Beltane the Smith Part 58

"So henceforth am I content--and yet--"

"Well, my lord?"

"To-morrow, perchance, shall see the end of this our solitude and close comradeship--to-morrow we should reach Hundleby Fen. So, Fidelis, promise me, if thou, at any time hereafter should see me harsh, or proud, or selfish--do thou mind me of these days of our love and companionship. Wilt promise me?"

"Aye, lord!" spake Sir Fidelis, low-bending to his task; and thereafter sighed, and bowed him lower yet.

"Wherefore dost thou sigh?"

"For that I feel as if--ah, Beltane!--as if this night should be the end of our love and comradeship!"

"Nought but death shall do this, methinks."

"Why then," said Fidelis as he rose, "an it must be, fain would I have death."

But when Beltane would have questioned him further he smiled sad and wistful and went forth to the fire. Up rose the moon, a thing of glory filling the warm, stilly night with a soft and radiant splendour--a tender light, fraught with a subtle magic, whereby all things, rock and tree and leaping brook, found a new and added beauty.

And in some while comes Sir Fidelis to set out their viands, neat and orderly, as was ever his custom, and thereafter must needs chide Beltane, soft-voiced, for his lack of hunger, and cut dainty morsels, wooing him thereby to eat.

"Fidelis," says Beltane, "on so fair a night as this, methinks, the old fables and romances might well be true that tell of elves that dance on moony nights, and of shapely nymphs and lovely dryads that are the spirits of the trees. Aye, in the magic of so fair a night as this aught might happen--miracles and wonders."

"Save one thing, dear my lord."

"As what, my Fidelis?"

"That thou should'st dream Helen pure and faithful and worthy to thy love--that, doubting thine own senses, thou should'st yearn and sigh to hold her once again, heart on heart--"

"Ah, Fidelis," quoth Beltane, sighing deep, "why wilt thou awake a sleeping sorrow? My love was dead long since, meseemeth, and buried in mine heart. O Fidelis, mine eyes, mine ears, my every sense do tell me she is false--so is an end of love for me henceforth."

"Dear my lord," spake Fidelis, and his voice thrilled strangely in Beltane's ears--"O, Beltane, my lord, could'st thou but doubt thyself a little--could'st thou, doubting thine own senses for love's sake, believe her now true--true as thou would'st have her, then Love indeed might work for thee a miracle this night and thou be loved as man of G.o.d-like faith."

"Nay, sweet Fidelis, I am but a man, apt to evil betimes and betimes seeking good. Howbeit, now am I a weary man that fain would sleep. Come then, lay you down here beside me where I may touch thee an I awake i'

the night." And, lying down, Beltane beckoned Fidelis beside him.

So in a while the young knight came and did as Beltane bade, and side by side they lay within the shelter of the little cave; and in the dark, Beltane set his mighty arm about him and thereafter spake, wondering:

"Art not cold, Fidelis?"

"Nay, lord."

"Then why dost tremble?"

"Indeed I know not--mayhap I grieved that--the age of miracles--is pa.s.sed away."

Now at this Beltane wondered the more and would fain have questioned him, but in that moment sighed, and fell to slumber. But in his sleep he dreamed that Fidelis was beset by foes and cried to him for aid, whereon he would have hasted to his deliverance yet could not for that unseen hands held him fast; then strove he amain against these griping hands, and so awaked in sudden terror and lay there trembling in the dark; and in the dark he reached out cautious hand further and further and so found himself alone--for the young knight was gone.

Now being very sick with the fever of his wound, dread came upon him, fear seized and shook him, and, trembling in the dark he called aloud "Fidelis! Fidelis!" But no sound heard he save the ripple of the brook near by. Groaning, he arose and, limping forth of the cave stood in the glory of the moon, voiceless now by reason of his ever-growing terror; conscious only of his pa.s.sionate desire to find again the youth whose gentle voice had cheered him often in the dark, whose high courage and tender care had never failed. So, leaning upon his great sword, Beltane limped through light and shadow, heedless of direction, until he was stayed by the waters of the pool.

A faint splash, a rippling of the sleepy waters, and, out into the moonlight came one that swam the pool with long, easy strokes; one that presently leapt lightly ash.o.r.e and stood there to shake down the unwetted glory of her hair. At first he thought this some enchanted pool and she the G.o.ddess of the place, but even then she turned, and thus at last--he knew. And in that moment also, she beheld him amid the leaves; tall and fair she stood, proud and maidenly, nor moved she, nor spake: only she shook about her loveliness the shining mantle of her hair. And beholding the reproachful sadness of those clear, virgin eyes, Beltane, abashed by her very beauty, bowed his head, and turning, stumbled away and thus presently finding himself within the cave, threw himself down and clasped his head within fierce hands. Yet, even so, needs must he behold the slim, white beauty of her, the rippling splendour of her hair, and the deep, shy sadness of her eyes, and, because of her beauty he trembled, and because of her falsity he groaned aloud.

Now as he lay thus, after some while he heard a swift, light footfall, the whisper of mail, and knew that she stood above him; yet he heeded not, wherefore at last she spake, sweet-voiced and gentle.

