Roger had seen, his fingers closed on the descending wrist and they
grappled, swaying in their saddles.
Grim and silent they slipped to earth and strove together on the ling.
But Roger had Giles in a cruel wrestling-hold, wrenched him, bent him,
and bearing him to earth, wrested away the dagger and raised it above
the archer's naked throat. And Giles, lying powerless beneath, looked
up into Roger's fierce scowling face and seeing no pity there, his pale
cheek grew paler and in his eyes came an agony of broken hopes; but his
gaze quailed not and when he spake, his voice was firm.
"Strike true, comrade!" said he.
The hand above him wavered; the dagger was dashed aside and covering
his face, Black Roger crouched there, his broad shoulders and powerful
figure quaking and shivering. Then Giles arose and stepping to his
dagger, came back with it grasped in his hand.
"Roger!" said he.
Quoth Roger, his face still hidden:
"My throat is bare also, archer!"
"Roger--comrade, give to me thy belt!"
Now at this Roger looked up, wondering.
"My belt?" quoth he, "what would ye, Giles?"
"Cut away thy last notch, Roger--thy belt shall go smooth-edged
henceforth and thy soul clean, methinks."
"But I meant to slay thee, Giles."
"But spared me, Roger, spared me to life and--love, my Rogerkin. O
friend, give me thy belt!"
So Roger gave him the belt, wherefrom Giles forthwith cut the last
notch, which done, they together, like mischievous lads, turned to look
where their lord rode far ahead; and beholding him all unconscious and
lost in thought, they sighed their relief and mounting, went on
together.
Now did Roger oft glance at Giles who kept his face averted and held
his peace, whereat Roger grew uneasy, fidgeted in his saddle, fumbled
with the reins, and at last spake:
"Giles!"
"Aye, Roger!"
"Forgive me!"
But Giles neither turned nor spake, wherefore contrite Roger must needs
set an arm about him and turn him about, and behold, the archer's eyes
were brimming with great tears!
"O Giles!" gasped Roger, "O Giles!"
"Roger, I--I do love her, man--I do love her, heart and soul! Is this
so hard to believe, Roger, or dost think me rogue so base that true
love is beyond me? 'Tis true I am unworthy, and yet--I do verily love
her, Roger!"
"Wilt forgive me--can'st forgive me, Giles?"
"Aye, Roger, for truly we have saved each other's lives so oft we must
needs be friends, thou and I. Only thy words did--did hurt me, friend--
for indeed this love of mine hath in it much of heaven, Roger. And--
there be times when I do dream of mayhap--teaching--a little Giles--to
loose a straight shaft--some day. O sweet Jesu, make me worthy, amen!"
And now Beltane glancing up and finding the sun high, summoned Giles
and Roger beside him.
"Friends," said he, "we have journeyed farther than methought. Now let
us turn into the boskage yonder and eat."
So in a while, the horses tethered, behold them within a leafy bower
eating and drinking and laughing like the blithe foresters they were,
until, their hunger assuaged, they made ready to mount. But of a sudden
the bushes parted near by and a man stepped forth; a small man he,
plump and buxom, whose quick, bright eyes twinkled 'neath his wide-eaved
hat as he saluted Beltane with obeisance very humble and lowly. Quoth he:
"Right noble and most resplendent lord Duke Beltane, I do most humbly
greet thee, I--Lubbo Fitz-Lubbin, past Pardoner of the Holy See--who
but a poor plain soul am, do offer thee my very insignificant, yet most
sincere, felicitous good wishes."
"My thanks are thine. Pardoner. What more would you?"
"Breath, lord methinks," said Giles, "wind, my lord, after periods so
profound and sonorous!"
"Lord Duke, right puissant and most potential, I would but tell thee
this, to wit, that I did keep faith with thee, that I, by means of this
unworthy hand, did set thee beyond care, lift thee above sorrow, and
gave to thee the heaven of thy most warm and earnest desires."
"How mean you, Pardoner?"
