Читать книгу Voices from the Dust - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 10

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The noble Minster of Thorney, that we call Westminster Abbey, was new in those days and famous for its great rood or cross. And hither daily at sunset came Githa, Lady of Brandon Holm, to kneel before this cross and supplicate the divine mercy on her England, her brother Godric, and one beside, whose name she never uttered.

“Let England stand secure, Oh, God; defend her from shame of conquest and Norman thrall; Oh God, let our England stand! Spare Thou my brother in the conflict and temper Thou his fierce soul. And now I pray Thee for—him, Oh God, for him that is our enemy, yet him I needs must love. Oh, be Thou merciful to him ... let him not die.”

Now, as she prayed thus passionately, rose a sudden wild uproar, the clamour of many voices, a rushing of feet that, coming rapidly nearer, filled this holy place with unseemly riot, fearful cries of men, the shrieks and wailing of women and children:

“Death! Death! The Normans!”

The Lady Githa rose up, tall, very pale yet very stately, and turned to meet these poor fugitives who fled hither for sanctuary from the terrors without; and many among them knew and hailed her piteously:

“ ’Tis the Lady of Brandon! Oh lady, save us! There is death in the city! Fire——”

Now amid this rabblement she espied a squat, red-headed fellow, one of her own serfs, and him she beckoned with slender, imperious hand:

“What, then, Cnut?” she demanded clear and loud despite quivering lips. “What’s here? Speak!”

“The Normans!” he cried. “The Normans be on us, Lady.... They kill and burn! There be villages aflame beyond bridge. Dead folk i’ the streets! Women—ay, and children! Hell’s loose!”

“Ay, ’tis the end of the world!” cried another voice. “ ’Tis death——”

A sudden shrill and dreadful screaming, a trampling of armed feet, a glitter of steel; the whimpering fugitives were hurled aside, and soldiers appeared, grim, mail-clad figures dusty with travel and fouled with recent slaughter, at sight of whom the Lady Githa shrank appalled, until being beneath the great Rood she paused there, pale, trembling, yet resolute. But now, at the sight of her rich attire and proud young beauty, there was a roar of hoarse cupidity. Brutal hands clutched her, evil faces leered upon her trembling loveliness, but even as her captors plucked at and strove with her, down upon them whanged the flat of a sword, and a shrill though commanding voice cried:

“Off, dogs—off! Here’s meat for your betters!”

At the well-known voice the men leapt aside, and Githa beheld one whose thin lips curled in a slow smile as his narrow eyes drank in the lure of her revealing dishevelment.

“Aha! Dian!” he murmured. “Venus herself! As goddess I’ll worship thee, and woman o’ my delight. So—come to thy master!” And, thus murmuring, he seized her, swift and sudden, in clutch so shaming her womanhood that, forgetting pride, she screamed and, in her extremity, cried the name she had not spoken in her prayers:

“Gilles de Broc! Oh Gilles!”

And as if in answer to her prayer, there was the furious ring of horse-hoofs, the throng of fugitives and gaping soldiery was burst asunder, and into that holy sanctuary galloped a mailed knight, a slender man, hawk-faced, dark-eyed, fierce and quick with hot youth.

“Ha, Fitzurse!” he cried. “Thrice damned, accursed Fulk!” Even as he spoke, out flashed his sword and he was afoot. And there, before the shrine of Saxon kingly saint, the Norman long-swords flashed and smote and thrust, while Githa, gasping prayers, sank to her knees.

So mailed feet stamped and steel rang, till there came a shrill cry; and then Githa felt a powerful arm about her, and in her ears was a breathless, dearly-remembered voice:

“Lady Githa! Oh lady beloved! None shall harm thee ... nought touch thee ... fear no more. Thine am I to thy dear service. Thy will shall be my will ever. Come now. Come you home!”

So saying he raised her with a reverent gentleness, and, setting her upon his tall steed, went beside her through the silenced company, forth into the sunset.

“Ah, Messire Gilles,” she sighed, “surely the merciful God sent thee!”

