Chapter II. Sir Andrew D’Arcy
Chapter III. The Knighting of the Brethren
Chapter IV. The Letter of Saladin
Chapter V. The Wine Merchant
Chapter VI. The Christmas Feast at Steeple
Chapter VII. The Banner of Saladin
Chapter VIII. The Widow Masouda
Chapter IX. The Horses Flame and Smoke
Chapter X. On Board the Galley
Chapter XI. The City of Al-Je-Bal
Chapter XII. The Lord of Death
Chapter XIII. The Embassy
Chapter XIV. The Combat on the Bridge
Chapter XV. The Flight to Emesa
Chapter XVI. The Sultan Saladin
Chapter XVII. The Brethren Depart from Damascus
Chapter XVIII. Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine
Chapter XIX. Before the Walls of Ascalon
Chapter XX. The Luck of the Star of Hassan
Chapter XXI. What Befell Godwin
Chapter XXII. At Jerusalem
Chapter XXIII. Saint Rosamund
Chapter XXIV. The Dregs of the Cup
Dedication
R.M.S. Mongolia, 12th May, 1904 Mayhap, Ella, here too distance lends
its enchantment, and these gallant brethren would have quarrelled over
Rosamund, or even had their long swords at each other’s throat. Mayhap
that Princess and heroine might have failed in the hour of her trial
and never earned her saintly crown. Mayhap the good horse “Smoke” would
have fallen on the Narrow Way, leaving false Lozelle a victor, and
Masouda, the royal-hearted, would have offered up a strangely different
sacrifice upon the altars of her passionate desire.
Still, let us hold otherwise, though we grow grey and know the world
for what it is. Let us for a little time think as we thought while we
were young; when faith knew no fears for anything and death had not
knocked upon our doors; when you opened also to my childish eyes that
gate of ivory and pearl which leads to the blessed kingdom of Romance.
At the least I am sure, and I believe that you, my sister, will agree
with me, that, above and beyond its terrors and its pitfalls,
Imagination has few finer qualities, and none, perhaps, more helpful to
our hearts, than those which enable us for an hour to dream that men
and women, their fortunes and their fate, are as we would fashion them.
H. Rider Haggard.
To Mrs. Maddison Green.
“_Two lovers by the maiden sate,
Without a glance of jealous hate;
The maid her lovers sat between,
With open brow and equal mien;—
It is a sight but rarely spied,
Thanks to man’s wrath and woman’s pride._”
— Scott
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Standing a while ago upon the flower-clad plain above Tiberius, by the
Lake of Galilee, the writer gazed at the double peaks of the Hill of
Hattin. Here, or so tradition says, Christ preached the Sermon on the
Mount—that perfect rule of gentleness and peace. Here, too—and this is
certain—after nearly twelve centuries had gone by, Yusuf Salah-ed-din,
whom we know as the Sultan Saladin, crushed the Christian power in
Palestine in perhaps the most terrible battle which that land of blood
has known. Thus the Mount of the Beatitudes became the Mount of
Massacre.
Whilst musing on these strangely-contrasted scenes enacted in one place
there arose in his mind a desire to weave, as best he might, a tale
wherein any who are drawn to the romance of that pregnant and
mysterious epoch, when men by thousands were glad to lay down their
lives for visions and spiritual hopes, could find a picture, however
faint and broken, of the long war between Cross and Crescent waged
among the Syrian plains and deserts. Of Christian knights and ladies
also, and their loves and sufferings in England and the East; of the
fearful lord of the Assassins whom the Franks called Old Man of the
Mountain, and his fortress city, Masyaf. Of the great-hearted, if at
times cruel Saladin and his fierce Saracens; of the rout at Hattin
itself, on whose rocky height the Holy Rood was set up as a standard
and captured, to be seen no more by Christian eyes; and of the Iast
surrender, whereby the Crusaders lost Jerusalem forever.
Of that desire this story is the fruit.
PROLOGUE
Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the king Strong to Aid,
Sovereign of the East, sat at night in his palace at Damascus and
brooded on the wonderful ways of God, by Whom he had been lifted to his
high estate. He remembered how, when he was but small in the eyes of
men, Nour-ed-din, king of Syria, forced him to accompany his uncle,
Shirkuh, to Egypt, whither he went, “like one driven to his death,” and
how, against his own will, there he rose to greatness. He thought of
his father, the wise Ayoub, and the brethren with whom he was brought
up, all of them dead now save one; and of his sisters, whom he had
cherished. Most of all did he think of her, Zobeide, who had been
stolen away by the knight whom she loved even to the loss of her own
soul—yes, by the English friend of his youth, his father’s prisoner,
Sir Andrew D’Arcy, who, led astray by passion, had done him and his
house this grievous wrong. He had sworn, he remembered, that he would
bring her back even from England, and already had planned to kill her
husband and capture her when he learned her death. She had left a
child, or so his spies told him, who, if she still lived, must be a
woman now—his own niece, though half of noble English blood.
Then his mind wandered from this old, half-forgotten story to the woe
and blood in which his days were set, and to the last great struggle
between the followers of the prophets Jesus and Mahomet, that
_Jihad_[1] for which he made ready—and he sighed. For he was a merciful
man, who loved not slaughter, although his fierce faith drove him from
war to war.
[1] Holy War
Salah-ed-din slept and dreamed of peace. In his dream a maiden stood
before him. Presently, when she lifted her veil, he saw that she was
beautiful, with features like his own, but fairer, and knew her surely
for the daughter of his sister who had fled with the English knight.
Now he wondered why she visited him thus, and in his vision prayed
Allah to make the matter clear. Then of a sudden he saw this same woman
standing before him on a Syrian plain, and on either side of her a
countless host of Saracens and Franks, of whom thousands and tens of
thousands were appointed to death. Lo! he, Salah-ed-din, charged at the
head of his squadrons, scimitar aloft, but she held up her hand and
stayed him.
“What do you here, my niece?” he asked.
“I am come to save the lives of men through you,” she answered;
“therefore was I born of your blood, and therefore I am sent to you.
Put up your sword, King, and spare them.”
“Say, maiden, what ransom do you bring to buy this multitude from doom?
What ransom, and what gift?”
“The ransom of my own blood freely offered, and Heaven’s gift of peace
to your sinful soul, O King.” And with that outstretched hand she drew
down his keen-edged scimitar until it rested on her breast.
Salah-ed-din awoke, and marvelled on his dream, but said nothing of it
to any man. The next night it returned to him, and the memory of it
went with him all the day that followed, but still he said nothing.
When on the third night he dreamed it yet again, even more vividly,
then he was sure that this thing was from God, and summoned his holy
Imauns and his Diviners, and took counsel with them. These, after they
had listened, prayed and consulted, spoke thus:
“O Sultan, Allah has warned you in shadows that the woman, your niece,
who dwells far away in England, shall by her own nobleness and
sacrifice, in some time to come, save you from shedding a sea of blood,
and bring rest upon the land. We charge you, therefore, draw this lady
to your court, and keep her ever by your side, since if she escape you,
her peace goes with her.”
Salah-ed-din said that this interpretation was wise and true, for thus
also he had read his dream. Then he summoned a certain false knight who
bore the Cross upon his breast, but in secret had accepted the Koran, a
Frankish spy of his, who came from that country where dwelt the maiden,
his niece, and from him learned about her, her father, and her home.
With him and another spy who passed as a Christian palmer, by the aid
of Prince Hassan, one of the greatest and most trusted of his Emirs, he
made a cunning plan for the capture of the maiden if she would not come
willingly, and for her bearing away to Syria.
Moreover—that in the eyes of all men her dignity might be worthy of her
high blood and fate—by his decree he created her, the niece whom he had
never seen, Princess of Baalbec, with great possessions—a rule that her
grandfather, Ayoub, and her uncle, Izzeddin, had held before her. Also
he purchased a stout galley of war, manning it with proved sailors and
with chosen men-at-arms, under the command of the Prince Hassan, and
wrote a letter to the English lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, and to his
daughter, and prepared a royal gift of jewels, and sent them to the
lady, his niece, far away in England, and with it the Patent of her
rank. Her he commanded this company to win by peace, or force, or
fraud, as best they might, but that without her not one of them should
dare to look upon his face again. And with these he sent the two
Frankish spies, who knew the place where the lady lived, one of whom,
the false knight, was a skilled mariner and the captain of the ship.