"Lord Duke, when thou didst bestow life on two poor rogues upon a time,
when one rogue stole away minded to betray thee to thine enemy, the
second rogue did steal upon the first rogue, and this second rogue bare
a small knife whereof the first rogue suddenly died. And thus Duke Ivo,
thine enemy, came not before Belsaye until thou and thy company were
safe within its walls. So by reason of this poor second rogue,
Pentavalon doth rejoice in freedom. To-day is singing on every village
green--happiness is in the very air, for 'tis Pentavalon's Beltane, and
Beltane is a sweet season; so doth this poor second rogue find him
recompense. Verily art well named, lord Beltane, since in thee
Pentavalon's winter is passed away and spring is come--O happy season
of Beltane, O season of new beginnings and new hopes! So, my lord
Beltane, may it ever be Beltane with thee, may it be sweet spring ever
within thy noble heart. God keep thee and farewell."
So saying the Pardoner turned about, and plunging into the dense green,
was gone.
"A pestilent wordy fellow, lord," quoth Giles, "one of your windy
talkers that talketh that no other talker may talk--now give me a good
listener, say I."
"And yet," said Beltane, swinging to saddle, "spake he truly I wonder?
Had Ivo been a little sooner we had not been here, methinks!"
On they rode, through sun and shadow, knee and knee, beneath leafy
arches and along green glades, talking and laughing together or plunged
in happy thought.
Quoth Beltane of a sudden:
"Roger, hast heard how Giles waxeth in fortune these days?"
"And methinks no man is more worthy, master. Giles is for sure a man of
parts."
"Aye--more especially of tongue, Roger."
"As when he did curse the folk of Belsaye out o' their fears, master.
Moreover he is a notable archer and--"
"Art not envious, then, Roger?"
"Not I, master!"
"What would'st that I give unto thee?"
"Thy love, master."
"'Tis thine already, my faithful Roger."
"And therewithal am I content, master."
"Seek ye nought beside?"
"Lord, what is there? Moreover I am not learned like Giles, nor ready
of tongue, nor--"
"Art wondrous skilled in wood-lore, my Rogerkin!" quoth Giles.
"Forsooth, lord, there is no man knoweth more of forestry than my good
comrade Roger!"
"So will I make of him my chiefest huntsman, Giles--"
"Master--O master!" gasped Roger.
"And set thee over all my foresters of Pentavalon, Roger."
"Why master, I--forsooth I do love the greenwood--but lord, I am only
Roger, and--and how may I thank thee--"
"Come!" cried Beltane, and spurred to a gallop.
Thus rode they through the leafy by-ways, avoiding town and village;
yet oft from afar they heard the joyous throb of bells upon the air, or
the sound of merry voices and happy laughter from village commons where
folk rejoiced together that Ivo's iron yoke was lifted from them at
last. But Beltane kept ever to the woods and by-ways, lest, being
recognised, he should be stayed longer from her of whom he dreamed,
bethinking him ever of the deep, shy passion of her eyes, the soft
tones of her voice, the clinging warmth of her caress, and all the
sweet, warm beauty of her. Betimes they crossed the marches into
Mortain, but it was late evening ere they saw at last the sleepy manor
of Blaen, its white walls and steepy roofs dominated by its one square
watch-tower, above which a standard, stirring lazily in the gentle
air, discovered the red lion of Pentavalon.
And now Beltane's breath grew short and thick, his strong hand trembled
on the bridle, and he grew alternate hot and cold. So rode they into
the echoing courtyard whither hasted old Godric to welcome them, and
divers servants to take their horses. Being ushered forthwith into the
garden, now who so silent and awkward as my Beltane, what time his lady
Duchess made known to him her gentle ladies, among whom sweet Genevra,
flushed of cheek, gazed breathless upon Giles even as Giles gazed upon
her--who so mumchance as Beltane, I say, who saw and heard and was
conscious only of one among them all. And who so stately, so
calm-voiced and dignified as this one until--aye, until they stood alone
together, and then--
To see her sway to his fierce arms, all clinging, yearning womanhood,
her state and dignity forgotten quite! To hear her voice soft and low
and all a-thrill with love, broken with sighs and sinking to
passionate-whispered questioning:
"And thou art come back to me at last. Beltane! Hast brought to me my
heart unharmed from the battle, beloved! And thou didst take no hurt--
no hurt, my Beltane? And art glad to see--thy--wife, Beltane? And dost
love me--as much as ever, Beltane? O wilt never, never leave me
desolate again, my lord--art thou mine--mine henceforth as I am thine,
Beltane? And wilt desire me ever near thee, my lord?"
"Helen," said he, "O my 'Helen the Beautiful'--our wars be ended, our
time of waiting is done, I thank God! So am I here to claim thee,
beloved. Art glad to be in mine arms--glad I am come to--make thee mine
own at last, Helen?"
"I had died without thee, Beltane--I would not live without thee now,
my Beltane. See, my lord, I--O how may I speak if thus you seal my
lips, Beltane? And prithee how may I show thee this gown I wear for
thee if thou wilt hold me so--so very close, Beltane?"
And in a while as the moon rose she brought him into that bower he well
remembered and bade him admire the beauty of her many flowers, and he,
viewing her loveliness alway, praised the flowers exceeding much yet
beheld them not at all, wherefore she chid him, and yet chiding,
yielded him her scarlet mouth. Thus walked they in the fragrant garden
until Genevra found them and sweet-voiced bid them in to sup. But the
Duchess took Genevra's slender hands and looked within her shy, sweet
eyes.
"Art happy, sweet maid?" she questioned.
"O dear my lady, methinks in all this big world is none more happy than
thy grateful Genevra."
"Then haste thee back to thy happiness, dear Genevra, to-morrow we will
see thee wed."
And presently came they within a small chamber and here Beltane did off
his armour, and here they supped together, though now the lady Helen
spake little and ate less, and oft her swift-flushing cheek rebuked the
worshipping passion of his eyes; insomuch that presently she arose and
going into the great chamber beyond, came back, and kneeling at his
feet, showed him a file.
"Beltane," said she, "thou didst, upon a time, tell poor Fidelis
wherefore thy shameful fetters yet bound thy wrists--so now will thy
wife loose them from thee."
Then, while Beltane, speaking not, watched her downbent head and busy
hands, she filed off his fetters one by one, and kissing them, set them
aside.
But when she would have risen he prevented her, and with reverent
fingers touched the coiled and braided glory of her hair.
"O Helen," he whispered, "loose me down thy hair."
"Nay, dear Beltane--"
"My hands are so big and clumsy--"
"Thy hands are my hands!" and she caught and kissed them.
"Let down for me thy hair, beloved, I pray thee!"
"Forsooth my lord and so I will--but--not yet."
"But the--the hour groweth late, Helen!"
"Nay--indeed--'tis early yet, my lord--nay, as thou wilt, my Beltane,
only suffer that I--I leave thee a while, I pray."
"Must I bide here alone, sweet wife?"
"But indeed I will--call thee anon, my lord."
"Nay, first--look at me, my Helen!"
Slowly, slowly she lifted her head and looked on him all sweet and
languorous-eyed.
"Aye, truly--truly thine eyes are not--a nun's eyes, Helen. So will I
wait thy bidding." So he loosed her and she, looking on him no more,
turned and hasted into the further chamber.
And after some while she called to him very soft and sweet, and he,
trembling, arose and entered the chamber, dim-lighted and fragrant.
But now, beholding wherefore she had left him, his breath caught and he
stood as one entranced, nor moved, nor spake he a while.
"O Helen!" he murmured at last, "thou art glorious so--and with thy
long hair--"
But now, even as he came to her, the Duchess Helen put out the little
silver lamp. But in the moonlit dusk she gave her lips to his, and her
tender arms were close about him.
"Beltane," she whispered 'neath his kiss, "dear my lord and husband,
here is an end at last of sorrow and heart-break, I pray."
"Here--my Helen, beginneth--the fulness of life, methinks!"
Now presently upon the stillness, from the court below, stole the notes
of a lute and therewith a rich voice upraised in singing:
"O when is the time a maid to kiss?
Tell me this, now tell me this.
'Tis when the day is scarce begun,
'Tis from the setting of the sun.
Is time for kissing ever done,
Tell me this, now tell me this."
THE END