“Ay, truly!” he answered, glancing up to meet the tender gratitude of her long, blue eyes. “Though indeed at such dread time I deemed thou wouldst seek sanctuary.”

“And ... Harold the King——?”

“Alas, noble Godwinson lieth dead. Yet a right kingly dying.”

“Then woe to my loved England! Now are we Saxons thrall to the Norman.”

“Yet, lady ... ah, Githa, yet is one Norman thrall to thee—here to-day in England as he was a year agone in Normandy.”

“And ... Godric, my brother, know you if he live?”

“Ay, truly, though sore stricken. He waits you now safe in Brandon Holm.”

Thus he led her to where certain of his following waited, and with men-at-arms before them and behind he brought her safe through the turbulence and terror of London town.

Thus came they betimes to Brandon Holm, that goodly manor, above which now fluttered the blue saltire of de Broc, beholding which Githa sighed, though very gently.

“So now is Brandon and all else thine by right of conquest.”

“Yet will I hold it but for thee, my Lady Githa. ’Twas for this I sued it of Duke William.”

“Thou art then my master, Messire Gilles, by right of sword,” she murmured, sighing again.

“Yea,” he answered, sighing also, “yet master only to thy surer defence.”

Side by side they rode across wide garth where, instead of yellow-haired churl and serf, were dark-eyed esquires and men-at-arms. Nevertheless, both within and without the great house, all was quiet and orderly.

“Thou art truly a gentle conqueror, Messire Gilles!” said she, her sweet voice shaken by the very fervour of her gratitude; and because of this and the light within her eyes his cheek flushed and his sinewy hand fumbled with the bridle-rein.

Dismounting at the wide doorway, he lifted her to earth and led her within the great solar where stood her bower-women to welcome her. Pale-cheeked were they and wide of eye, yet all unharmed. So, having kissed them, as was her wont, she dismissed them with words of gentle comfort.

And now, being alone with Sir Gilles, she made him gracious reverence, saying:

“Welcome to thy manor of Brandon Holm, my lord.”

Now at this he glanced from her to tapestried wall, to mighty roof-beams, to herb-strewn floor and, fidgeting with belt and sword-hilt, answered her a little wildly:

“Nay ... nay, verily, by God’s light, I—Ah, Githa, in Normandy a year agone I loved thee yet dared not to speak my love, for thou wert so proud and high, with mighty lords to woo thee. And now ... to-day I ... I cannot, for thou art—I——” He heard her laugh and, thinking she mocked, turned away; but then he heard her sob, beheld her eyes bright with tears and, being young, stood amazed.

“Sir Gilles,” said she, “oh messire, to-day by cruel battle all that was mine is thine—yea, all save the very heart of me, for that ... ah, Gilles, that was thine a year agone in Normandy.”

Then she was upon his breast, and if his mailed arms hurt her a little, she but loved him the more.

“And now, loved lord,” sighed she, striving in his embrace, “let us to Godric with this our new, great happiness. Come, mayhap joy so marvellous as ours shall lessen his grief and win him to quick health. Pray God it may be so!”

But when together they stood beside young Jarl Godric’s bed he looked from one to the other with great fierce eyes that burned in the pallor of his face, while from bloodless lips came the harsh whisper:

“Ha, is it so, proud sister? Thy body our victor’s spoil? Art then his booty ... his serf, his leman thrall?”

“Not so, Godric, by God’s light!” cried Sir Gilles solemnly. “Githa shall ever be my loved and honoured wife!” But Godric closed his eyes and, scowling, turned him to the wall.

Next morning, when they came to tend the sick man, his bed was empty; Godric, the unconquered Saxon thegn, with his wounds, his fierce heart and implacable soul, was gone.

And some while after, within the stately Minster of Thorney and beneath the keen eyes of William the new-crowned King of England, Sir Gilles de Broc and the Lady Githa were wed.

And so, upon the wide demesnes of Brandon, at least, peace rested and a great happiness.