These things did Yusuf Salah-ed-din, and waited patiently till it
should please God to accomplish the vision with which God had filled
his soul in sleep.
Chapter I.
By The Waters of Death Creek
From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the
ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like
guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the
twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still
as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded
sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf,
his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were
beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the
splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired
and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in
her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the
bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips,
notwithstanding his father’s Norman blood.
At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the
slow grace which marked her every movement.
“Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?” she asked in
her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent,
seemed quite different to that of any other woman.
“I think so, Rosamund,” he answered. “It would serve to pass the time,
and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we
rode so far to seek, the time—is somewhat long.”
“Shame on you, Wulf,” she said, smiling. “Look upon yonder sea and sky,
at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple—”
“I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your
back and at Godwin’s left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought
myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father’s effigy upon
his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on
its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword,
the same cold, silent face staring at the sky.”
“Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes—that is, if
the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire,”
interrupted his brother.
Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his
blue eyes.
“No, I think not,” he answered; “the deeds you may do, and greater, but
surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk’s
cowl at the last—unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to
heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two—for I have been
wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from
truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth—a maid’s thoughts
are her own—but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and
should be skimmed.”
Rosamund sighed. “I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines
ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of
strange learning—”
“And women are men’s slaves!” interrupted Wulf. “Still, it is natural
that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins,
and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess”—and he bowed the
knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his
earnest reverence—“say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and
niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave
this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?”
She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the
stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin
nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered
perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above
the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen.
Presently she answered him with another question.
“And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D’Arcy and a
Christian maid?”
“The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill
either, and for the second—why, faiths can be changed.”
Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time.
“Wulf, Wulf,” he said sternly, “keep watch upon your tongue, for there
are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I
love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth—”
“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.
“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the
Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her
with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”
“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately,
perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said,
“You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps
his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty
and wisdom.”
“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the
tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad,
the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be
forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother—who, indeed, in such a
case would do right to slay me.”
“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he
spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so
very hard to choose between death and duty?”
“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when
seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than
life.”
“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or—love?”
“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing
round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though
those within it watched us.”
“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”
“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”
“Fish,” said Wulf; “we are at peace in Essex.” Although Rosamund did
not look convinced, he went on: “Now for Godwin’s thoughts— what were
they?”
“Brother, if you would know, of the East also—the East and its wars.”
“Which have brought us no great luck,” answered Wulf, “seeing that our
sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his
heart, which lies at Stangate yonder.”
“How better could he die,” asked Godwin, “than fighting for the Cross
of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By
our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!”
“Aye, he died well—he died well,” said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and
his hand creeping to his sword hilt. “But, brother, there is peace at
Jerusalem, as in Essex.”
“Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter—he whom
we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months
gone—told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin,
sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his
priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And
when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our
grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we
rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these
many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and
count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are
charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red
upon the holy sands of Palestine?”
Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.
“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!”—and he looked at Rosamund,
who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes—“go
when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one
birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.” And suddenly
his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and
tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the
air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a
voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings
beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a
field—“_A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!_” Then he sheathed
his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we
fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!”
Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said:
“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that
will part us. But”—and her voice broke somewhat—“such is the woman’s
lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor
should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not
why”—and she shivered a little—“it comes into my heart that Heaven
often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very
red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the
sunlight. I am afraid—of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for
we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first,
my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter
and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”
“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously. “What is there for you to fear in a
nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”
“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple,
but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.
“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many
have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their
fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without
count.”
Then they turned and entered the old church—one of the first that ever
was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad,
the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day. Here
they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or
her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their
horses, which were tied in the shed hard by.
Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at
Steeple—one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of
Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the
Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which
the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of
Stangate on his right. It was this latter path they chose, since at low
tide the going there is good for horses—which, even in the summer, that
of the inland track was not. Also they wished to be at home by
supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the father of
Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and
perhaps come out to seek them.
