Beltane the Smith Part 86

At last he spake, hoa.r.s.e and low and pa.s.sionate:

"Helen!" said he, "O Helen!"

Slowly, slowly the d.u.c.h.ess lifted stately head and looked on him: but now, behold! her glance was high and proud, her scarlet mouth firm-set like the white and dimpled chin below and her eyes swept him with look calm and most dispa.s.sionate.

"Ah, my lord Beltane," she said, sweet-voiced, "what do you here within the privacy of Genevra's garden?"

Now because of the sweet serenity of her speech, because of the calm, unswerving directness of her gaze, my Beltane felt at sudden loss, his outstretched arms sank helplessly and he fell a-stammering.

"Helen, I--I--O Helen, I have dreamed of, yearned for this hour! To see thee again--to hear thy voice, and yet--and yet--"

"Well, my lord?"

Now stood Beltane very still, staring on her in dumb amaze, and the pain in his eyes smote her, insomuch that she bent to her embroidery and sewed three st.i.tches woefully askew.

"O surely, surely I am mad," quoth he wondering, "or I do dream. For she I seek is a woman, gentle and p.r.o.ne to forgiveness, one beyond all women fair and brave and n.o.ble, in whose pure heart can nothing evil be, in whose gentle eyes her gentle soul lieth mirrored, whose tender lips be apt and swift to speak mercy and forgiveness. Even as her soft, kind hands did bind up my wounds, so methought she with gentle sayings might heal my grieving heart--and now--now--"

"O my lord," she sighed, bending over idle fingers, "methinks you came seeking an angel of heaven and find here--only a woman."

"Yet 'tis this woman I do love and ever must--'tis this woman I did know as Fidelis--"

"Alas!" she sighed again, "alas, poor Fidelis, thou didst drive him from thee into the solitary wild-wood. So is poor Fidelis lost to thee, methinks--"

"Nay, Helen--O Helen, be just to me--thou dost know I loved Fidelis--"

"Yet thou didst spurn and name him traitor and drave him from thee!"

Now of a sudden he strode towards her, and as he came her bosom swelled, her lashes drooped, for it seemed he meant to clasp her to his heart. But lo! being only man, my Beltane paused and trembled, and dared not touch her, and sinking before her on his knees, spake very humbly and with head low-bowed.

"Helen--show me a little mercy!" he pleaded. "Would'st that I abase myself? Then here--here behold me at thy feet, fearing thee because of my unworthiness. But O believe--believe, for every base doubt of thee this heart hath known, now doth it grieve remorseful. For every harsh and bitter word this tongue hath spoke thee, now doth it humbly crave thy pitiful forgiveness! But know you this, that from the evil hour I drave thee from me, I have known abiding sorrow and remorse, for without thee life is indeed but an empty thing and I a creature lost and desolate--O Helen, pity me!"

Thus spake he, humble and broken, and she, beholding him thus, sighed (though wondrous softly) and 'neath her long lashes tears glittered (though swift dashed away) but--slowly, very slowly, one white hand came out to him, faltered, stopped, and glancing up she rose in haste and shrank away. Now Beltane, perceiving only this last gesture, sprang up, fierce-eyed:

"How?" quoth he, "am I then become a thing so base my presence doth offend thee--then, as G.o.d liveth, ne'er shalt see me more until thou thyself do summon me!"

Even as he spake thus, swift and pa.s.sionate, Giles clambered the adjacent wall and dropping softly within the garden, stared to behold Beltane striding towards him fierce-eyed, who, catching him by the arm yet viewing him not, spun him from his path, and coming to the green door, sped out and away.

Now as Giles stood to rub his arm and gape in wonderment, he started to find the d.u.c.h.ess beside him; and her eyes were very bright and her cheeks very red, and, meeting her look, poor Giles fell suddenly abashed.

"n.o.ble lady--" he faltered.

"Foolish Giles!" said she, "go, summon me my faithful Roger." But as she spake, behold Roger himself hasting to her through the roses.

"Roger," said she, frowning a little, "saw you my lord go but now?"

"Aye, verily, dear my lady," quoth he, ruffling up his hair, "but wherefore--"

"And I," said Giles, cherishing his arm, "both saw and felt him--"

"Ha," quoth Roger, "would'st have him back, sweet mistress?"

"Why truly I would, Roger--"

"Then forsooth will I go fetch him."

"Nay--rather would I die, Roger."

"But--dear lady--an thou dost want him--"

"I will bring him by other means!" said the d.u.c.h.ess, "aye, he shall come despite himself," and her red lips curved to sudden roguish smile, as smiling thus, she brought them to a certain arbour very shady and remote, and, seating herself, looked from one tanned face to the other and spake them certain matters, whereat the archer's merry eyes grew merrier yet, but Roger sighed and shook his head; said he:

"Lady, here is tale shall wring his n.o.ble heart, methinks, wherefore the telling shall wring mine also--"

"Then speak not of it, Roger. Be this Giles's mission."

"Aye, Rogerkin, leave it to me. In faith, n.o.ble lady, I will with suggestion soft and subtle, with knowing look and wily wag of head, so work upon my lord that he shall hither hot-foot haste--"

"At moonrise," said the d.u.c.h.ess softly, "this evening at moonrise!"

"Verily, lady, at moonrise! And a blue camlet cloak, say you?"

"Come, Giles, and I will give it thee."

Meanwhile, Beltane, hurt and angry, betook him to the walls where bow and perrier had already begun their deadly morning's work; and coming to a quiet corner of the battlement, he leaned him there to watch where the besiegers, under cover of the cat that hourly crept more nigh, worked amain to dam the moat.

Now as he leaned thus, a hand slipped within his arm, and turning, he beheld Sir Benedict.

"A right fair morning, my Beltane," quoth he.

"Aye, truly, Benedict," sighed Beltane, "though there be clouds to the west. And the causeway across the moat groweth apace; I have watched yon cat creep a full yard--"

"Aye, verily, by mid-day, Beltane, 'twill reach our wall, then will they advance their ram to the battery, methinks."

"And what then, Benedict?"

"Then shall we destroy their ram forthwith with devil-fire, dear lad!"

"Aye, and how then, Benedict?"

"Then, belike will they plant ladders on the causeway and attempt the wall by storm, so shall we come to handstrokes at last and beset them with pitch and boiling oil and hew their ladders in sunder."

"And after, Benedict?"

"Hey-day, Beltane, here be a many questions--"

"Aye, Benedict, 'tis that I do look into the future. And what future can there be? Though we maintain our walls a year, or two, or three, yet in the end Belsaye must fall."

"And I tell thee, Beltane, were Ivo twice as strong Belsaye should yet withstand him. So gloom not, lad, Belsaye is safe, the sun shineth and behold my arm--'tis well-nigh healed, thanks to--to skilful nursing--"