Beltane the Smith Part 82

So presently, as Beltane descended the stair, he heard the archer break forth again in doleful song.

Across the wide market-square went Beltane, with brow o'ercast and head low-bowed until he came to one of the many doors of the great minster; there paused he to remove bascinet and mail-coif, and thus bareheaded, entered the cathedral's echoing dimness. The new-risen sun made a glory of the great east window, and with his eyes uplifted to this many-coloured glory, Beltane, soft-treading, crossed dim aisle and whispering transept; but, as he mounted the broad steps of the sanctuary he paused with breath in check, for he heard a sound--a soft sound like the flutter of wings or the rustle of silken draperies. Now as he stood thus, his broad, mail-clad shoulders and golden hair bathed in the refulgence of the great window, it seemed to him that from somewhere near there breathed a sigh, tremulous and very soft, and thereafter was the quick, light tread of feet, and silence.

A while stood Beltane scarce breathing, then, slow and reverent, he approached the high altar; and ever as he went was a fragrance, wonder-sweet, that grew stronger and stronger until he was come behind the high altar where was his mother's grave. And lo! upon that long, white stone lay flowers a-bloom, roses and lilies whose dewy loveliness filled the place with their pure and fragrant sweetness. So looked he round about and upon these flowers with grateful wonder, and sinking to his knees, bowed his head and folded his hands in prayer.

But presently, as he knelt thus, he was roused by the clank of steel and a shuffling step, wherefore he arose and crossing to the shadows of the choir, sat him down within the deeper gloom to wait until his disturber should be gone. Slowly these halting steps advanced, feet that stumbled oft; near they came and nearer, until Beltane perceived a tall figure whose armour gleamed dully and whose shoulders were bowed like one that is feeble or very weary.

"Yolande!" said a voice, a hoa.r.s.e voice but very tender, "Yolande, beloved!" And on the word the voice broke and ended upon a great sob, swift followed by another and yet another, the fierce sobbing of a man.

Then Beltane clenched his hands and rose up, for behold! this man was Sir Benedict. But now, and very suddenly, Sir Benedict was upon his knees, and bent and kissed that white, smooth stone whereon as yet was no inscription.

"Yolande!" he whispered, "now thou art one among the holy angels, O forget not thy most unworthy Benedict. G.o.d--O G.o.d! Father to whom all hearts are open, Thou dost know how as child and maid I loved her, how as a wife I loved her still--how, in my madness, I spake my love--and she, being saint and woman, bade me to my duty. So, by her purity, kept she my honour unstained--"

Beltane's long scabbard struck the carven panelling, a soft blow that yet echoed and re-echoed in vaulted arch and dim roof, and, glancing swiftly up, Sir Benedict beheld him.

And kneeling thus beside the grave of the woman he had loved, Sir Benedict looked up into Beltane's face with eyes wide, eyes unflinching but dimmed with great grief and pain.

Quoth he, firm-voiced:

"My lord, thou hast learned my life's secret, but, ere thou dost judge me, hear this! Long ere thy princely father met thy mother, we loved, she and I, and in our love grew up together. Then came the Duke thy father, a mighty lord; and her mother was ambitious and very guileful-- and she--but a maid. Thus was she wed. Then rode I to the foreign wars seeking death--but death took me not. So, the wars ended, came I home again, burning ever with my love, and sought her out, and beholding the sadness in her eyes I spake my love; and forgetful of honour and all save her sweet soul and the glory of her beauty, I tempted her--aye, many times!--tempted her in fashion merciless and cruel insomuch that she wept many bitter tears, and, upon a day, spake me thus: 'Benedict, 'tis true I loved thee, for thou wert a n.o.ble knight--but now, an thy love for me be so small that thou canst bring me to this shame, then-- take me where thou wilt--but--ne'er shall all thy love nor all my tears thereafter cleanse us from the shame of it.' Thus went I from her, nor have I looked on woman since. So followed I thy father in all his warring and all my days have I fought much--fierce foes within me and without, and lived--a very solitary life. And to-day she lieth dead--and I am here, old and worn, a lonely man and sinful, to be judged of as ye will."

Then came Beltane and looked down into Sir Benedict's pale, sad face.

And beholding him thus in his abas.e.m.e.nt, haggard with wounds and bowed with grief, needs must Beltane kneel also and thereafter spake thus:

"Sir Benedict, who am I, to judge of such as thou?"