For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the
Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry
of curlew and the lap of the turning tide. No human being did they see,
indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and
again by fishermen. At length, just as the sun began to sink, they
approached the shore of Death Creek—a sheet of tidal water which ran a
mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three
hundred yards in breadth. They were well mounted, all three of them.
Indeed, Rosamund’s horse, a great grey, her father’s gift to her, was
famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because
it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the
brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand
where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear
of shouting men or flashing steel.
Now the ground lay thus. Some seventy yards from the shore of Death
Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a
few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path,
beyond which were a swamp and the broad river. Between this tongue and
the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands. It was
an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the
Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of
rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the
creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which
could lie alongside of it even at low tide. This mole had been much
destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below
water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level.
Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick
eyes of Wulf, who rode first—for here the path along the border of the
swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file—caught sight of a
large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole.
“Your fishermen have landed, Rosamund,” he said, “and doubtless gone up
to Bradwell.”
“That is strange,” she answered anxiously, “since here no fishermen
ever come.” And she checked her horse as though to turn.
“Whether they come or not, certainly they have gone,” said Godwin,
craning forward to look about him; “so, as we have nothing to fear from
an empty boat, let us push on.”
On they rode accordingly, until they came to the root of the stone quay
or pier, when a sound behind them caused them to look back. Then they
saw a sight that sent the blood to their hearts, for there behind them,
leaping down one by one on to that narrow footway, were men armed with
naked swords, six or eight of them, all of whom, they noted, had strips
of linen pierced with eyelet holes tied beneath their helms or leather
caps, so as to conceal their faces.
“A snare! a snare!” cried Wulf, drawing his sword. “Swift! follow me up
the Bradwell path!” and he struck the spurs into his horse. It bounded
forward, to be dragged next second with all the weight of his powerful
arm almost to its haunches. “God’s mercy!” he cried, “there are more of
them!” And more there were, for another band of men armed and
linen-hooded like the first, had leapt down on to that Bradwell path,
amongst them a stout man, who seemed to be unarmed, except for a long,
crooked knife at his girdle and a coat of ringed mail, which showed
through the opening of his loose tunic.
“To the boat!” shouted Godwin, whereat the stout man laughed—a light,
penetrating laugh, which even then all three of them heard and noted.
Along the quay they rode, since there was nowhere else that they could
go, with both paths barred, and swamp and water on one side of them,
and a steep, wooded bank upon the other. When they reached it, they
found why the man had laughed, for the boat was made fast with a strong
chain that could not be cut; more, her sail and oars were gone.
“Get into it,” mocked a voice; “or, at least, let the lady get in; it
will save us the trouble of carrying her there.”
Now Rosamund turned very pale, while the face of Wulf went red and
white, and he gripped his sword-hilt. But Godwin, calm as ever, rode
forward a few paces, and said quietly:
“Of your courtesy, say what you need of us. If it be money, we have
none—nothing but our arms and horses, which I think may cost you dear.”
Now the man with the crooked knife advanced a little, accompanied by
another man, a tall, supple-looking knave, into whose ear he whispered.
“My master says,” answered the tall man, “that you have with you that
which is of more value than all the king’s gold—a very fair lady, of
whom someone has urgent need. Give her up now, and go your way with
your arms and horses, for you are gallant young men, whose blood we do
not wish to shed.”
At this it was the turn of the brethren to laugh, which both of them
did together.
“Give her up,” answered Godwin, “and go our ways dishonoured? Aye, with
our breath, but not before. Who then has such urgent need of the lady
Rosamund?”
Again there was whispering between the pair.
“My master says,” was the answer, “he thinks that all who see her will
have need of her, since such loveliness is rare. But if you wish a
name, well, one comes into his mind; the name of the knight Lozelle.”
“The knight Lozelle!” murmured Rosamund, turning even paler than
before, as well she might. For this Lozelle was a powerful man and
Essex-born. He owned ships of whose doings upon the seas and in the
East evil tales were told, and once had sought Rosamund’s hand in
marriage, but being rejected, uttered threats for which Godwin, as the
elder of the twins, had fought and wounded him. Then he vanished—none
knew where.
