The Christmas Feast at Steeple
The fourth day after Wulf’s visit to Southminster was Christmas
morning, and the weather being bad, Sir Andrew and his household did
not ride to Stangate, but attended mass in Steeple Church. Here, after
service, according to his custom on this day, he gave a largesse to his
tenants and villeins, and with it his good wishes and a caution that
they should not become drunk at their Yuletide feast, as was the common
habit of the time.
“We shall not get the chance,” said Wulf, as they walked to the Hall,
“since that merchant Georgios has not delivered the wine, of which I
hoped to drink a cup to-night.”
“Perhaps he has sold it at a better price to someone else; it would be
like a Cypriote,” answered Sir Andrew, smiling.
Then they went into the hall, and as had been agreed between them,
together the brethren gave their Christmas gifts to Rosamund. She
thanked them prettily enough, and much admired the beauty of the work.
When they told her that it had not yet been paid for, she laughed and
said that, however they were come by, she would wear both tunic and
veil at their feast, which was to be held at nightfall.
About two o’clock in the afternoon a servant came into the hall to say
that a wain drawn by three horses and accompanied by two men, one of
whom led the horses, was coming down the road from Steeple village.
“Our merchant—and in time after all,” said Wulf, and, followed by the
others, he went out to meet them.
Georgios it was, sure enough, wrapped in a great sheepskin cloak such
as Cypriotes wear in winter, and seated on the head of one of his own
barrels.
“Your pardon, knights,” he said as he scrambled nimbly to the ground.
“The roads in this country are such that, although I have left nearly
half my load at Stangate, it has taken me four long hours to come from
the Abbey here, most of which time we spent in mud-holes that have
wearied the horses and, as I fear, strained the wheels of this crazy
wagon. Still, here we are at last, and, noble sir,” he added, bowing to
Sir Andrew, “here too is the wine that your son bought of me.”
“My nephew,” interrupted Sir Andrew.
“Once more your pardon. I thought from their likeness to you that these
knights were your sons.”
“Has he bought all that stuff?” asked Sir Andrew—for there were five
tubs on the wagon, besides one or two smaller kegs and some packages
wrapped in sheepskin.
“No, alas!” answered the Cypriote ruefully, and shrugging his
shoulders. “Only two of the Mavro. The rest I took to the Abbey, for I
understood the holy Prior to say he would purchase six casks, but it
seems that it was but three he needed.”
“He said three,” put in Wulf.
“Did he, sir? Then doubtless the error was mine, who speak your tongue
but ill. So I must drag the rest back again over those accursed roads,”
and he made another grimace. “Yet I will ask you, sir,” he added to Sir
Andrew, “to lighten the load a little by accepting this small keg of
the old sweet vintage that grows on the slopes of Trooidos.”
“I remember it well,” said Sir Andrew, with a smile; “but, friend, I do
not wish to take your wine for nothing.”
At these words the face of Georgios beamed.
“What, noble sir,” he exclaimed, “do you know my land of Cyprus? Oh,
then indeed I kiss your hands, and surely you will not affront me by
refusing this little present? Indeed, to be frank, I can afford to lose
its price, who have done a good trade, even here in Essex.”
“As you will,” said Sir Andrew. “I thank you, and perhaps you have
other things to sell.”
“I have indeed; a few embroideries if this most gracious lady would be
pleased to look at them. Some carpets also, such as the Moslems used to
pray on in the name of their false prophet, Mahomet,” and, turning, he
spat upon the ground.
“I see that you are a Christian,” said Sir Andrew. “Yet, although I
fought against them, I have known many a good Mussulman. Nor do I think
it necessary to spit at the name of Mahomet, who to my mind was a great
man deceived by the artifice of Satan.”
“Neither do I,” said Godwin reflectively. “Its true servants should
fight the enemies of the Cross and pray for their souls, not spit at
them.”
The merchant looked at them curiously, fingering the silver crucifix
that hung upon his breast. “The captors of the Holy City thought
otherwise,” he said, “when they rode into the Mosque El Aksa up to
their horses’ knees in blood, and I have been taught otherwise. But the
times grow liberal, and, after all, what right has a poor trader whose
mind, alas! is set more on gain than on the sufferings of the blessed
Son of Mary,” and he crossed himself, “to form a judgment upon such
high matters? Pardon me, I accept your reproof, who perhaps am
bigoted.”