"I tempted her--I wooed her to shame, I that loved her beyond life--did cause her many bitter tears--alas!"

"Yet in the end, Sir Benedict, because thy love was a great and n.o.ble love, thou didst triumph over base self. So do I honour thee and pray that I, in like case, may act as n.o.bly."

"And now--she lieth dead! So for me is life ended also, methinks!"

"She is a saint in heaven, Benedict, living forever. As to thee, on whose skill and valiance the safety of this fair city doth hang--so hath G.o.d need of thee here, methinks. So now for thy sake and for her sake needs must I love thee ever and always, thou n.o.ble knight. She, being dead, yet liveth and shall go betwixt us henceforth, drawing us together in closer bonds of love and amity--is it not so, dear my friend?" And speaking, Beltane reached out his hands across his mother's narrow grave, and straightway came Sir Benedict's hands, swift and eager, to meet and clasp them.

For a while knelt they thus, hand clasping hand above that long, white stone whence stole to them the mingled fragrance of the flowers, like a silent benediction. And presently, together they arose and went their way; but now, seeing how Sir Benedict limped by reason of his wounds, Beltane set an arm about him. So came they together out of the shadows into the glory of the morning.

Now as they came forth of the minster, the tocsin rang loud in sudden alarm.

CHAPTER LXIV

HOW GILES CURSED BELSAYE OUT OF HER FEAR

Within the market-place all was dire confusion; men hasted hither and thither, buckling on armour as they went, women wept and children wailed, while ever the bell clashed out its fierce summons.

Presently, through the populace cometh Sir Brian of Hartismere, equipped in his armour and leaning on the mailed arm of his brother Eric of the wry neck, but perceiving Sir Benedict and Beltane, they turned and came up forthwith.

"Eric--Brian, what meaneth the tumult?" questioned Sir Benedict, his eye kindling, "are we attacked--so soon?"

"Not so," answered Sir Brian, "at the least--not by Ivo's men."

"'Tis worse than that," sighed Eric, shaking his head, "yonder cometh a churchman, borne on the shoulders of his monks, and with choristers and acolytes attendant."

"Ha!" said Sir Benedict, frowning and rubbing his chin, "I had dreaded this! The citizens do shake and shiver already, I'll warrant me! There is nought like a cowl with bell, book and candle to sap the courage of your citizen soldier. Let us to the walls!"

In a corner hard by the main gate they beheld Giles, holding forth to Roger and Walkyn and Ulf, but perceiving Sir Benedict he ceased abruptly, and advancing, saluted the n.o.ble company each in turn, but addressed himself to Sir Benedict.

"My lord," quoth he, eyes a-dance, "yonder cometh a pompous prior that was, not very long since, nought but ma.s.sy monk that did upon a time (though by dint of some small persuasion) bestow on me a goodly a.s.s. My lord, I was bred a monk, so do I know, by divers signs and portents, he cometh here to ban the city with book, bell and candle, wherefore the townsfolk, fearing greatly, do shiver and shake, especially the women and maids--sweet souls! And, lord, by reason of the matter of the a.s.s, I do know this priest prolific of d.a.m.natory p.r.o.nouncements and curses contumacious (O verily). Yet I, messire (having been bred a monk) shall blithely him out-curse, an the joy be permitted me, thus turning tears to laughter and gloomy fear to loud-voiced merriment--my lord, messires, how say you?"

"'Tis blasphemy unheard!" quoth Sir Brian.

"Save in the greenwood where men do breathe G.o.d's sweet air and live free!" said wry-necked Eric.

"And," spake Sir Benedict, stroking his square chin, "there is a fear can be quelled but by ridicule, so may thy wit, sir archer, avail more than our wisdom--an thou canst make these pale-cheeked townsfolk laugh indeed. How think you, my Beltane?"

"That being the wise and valiant knight thou art, Sir Benedict, thy will during the siege is law in Belsaye, henceforth."

Now hereupon Giles made his obeisance, and together with Roger and Walkyn and Ulf, hasted up to the battlement above the gateway.

"Benedict," said Sir Brian as they climbed the turret stair, "blasphemy is a dread and awful thing. We shall be excommunicate one and all-- better methinks to let the populace yield up the city and die the death, than perish everlastingly!"