“Is Sir Hugh Lozelle here then?” asked Godwin, “masked like you common
cowards? If so, I desire to meet him, to finish the work I began in the
snow last Christmas twelvemonths.”
“Find that out if you can,” answered the tall man. But Wulf said,
speaking low between his clenched teeth:
“Brother, I see but one chance. We must place Rosamund between us and
charge them.”
The captain of the band seemed to read their thoughts, for again he
whispered into the ear of his companion, who called out:
“My master says that if you try to charge, you will be fools, since we
shall stab and ham-string your horses, which are too good to waste, and
take you quite easily as you fall. Come then, yield, as you can do
without shame, seeing there is no escape, and that two men, however
brave, cannot stand against a crowd. He gives you one minute to
surrender.”
Now Rosamund spoke for the first time.
“My cousins,” she said, “I pray you not to let me fall living into the
hands of Sir Hugh Lozelle, or of yonder men, to be taken to what fate I
know not. Let Godwin kill me, then, to save my honour, as but now he
said he would to save my soul, and strive to cut your way through, and
live to avenge me.”
The brethren made no answer, only they looked at the water and then at
one another, and nodded. It was Godwin who spoke again, for now that it
had come to this struggle for life and their lady, Wulf, whose tongue
was commonly so ready, had grown strangely silent, and fierce-faced
also.
“Listen, Rosamund, and do not turn your eyes,” said Godwin. “There is
but one chance for you, and, poor as it is, you must choose between it
and capture, since we cannot kill you. The grey horse you ride is
strong and true. Turn him now, and spur into the water of Death Creek
and swim it. It is broad, but the incoming tide will help you, and
perchance you will not drown.”
Rosamund listened and moved her head backwards towards the boat. Then
Wulf spoke—few words and sharp: “Begone, girl! we guard the boat.”
She heard, and her dark eyes filled with tears, and her stately head
sank for a moment almost to her horse’s mane.
“Oh, my knights! my knights! And would you die for me? Well, if God
wills it, so it must be. But I swear that if you die, that no man shall
be aught to me who have your memory, and if you live—” And she looked
at them confusedly, then stopped.
“Bless us, and begone,” said Godwin.
So she blessed them in words low and holy; then of a sudden wheeled
round the great grey horse, and striking the spur into its flank, drove
straight at the deep water. A moment the stallion hung, then from the
low quay-end sprang out wide and clear. Deep it sank, but not for long,
for presently its rider’s head rose above the water, and regaining the
saddle, from which she had floated, Rosamund sat firm and headed the
horse straight for the distant bank. Now a shout of wonderment went up
from the woman thieves, for this was a deed that they had never thought
a girl would dare. But the brethren laughed as they saw that the grey
swam well, and, leaping from their saddles, ran forward a few
paces—eight or ten—along the mole to where it was narrowest, as they
went tearing the cloaks from their shoulders, and, since they had none,
throwing them over their left arms to serve as bucklers.
The band cursed sullenly, only their captain gave an order to his
spokesman, who cried aloud:
“Cut them down, and to the boat! We shall take her before she reaches
shore or drowns.”
For a moment they wavered, for the tall twin warriors who barred the
way had eyes that told of wounds and death. Then with a rush they came,
scrambling over the rough stones. But here the causeway was so narrow
that while their strength lasted, two men were as good as twenty, nor,
because of the mud and water, could they be got at from either side. So
after all it was but two to two, and the brethren were the better two.
Their long swords flashed and smote, and when Wulf’s was lifted again,
once more it shone red as it had been when he tossed it high in the
sunlight, and a man fell with a heavy splash into the waters of the
creek, and wallowed there till he died. Godwin’s foe was down also,
and, as it seemed, sped.
Then, at a muttered word, not waiting to be attacked by others, the
brethren sprang forward. The huddled mob in front of them saw them
come, and shrank back, but before they had gone a yard, the swords were
at work behind. They swore strange oaths, they caught their feet among
the rocks, and rolled upon their faces. In their confusion three of
them were pushed into the water, where two sank in the mud and were
drowned, the third only dragging himself ashore, while the rest made
good their escape from the causeway. But two had been cut down, and
three had fallen, for whom there was no escape. They strove to rise and
fight, but the linen masks flapped about their eyes, so that their
blows went wide, while the long swords of the brothers smote and smote
again upon their helms and harness as the hammers of smiths smite upon
an anvil, until they rolled over silent and stirless.
