Beltane the Smith Part 75

"For that sleep doth fly my wooing, holy mother."

"Then fain would I share thy vigil awhile."

Forthwith Beltane brought her a stool, rough and rudely fas.h.i.+oned, and while she sat, he lay beside her in the firelight; and thus, despite her hood and wimple, he saw her face was of a calm and n.o.ble beauty, smooth and unwrinkled despite the silver hair that peeped forth of her loosened hood. A while they sat thus, nothing speaking, he viewing her, she gazing ever on the fire; at last:

"Thou'rt young, messire," she said wistfully, "yet in thy life hath been much of strife, I've heard. Thou hast known much of hards.h.i.+p, my son, and sorrow methinks?"

"So do I live for that fair day when Peace shall come again, n.o.ble lady."

"Full oft have I heard tell of thee, my son, strange tales and marvellous. Some do liken thee to a demon joying in slaughter, and some to an archangel bearing the sword of G.o.d."

"And how think you, reverend mother?"

"I think of thee as a man, my son. I have heard thee named 'outlaw' and 'lawless ravener,' and some do call thee 'Beltane the Smith.' Now wherefore smith?"

"For that smith was I bred, lady."

"But thou'rt of n.o.ble blood, lord Beltane."

"Yet knew I nought of it until I was man grown."

"Thy youth--they tell me--hath been very lonely, my son--and desolate."

"Not desolate, for in my loneliness was the hermit Ambrose who taught me many things and most of all, how to love him. So lived I in the greenwood, happy and content, until on a day this saintly Ambrose told me a woeful tale--so did I know this humble hermit for the n.o.ble Duke, my father."

"Thy father! The Duke! A hermit! Told he of--all his sorrows, my son?"

"All, reverend mother, and thereafter bade me beware the falsity of women."

The pale cheek of the Abbess grew suddenly suffused, the slim hand clenched rigid upon the crucifix at her bosom, but she stirred not nor lifted her sad gaze from the fire.

"Liveth thy father yet, my son?"

"'Tis so I pray G.o.d, lady."

"And--thy mother?"

"'Tis so I've heard."

"Pray you not for--for her also?"

"I never knew my mother, lady."

"Alas! poor lonely mother! So doth she need thy prayers the more. Ah, think you she hath not perchance yearned with breaking heart for her babe? To have kissed him into rosy slumber! To have cherished his boyish hurts and sorrows! To have gloried in his youthful might and manhood! O sure there is no sorrow like the loneliness of desolate motherhood. Would'st seek this unknown mother, lord Beltane?"

"Truly there be times when I do yearn to find her--and there be times when I do fear--"

"Fear, my lord?"

"Holy mother, I learned of her first as one false to her vows, light-minded and fickle from her youth--"

"O hath there been none to speak thee good of her--in all these years?"

"There was Jolette, that folk did call a witch, and there is Sir Benedict that doth paint her pure and n.o.ble as I would have her. Yet would I know for myself, fain would I be sure ere we do meet, if she is but the woman who bore me, or the proud and n.o.ble mother I fain would love."

"Could'st not love her first and judge her after, my son? Could not her very motherhood plead her cause with thee? Must she be weighed in the balance ere thou yield her a son's respect and love? So many weary years--'tis something hard, methinks! Nay, heed me not, my lord--seek out thy mother, unbeknown--prove for thyself her worthiness or falsity, prove for thyself her honour or her shame--'tis but just, aye, 'tis but just in very truth. But I, beholding things with woman's eyes, know only that a mother's love shrinketh not for any sin, but reacheth down through shame and evil with sheltering arms outstretched--a holy thing, fearless of sin, more lasting than shame and stronger than death itself."

So saying, the lady Abbess rose and turned to look up at the lights that burned within the tower.

"'Tis late, my lord," she sighed, "get thee now to thy rest, for I must begone to my duty till the dawn. There be many sick, and good Sir Bertrand lieth very nigh to death--he ne'er will see another dawn, methinks, so needs must I away. Good night, sweet son, and in thy prayers forget not thy--thy most unhappy mother!"

Then she lifted her hand and blessed him, and, ere he rose up from his knees she set that white hand upon his bowed head and touched his yellow hair--a light touch, furtive and shy, but a touch that was like to a caress.

Thereafter, Beltane, coming into his hut of woven wattle, rolled himself in his weather-worn mantle and presently fell to slumber.

CHAPTER LIX

TELLETH HOW SIR BENEDICT WENT A-FIs.h.i.+NG

Next day Sir Bertrand died of his hurts, so they buried him beside young Sir John of Griswold and st.u.r.dy 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed; heard harsh voices grow sudden soft and all unfamiliar--voices that broke in murmurous grat.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sed 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 fis.h.i.+ng begetteth thought and thought, dreams--and to dream is oft-times sweet!"