Yet, had they but known it, this “reproof” was to save the life of many
a man that night.
“May I ask help with these packages?” he went on, “as I cannot open
them here, and to move the casks? Nay, the little keg I will carry
myself, as I hope that you will taste of it at your Christmas feast. It
must be gently handled, though I fear me that those roads of yours will
not improve its quality.” Then twisting the tub from the end of the
wain onto his shoulder in such a fashion that it remained upright, he
walked off lightly towards the open door of the hall.
“For one not tall that man is strangely strong,” thought Wulf, who
followed with a bale of carpets.
Then the other casks of wine were stowed away in the stone cellar
beneath the hall.
Leaving his servant—a silent, stupid-looking, dark-eyed fellow named
Petros—to bait the horses, Georgios entered the hall and began to
unpack his carpets and embroideries with all the skill of one who had
been trained in the bazaars of Cairo, Damascus, or Nicosia. Beautiful
things they were which he had to show; broideries that dazzled the eye,
and rugs of many hues, yet soft and bright as an otter’s pelt. As Sir
Andrew looked at them, remembering long dead days, his face softened.
“I will buy that rug,” he said, “for of a truth it might be one on
which I lay sick many a year ago in the house of Ayoub at Damascus.
Nay, I haggle not at the price. I will buy it.” Then he fell to
thinking how, whilst lying on such a rug (indeed, although he knew it
not, it was the same), looking through the rounded beads of the wooden
lattice-work of his window, he had first seen his Eastern wife walking
in the orange garden with her father Ayoub. Afterwards, still recalling
his youth, he began to talk of Cyprus, and so time went on until the
dark was falling.
Now Georgios said that he must be going, as he had sent back his guide
to Southminster, where the man desired to eat his Christmas feast. So
the reckoning was paid—it was a long one—and while the horses were
harnessed to the wain the merchant bored holes in the little cask of
wine and set spigots in them, bidding them all be sure to drink of it
that night. Then calling down good fortune on them for their kindness
and liberality, he made his salaams in the Eastern fashion, and
departed, accompanied by Wulf.
Within five minutes there was a sound of shouting, and Wulf was back
again saying that the wheel of the wain had broken at the first turn,
so that now it was lying upon its side in the courtyard. Sir Andrew and
Godwin went out to see to the matter, and there they found Georgios
wringing his hands, as only an Eastern merchant can, and cursing in
some foreign tongue.
“Noble knights,” he said, “what am I to do? Already it is nearly dark,
and how I shall find my way up yonder steep hill I know not. As for the
priceless broideries, I suppose they must stay here for the night,
since that wheel cannot be mended till to-morrow—”
“As you had best do also,” said Sir Andrew kindly. “Come, man, do not
grieve; we are used to broken axles here in Essex, and you and your
servant may as well eat your Christmas dinners at Steeple as in
Southminster.”
“I thank you, Sir Knight; I thank you. But why should I, who am but a
merchant, thrust myself upon your noble company? Let me stop outside
with my man, Petros, and dine with your people in that barn, where I
see they are making ready their food.”
“By no means,” answered Sir Andrew. “Leave your servant with my people,
who will look after him, and come you into the hall, and tell me some
more of Cyprus till our food is ready, which will be soon. Do not fear
for your goods; they shall be placed under cover.”
“All unworthy as I am, I obey,” answered the obsequious Georgios.
“Petros, do you understand? This noble lord gives us hospitality for
the night. His people will show you where to eat and sleep, and help
you with your horses.”
This man, who, he explained, was a Cypriote—a fisherman in summer and a
muleteer in winter—bowed, and fixing his dark eyes upon those of his
master, spoke in some foreign tongue.
“You hear what he says, the silly fellow?” said Georgios. “What? You do
not understand Greek—only Arabic? Well, he asks me to give him money to
pay for his dinner and his night’s lodging. You must forgive him, for
he is but a simple peasant, and cannot believe that anyone may be
lodged and fed without payment. I will explain to him, the pig!” And
explain he did in shrill, high notes, of which no one else could
understand a word.
“There, Sir Knight, I do not think he will offend you so again. Ah!
look. He is walking off—he is sulky. Well, let him alone; he will be
back for his dinner, the pig! Oh, the wet and the wind! A Cypriote does
not mind them in his sheepskins, in which he will sleep even in the
snow.”
So, Georgios still declaiming upon the shortcomings of his servant,
they went back into the hall. Here the conversation soon turned upon
other matters, such as the differences between the creeds of the Greek
and Latin churches—a subject upon which he seemed to be an expert—and
the fear of the Christians in Cyprus lest Saladin should attempt to
capture that island.
At length five o’clock came, and Georgios having first been taken to
the lavatory—it was but a stone trough—to wash his hands, was led to
the dinner, or rather to the supper-table, which stood upon a dais in
front of the entrance to the solar. Here places were laid for six—Sir
Andrew, his nephews, Rosamund, the chaplain, Matthew, who celebrated
masses in the church and ate at the hall on feast-days, and the
Cypriote merchant, Georgios himself. Below the dais, and between it and
the fire, was another table, at which were already gathered twelve
guests, being the chief tenants of Sir Andrew and the reeves of his
outlying lands. On most days the servants of the house, with the
huntsmen, swineherds, and others, sat at a third table beyond the fire.
But as nothing would stop these from growing drunken on the good ale at
a feast, and though many ladies thought little of it, there was no sin
that Rosamund hated so much as this, now their lord sent them to eat
and drink at their ease in the barn which stood in the courtyard with
its back to the moat.
When all had taken their seats, the chaplain said grace, and the meal
began. It was rude but very plentiful. First, borne in by the cook on a
wooden platter, came a great codfish, whereof he helped portions to
each in turn, laying them on their “trenchers”—that is, large slices of
bread—whence they ate them with the spoons that were given to each.
After the fish appeared the meats, of which there were many sorts,
served on silver spits. These included fowls, partridges, duck, and,
chief of all, a great swan, that the tenants greeted by knocking their
horn mugs upon the table; after which came the pastries, and with them
nuts and apples. For drink, ale was served at the lower table. On the
dais however, they drank some of the black wine which Wulf had
bought—that is, except Sir Andrew and Rosamund, the former because he
dared not, and the latter because she had always hated any drink but
water—a dislike that came to her, doubtless, with her Eastern blood.
Thus they grew merry since their guest proved himself a cheerful
fellow, who told them many stories of love and war, for he seemed to
know much of loves, and to have been in sundry wars. At these even Sir
Andrew, forgetting his ailments and forebodings, laughed well, while
Rosamund, looking more beautiful than ever in the gold-starred veil and
the broidered tunic which the brethren had given her, listened to them,
smiling somewhat absently. At last the feast drew towards its end, when
suddenly, as though struck by a sudden recollection, Georgios
exclaimed:
“The wine! The liquid amber from Trooidos! I had forgotten it. Noble
knight, have I your leave to draw?”
“Ay, excellent merchant,” answered Sir Andrew. “Certainly you can draw
your own wine.”
So Georgios rose, and took a large jug and a silver tankard from the
sideboard where such things were displayed. With these he went to the
little keg which, it will be remembered, had been stood ready upon the
trestles, and, bending over it while he drew the spigots, filled the
vessels to the brim. Then he beckoned to a reeve sitting at the lower
table to bring him a leather jack that stood upon the board. Having
rinsed it out with wine, he filled that also, handing it with the jug
to the reeve to drink their lord’s health on this Yule night. The
silver vessel he bore back to the high table, and with his own hand
filled the horn cups of all present, Rosamund alone excepted, for she
would touch none, although he pressed her hard and looked vexed at her
refusal. Indeed, it was because it seemed to pain the man that Sir
Andrew, ever courteous, took a little himself, although, when his back
was turned, he filled the goblet up with water. At length, when all was
ready, Georgios charged, or seemed to charge, his own horn, and,
lifting it, said:
“Let us drink, every one of us here, to the noble knight, Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, to whom I wish, in the phrase of my own people, that he may
live for ever. Drink, friends, drink deep, for never will wine such as
this pass your lips again.”