“Back!” said Godwin; “for here the road is wide; and they will get
behind us.”
So back they moved slowly, with their faces to the foe, stopping just
in front of the first man whom Godwin had seemed to kill, and who lay
face upwards with arms outstretched.
“So far we have done well,” said Wulf, with a short laugh. “Are you
hurt?”
“Nay,” answered his brother, “but do not boast till the battle is over,
for many are left and they will come on thus no more. Pray God they
have no spears or bows.”
Then he turned and looked behind him, and there, far from the shore
now, swam the grey horse steadily, and there upon its back sat
Rosamund. Yes, and she had seen, since the horse must swim somewhat
sideways with the tide, for look, she took the kerchief from her throat
and waved it to them. Then the brethren knew that she was proud of
their great deeds, and thanked the saints that they had lived to do
even so much as this for her dear sake.
Godwin was right. Although their leader commanded them in a stern
voice, the band sank from the reach of those awful swords, and,
instead, sought for stones to hurl at them. But here lay more mud than
pebbles, and the rocks of which the causeway was built were too heavy
for them to lift, so that they found but few, which when thrown either
missed the brethren or did them little hurt. Now, after some while, the
man called “master” spoke through his lieutenant, and certain of them
ran into the thorn thicket, and thence appeared again bearing the long
oars of the boat.
“Their counsel is to batter us down with the oars. What shall we do
now, brother?” asked Godwin.
“What we can,” answered Wulf. “It matters little if Rosamund is spared
by the waters, for they will scarcely take her now, who must loose the
boat and man it after we are dead.”
As he spoke Wulf heard a sound behind him, and of a sudden Godwin threw
up his arms and sank to his knees. Round he sprang, and there upon his
feet stood that man whom they had thought dead, and in his hand a
bloody sword. At him leapt Wulf, and so fierce were the blows he smote
that the first severed his sword arm and the second shore through cloak
and mail deep into the thief’s side; so that this time he fell, never
to stir again. Then he looked at his brother and saw that the blood was
running down his face and blinding him.
“Save yourself, Wulf, for I am sped,” murmured Godwin.
“Nay, or you could not speak.” And he cast his arm round him and kissed
him on the brow.
Then a thought came into his mind, and lifting Godwin as though he were
a child, he ran back to where the horses stood, and heaved him onto the
saddle.
“Hold fast!” he cried, “by mane and pommel. Keep your mind, and hold
fast, and I will save you yet.”
Passing the reins over his left arm, Wulf leapt upon the back of his
own horse, and turned it. Ten seconds more, and the pirates, who were
gathering with the oars where the paths joined at the root of the
causeway, saw the two great horses thundering down upon them. On one a
sore wounded man, his bright hair dabbled with blood, his hands
gripping mane and saddle, and on the other the warrior Wulf, with
starting eyes and a face like the face of a flame, shaking his red
sword, and for the second time that day shouting aloud: “_A D’Arcy! a
D’Arcy! Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!_”
They saw, they shouted, they massed themselves together and held up the
oars to meet them. But Wulf spurred fiercely, and, short as was the
way, the heavy horses, trained to tourney, gathered their speed. Now
they were on them. The oars were swept aside like reeds; all round them
flashed the swords, and Wulf felt that he was hurt, he knew not where.
But his sword flashed also, one blow—there was no time for more—yet the
man beneath it sank like an empty sack.
By St. Peter! They were through, and Godwin still swayed upon the
saddle, and yonder, nearing the further shore, the grey horse with its
burden still battled in the tide. They were through! they were through!
while to Wulf’s eyes the air swam red, and the earth seemed as though
it rose up to meet them, and everywhere was flaming fire.
But the shouts had died away behind them, and the only sound was the
sound of the galloping of their horses’ hoofs. Then that also grew
faint and died away, and silence and darkness fell upon the mind of
Wulf.