"Beltane--dear my lord, now dost thou know who is Fidelis, and thou didst--love Fidelis!" But Beltane stirred not, and finding him silent, she spake on, yet faltering a little:

"When I waked from my swoon within the chapel at--at Blaen, and found thee gone, I, distraught with woeful fear and a most strange sickness, took thy sword and therewith horse and armour and in that same hour fled from Blaen, none knowing. Many days I rode seeking thee, until Love brought me to thee in the green. But, O Beltane, for those dire chances of our--wedding night, by what spells and witchcraft our happiness was changed to sorrow and dire amaze, I know no more than thou. Ah, Beltane--dear my lord--speak--speak to me!" And falling on her knees she would have lifted his head. But of a sudden he shrank away, and rose to his feet.

"Touch me not, I am but a man and thou--art woman, and there is evil in thee, so touch me not with thy false, alluring hands. O, thou hast deceived me now as ever--As Fidelis did I love thee above all men, but for what thou art, I do despise thee--"

But, with sudden gesture pa.s.sionate and yearning, she reached out her white hands, and, kneeling thus, looked up at him with eyes a-swoon with love and supplication.

"Beltane!" she sighed, "Beltane! Is thy great love dead in very truth?

nay, indeed I know it liveth yet even as mine, and shall live on forever. I know--I have seen it leap within thine eyes, heard it in thy voice--and wherefore did'st thou love Fidelis? Look at me, Beltane! I can be as brave, as faithful and tender as Fidelis! Look at me!"

But Beltane dared not look, and trembled because of her so great beauty, and fain would speak yet could not.

Whereat she, yet upon her knees, drew nearer.

"Beltane," she murmured, "trust me. Despite thyself, O, trust me--so shalt thou find happiness at last and Pentavalon an end to all her sorrows. Be thou my lord, my master--my dear love and husband--ride with me this night to my fair Mortain--"

"To Mortain?" cried Beltane wildly, "aye, to Blaen, belike--to silken wantonings and to--death! Tempt me not, O witch--aye, witch that weaveth spells of her beauty--tempt me not I say, lest I slay thee to mine own defence, for I know thee beyond all women fair, yet would I slay thee first--" But, groaning, Beltane cast aside his sword and covered burning eyes with burning palms, yet shook as with an ague fit.

The pleading hands fell, to clasp and wring each other; her proud head sank, and a great sob brake from her, what time Beltane watched her with eyes bright with fever and swayed upon his feet. Stumbling, he turned, and left her, yet presently came back leading the war-horse Mars.

"To Mortain shalt thou ride to-night--I pray thee mount!" cried he, "Come--mount, I say!"

Standing tall and proud before him she sighed and spake deep-sorrowing:

"Then will I leave thee--an it must be so. But, in days to come, mayhap, thou shalt grieve for this hour, Beltane, nor shall all thy sighs nor all thy tears avail to bring it back again. Thou hast shamed me oft, yet for all thy bitter scorns I do forgive thee, aye, even the anguish of my breaking heart, for that my love doth rise beyond my pain; and so, dear my lord--fare thee well!"

So she mounted, whereat the mettled charger must needs rear, and Beltane, staggering aside, catch at a tree and lean there.

"Art sick, Beltane?" she cried in sudden fear--"how may I leave thee thus--art sick!"

"Aye, Helen, for thy beauty. The devil is here, and I am here, so here is no place for thee--so get thee gone, spur--spur! for despising thee in my heart yet would I have thee stay: yet, an thou stay needs must I slay thee ere the dawn and myself thereafter!"

Thus spake he, his voice loud, his speech quick and fevered.

"Indeed, thou'rt sick, my lord--nor do I fear thee, thou n.o.ble son of n.o.ble father!"

"My father! Forsooth he liveth in Holy Cross Thicket within Mortain; he bade me beware of women and the ways of women. So do I know thee witch, thou golden Helen. Ha! must Troy burn again--I loved thee once, but love is dead long since and turned corrupt--so get thee hence, Helen the Wilful!"

"O, G.o.d pity thee, my Beltane, for thou dost love me yet, even as I love thee--thou lonely man-child! G.o.d pity thee, and me also!" and, crying thus, forlorn and desolate, the d.u.c.h.ess Helen rode upon her solitary way.

Then turned Beltane and stumbled on he knew not whither, and betimes he laughed loud and high and betimes he was shaken by great and fierce sobs, yet found he never a tear. Thus, limping painfully, and stumbling anon as one smitten blind, he wandered awhile, and so at length found himself beside the little cave; and throwing himself down within its shadows, tore away the bandages her gentle hands had wrought.

And lying there, it seemed that Fidelis yet lay beneath his arm, the Fidelis who was no Fidelis; and in the shadows he laughed amain--wild laughter that died of a sudden, choked by awful sobs, what time he clenched his hands upon his throbbing ears; yet still, above the sounds of his own anguish, needs must he hear again that forlorn and desolate cry:

"O, G.o.d pity thee, Beltane!"