Then, lifting his beaker, he appeared to drain it in great gulps—an
example which all followed, even Sir Andrew drinking a little from his
cup, which was three parts filled with water. There followed a long
murmur of satisfaction.
“Wine! It is nectar!” said Wulf.
“Ay,” put in the chaplain, Matthew; “Adam might have drunk this in the
Garden,” while from the lower table came jovial shouts of praise of
this smooth, creamlike vintage.
Certainly that wine was both rich and strong. Thus, after his sup of
it, a veil as it were seemed to fall on the mind of Sir Andrew and to
cover it up. It lifted again, and lo! his brain was full of memories
and foresights. Circumstances which he had forgotten for many years
came back to him altogether, like a crowd of children tumbling out to
play. These passed, and he grew suddenly afraid. Yet what had he to
fear that night? The gates across the moat were locked and guarded.
Trusty men, a score or more of them, ate in his outbuildings within
those gates; while others, still more trusted, sat in his hall; and on
his right hand and on his left were those two strong and valiant
knights, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf. No, there was nothing to fear—and yet
he felt afraid. Suddenly he heard a voice speak. It was Rosamund’s; and
she said:
“Why is there such silence, father? A while ago I heard the servants
and bondsmen carousing in the barn; now they are still as death. Oh,
and look! Are all here drunken? Godwin—”
But as she spoke Godwin’s head fell forward on the board, while Wulf
rose, half drew his sword, then threw his arm about the neck of the
priest, and sank with him to the ground. As it was with these, so it
seemed with all, for folk rocked to and fro, then sank to sleep,
everyone of them, save the merchant Georgios, who rose to call another
toast.
“Stranger,” said Sir Andrew, in a heavy voice, “your wine is very
strong.”
“It would seem so, Sir Knight,” he answered; “but I will wake them from
their wassail.” Springing from the dais lightly as a cat, he ran down
the hall crying, “Air is what they need. Air!” Now coming to the door,
he threw it wide open, and drawing a silver whistle from his robe, blew
it long and loud. “What,” he laughed, “do they still sleep? Why, then,
I must give a toast that will rouse them all,” and seizing a horn mug,
he waved it and shouted:
“Arouse you, ye drunkards, and drink to the lady Rose of the World,
princess of Baalbec, and niece to my royal master, Yusuf Salah-ed-din,
who sends me to lead her to him!”
“Oh, father,” shrieked Rosamund, “the wine was drugged and we are
betrayed!”
As the words passed her lips there rose a sound of running feet, and
through the open door at the far end of the hall burst in a score or
over of armed men. Then at last Sir Andrew saw and understood.
With a roar of rage like that of a wounded lion, he seized his daughter
and dragged her back with him down the passage into the solar where a
fire burned and lights had been lit ready for their retiring, flinging
to and bolting the door behind them.
“Swift!” he said, as he tore his gown from him, “there is no escape,
but at least I can die fighting for you. Give me my mail.”
She snatched his hauberk from the wall, and while they thundered at the
door, did it on to him—ay, and his steel helm also, and gave him his
long sword and his shield.
“Now,” he said, “help me.” And they thrust the oak table forward, and
overset it in front of the door, throwing the chairs and stools on
either side, that men might stumble on them.
“There is a bow,” he said, “and you can use it as I have taught you.
Get to one side and out of reach of the sword sweeps, and shoot past me
as they rush; it may stay one of them. Oh, that Godwin and Wulf were
here, and we would still teach these Paynim dogs a lesson!”
Rosamund made no answer but there came into her mind a vision of the
agony of Godwin and of Wulf should they ever wake again to learn what
had chanced to her and them. She looked round. Against the wall stood a
little desk, at which Godwin was wont to write, and on it lay pen and
parchment. She seized them, and as the door gave slowly inwards,
scrawled:
“Follow me to Saladin. In that hope I live on.—Rosamund.”
Then as the stout door at length crashed in Rosamund turned what she
had written face downwards on the desk, and seizing the bow, set an
arrow to its string. Now it was down and on rushed the mob up the six
feet of narrow passage. At the end of it, in front of the overturned
table, they halted suddenly. For there before them, skull-emblazoned,
shield on arm, his long sword lifted, and a terrible wrath burning in
his eyes, stood the old knight, like a wolf at bay, and by his side,
bow in hand, the beauteous lady Rosamund, clad in all her festal
broideries.
“Yield you!” cried a voice. By way of answer the bowstring twanged, and
an arrow sped home to its feathers through the throat of the speaker,
so that he went down, grabbing at it, and spoke no more for ever.
As he fell clattering to the floor, Sir Andrew cried in a great voice:
“We yield not to pagan dogs and poisoners. _A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy! Meet
D’Arcy, meet Death!_”
Thus for the last time did old Sir Andrew utter the warcry of his race,
which he had feared would never pass his lips again. His prayer had
been heard, and he was to die as he had desired.
“Down with him! seize the Princess!” said a voice. It was that of
Georgios, no longer humble with a merchant’s obsequious whine, but
speaking in tones of cold command and in Arabic. For a moment the
swarthy mob hung back, as well they might in face of that glittering
sword. Then with a cry of “_Salah-ed-din! Salah-ed-din!_” on they
surged, with flashing spears and scimitars. The overthrown table was in
front of them, and one leapt upon its edge, but as he leapt, the old
knight, all his years and sickness forgotten now, sprang forward and
struck downwards, so heavy a blow that in the darkling mouth of the
passage the sparks streamed out, and where the Saracen’s head had been,
appeared his heels. Back Sir Andrew stepped again to win space for his
sword-play, while round the ends of the table broke two fierce-faced
men. At one of them Rosamund shot with her bow, and the arrow pierced
his thigh, but as he fell he struck with his keen scimitar and shore
the end off the bow, so that it was useless. The second man caught his
foot in the bar of the oak chair which he did not see, and went down
prone, while Sir Andrew, taking no heed of him, rushed with a shout at
the crowd who followed, and catching their blows upon his shield,
rained down others so desperate that, being hampered by their very
number, they gave before him, and staggered back along the passage.
“Guard your right, father!” cried Rosamund. He sprang round, to see the
Saracen, who had fallen, on his feet again. At him he went, nor did the
man wait the onset, but turned to fly, only to find his death, for the
great sword caught him between neck and shoulders. Now a voice cried:
“We make poor sport with this old lion, and lose men. Keep clear of his
claws, and whelm him with spear casts.”
But Rosamund, who understood their tongue, sprang in front of him, and
answered in Arabic:
“Ay, through my breast; and go, tell that tale to Saladin!”
Then, clear and calm was heard the command of Georgios. “He who harms a
hair of the Princess dies. Take them both living if you may, but lay no
hand on her. Stay, let us talk.”
So they ceased from their onslaught and began to consult together.
Rosamund touched her father and pointed to the man who lay upon the
floor with an arrow through his thigh. He was struggling to his knee,
raising the heavy scimitar in his hand. Sir Andrew lifted his sword as
a husbandman lifts a stick to kill a rat, then let it fall again,
saying:
“I fight not with the wounded. Drop that steel, and get you back to
your own folk.”
The fellow obeyed him—yes, and even touched the floor with his forehead
in salaam as he crawled away, for he knew that he had been given his
life, and that the deed was noble towards him who had planned a
coward’s stroke. Then Georgios stepped forward, no longer the same
Georgios who had sold poisoned wine and Eastern broideries, but a
proud-looking, high-browed Saracen clad in the mail which he wore
beneath his merchant’s robe, and in place of the crucifix wearing on
his breast a great star-shaped jewel, the emblem of his house and rank.
“Sir Andrew,” he said, “hearken to me, I pray you. Noble was that act,”
and he pointed to the wounded man being dragged away by his fellows,
“and noble has been your defence—well worthy of your lineage and your
knighthood. It is a tale that my master,” and he bowed as he said the
word, “will love to hear if it pleases Allah that we return to him in
safety. Also you will think that I have played a knave’s trick upon
you, overcoming the might of those gallant knights, Sir Godwin and Sir
Wulf, not with sword blows but with drugged wine, and treating all your
servants in like fashion, since not one of them can shake off its fumes
before to-morrow’s light. So indeed it is—a very scurvy trick which I
shall remember with shame to my life’s end, and that perchance may yet
fall back upon my head in blood and vengeance. Yet bethink you how we
stand, and forgive us. We are but a little company of men in your great
country, hidden, as it were, in a den of lions, who, if they saw us,
would slay us without mercy. That, indeed, is a small thing, for what
are our lives, of which your sword has taken tithe, and not only yours,
but those of the twin brethren on the quay by the water?”
“I thought it,” broke in Sir Andrew contemptuously. “Indeed, that deed
was worthy of you—twenty or more men against two.”
Georgios held up his hand.
“Judge us not harshly,” he said, speaking slowly, who, for his own ends
wished to gain time, “you who have read the letter of our lord. See
you, these were my commands: To secure the lady Rose of the World as
best I might, but if possible without bloodshed. Now I was
reconnoitring the country with a troop of the sailors from my ship who
are but poor fighters, and a few of my own people, when my spies
brought me word that she had ridden out attended by only two men, and
surely I thought that already she was in my hands. But the knights
foiled me by strategy and strength, and you know the end of it. So
afterwards my messenger presented the letter, which, indeed, should
have been done at first. The letter failed also, for neither you, nor
the Princess”—and he bowed to Rosamund—“could be bought. More, the
whole country was awakened; you were surrounded with armed men, the
knightly brethren kept watch and ward over you, and you were about to
fly to London, where it would have been hard to snare you. Therefore,
because I must, I—who am a prince and an emir, who also, although you
remember it not, have crossed swords with you in my youth; yes, at
Harenc—became a dealer in drugged wine.
“Now hearken. Yield you, Sir Andrew, who have done enough to make your
name a song for generations, and accept the love of Salah-ed-din, whose
word you have, the word that, as you know well, cannot be broken, which
I, the lord El-Hassan—for no meaner man has been sent upon this
errand—plight to you afresh. Yield you, and save your life, and live on
in honour, clinging to your own faith, till Azrael takes you from the
pleasant fields of Baalbec to the waters of Paradise—if such there be
for infidels, however gallant.
“For know, this deed must be done. Did we return without the princess
Rose of the World, we should die, every one of us, and did we offer her
harm or insult, then more horribly than I can tell you. This is no
fancy of a great king that drives him on to the stealing of a woman,
although she be of his own high blood. The voice of God has spoken to
Salah-ed-din by the mouth of his angel Sleep. Thrice has Allah spoken
in dreams, telling him who is merciful, that through your daughter and
her nobleness alone can countless lives be saved; therefore, sooner
than she should escape him, he would lose even the half of all his
empire. Outwit us, defeat us now, capture us, cause us to be tortured
and destroyed, and other messengers would come to do his bidding—
indeed, they are already on the way. Moreover, it is useless to shed
more blood, seeing it is written in the Books that this lady, Rose of
the World, must return to the East where she was begot, there to fulfil
her destiny and save the lives of men.”
“Then, emir El-Hassan, I shall return as a spirit,” said Rosamund
proudly.
“Not so, Princess,” he answered, bowing, “for Allah alone has power
over your life, and it is otherwise decreed. Sir Andrew, the time grows
short, and I must fulfil my mission. Will you take the peace of
Salah-ed-din, or force his servants to take your life?”
The old knight listened, resting on his reddened sword; then he lifted
his head, and spoke:
“I am aged and near my death, wine-seller Georgios, or prince
El-Hassan, whichever you may be. In my youth I swore to make no pact
with Paynims, and in my eld I will not break that vow. While I can lift
sword I will defend my daughter, even against the might of Saladin. Get
to your coward’s work again, and let things go as God has willed them.”
“Then, Princess,” answered El-Hassan, “bear me witness throughout the
East that I am innocent of your father’s blood. On his own head be it,
and on yours,” and for the second time he blew upon the whistle that
hung around his neck.