"Brian," quoth Sir Benedict pausing, something breathless by reason of his recent sickness, "I tell thee fire and pillage and ravishment of women is a thing more dread and awful--better, methinks, to keep Innocence pure and unspotted while we may, and leave hereafter in the hands of G.o.d and His holy angels!"

Upon the tower there met them the Reeve, anxious of brow, who pointed where the townsfolk talked together in fearful undertones or cl.u.s.tered, mute and trembling, while every eye was turned where, in the open, 'twixt town and camp, a procession of black-robed priests advanced, chanting very solemn and sweet.

"My lords," said the Reeve, looking round with haggard eyes, "an these priests do come to p.r.o.nounce the Church's awful malediction upon the city--then woe betide! Already there be many--aye, some of our chiefest citizens do fear the curse of Holy Church more than the rapine of Ivo's vile soldiery, fair women shamed, O Christ! Lords--ha, messires, there is talk afoot of seizing the gates, of opening to this churchman and praying his intercession to Ivo's mercy--to Ivo the Black, that knoweth nought of mercy. Alas, my lords, once they do ope the gates--"

"That can they in nowise do!" said Sir Benedict gently, but with face grim and hawk-like. "Every gate is held by stout fellows of my own following, moreover I have good hope yon churchman may leave us yet uncursed." And Sir Benedict smiled his wry and twisted smile. "Be you our tongue, good Reeve, and speak this churchman as thy bold heart dictateth."

Solemn and sweet rose the chanting voices growing ever more loud, where paced the black-robed priests. First came acolytes swinging censers, and next, others bearing divers symbolic flags and standards, and after these again, in goodly chair borne on the shoulders of brawny monks, a portly figure rode, bedight in full canonicals, a very solid cleric he, and mightily round; moreover his nose was bulbous and he had a drooping lip.

Slow and solemn the procession advanced, and ever as they came the choristers chanted full melodiously what time the white-robed acolytes swung their censers to and fro; and ever as they came, the folk of Belsaye, from wall and turret, eyed these slow-pacing, sweet-singing monks with fearful looks and hearts cold and full of dire misgiving.

Beyond the moat over against the main gate, the procession halted, the chair with its portly burden was set down, and lifting up a white, be-ringed hand, the haughty cleric spake thus, in voice high-pitched, mellifluous and sweet:

"Whereas it hath pleased ye, O rebellious people of Belsaye, to deny, to cast off and wantonly repudiate your rightful allegiance to your most just, most merciful and most august lord--Ivo, Duke of Pentavalon (whom G.o.d and the saints defend--amen!) and whereas ye have moreover made captive and most barbarously entreated certain of your lord Duke his amba.s.sadors unto you sent; now therefore--and let all ears be opened to my p.r.o.nouncements, since Holy Church doth speak ye, one and all, each and every through humble avenue of these my lips--list, list, O list, rebellious people, and mark me well. For inasmuch as I, Prior of Holy Cross within Pentavalon City, do voice unto ye, one and all, each and every, the most sacred charge of Holy Church, her strict command or enactment, mandate or caveat, her holy decree, _senatus consultum_, her writ, edict, precept or decretal, namely and to wit: That ye shall one and all, each and every, return to your rightful allegiance, bowing humbly, each and every, to the will of your lawful lord the Duke (whom G.o.d and the saints defend) and shall forthwith make full and instant surrender of this his ancient city of Belsaye unto your lord the Duke (whom G.o.d and the saints defend--amen!) Failing the which, I, in the name of Holy Church, by power of papal bull new come from Rome--will, here and now, p.r.o.nounce this most rebellious city (and all that therein be) d.a.m.ned and excommunicate!"

Now hereupon, from all the townsfolk crowding wall and turret a groan went up and full many a ruddy cheek grew pale at this dire threat.

Whereupon the Prior, having drawn breath, spake on in voice more stern and more peremptory:

"Let now your gates unbar! Yield ye unto your lord Duke his mercy! Let the gates unbar, I say, lest I blast this wicked city with the most dread and awful ban and curse of Holy Church--woe, woe in this life, and, in the life to come, torment and everlasting fire! Let the gates unbar!"

Now once again the men of Belsaye sighed and groaned and trembled in their armour, while from crowded street and market-square rose buzz of fearful voices. Then spake the Reeve in troubled tones, his white head low-stooped above the battlement.

"Good Prior, I pray you an we unbar, what surety have we that this our city shall not be given over to fire and pillage and ravishment?"

Quoth the Prior: