Читать книгу Voices from the Dust - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 11

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Years came and went, and beneath King William’s heavy foot the soul of Saxon England writhed, defiant still, and still unconquered. Mighty castles, mightily built, scowled upon rebellion; yet the doughty Hereward and his valiant comrades maintained awhile desperate war in and around the swamps of Ely.

Nevertheless, with William’s iron rule came laws, evil and good; out of chaos grew order; in town and city was peace, and with peace a growing plenty. The fires of many insurrections were quenched in blood, and in blood died brave Hereward at last, and, his heroic followers slain and scattered, King William and his hard-fighting barons took breath awhile.

Only in the wild wood Saxon steel yet flickered, Saxon bows still twanged, where roamed and fought wild companies of broken, landless men outlawed from hearth and home, to be chased and killed like wild beasts—wolves-heads all. And no man of all these desperate outlaws so powerful, so fierce and merciless as him they called “The Boar.”

Now upon a fair June morning when birds carolled and wild flowers bloomed, Gilles de Broc, Earl Marshal of South Sex and lord of Brandon Keep, set forth with a small though veteran company of knights, esquires, and men-at-arms.

Beside the famous earl, on a goodly palfrey, rode his little son, bright-eyed and eager in his small helm and ring mail and very full of breathless question, for this was the first time he had travelled so far.

By the great forest road they went, at easy pace, intending that night to bide at Brockenhurst. Few travellers they met, for the times were still somewhat troublous, and within the forest nothing stirred save sullen charcoal-burners or the flitting antlers of timid deer.

It was afternoon when they came where the road led up between steepy banks crowned with brush. Of a sudden, out from these boskages to right and left, arrows whirred; horses, deep-smitten, reared and fell, men gasped and died, and all was wild confusion. Then forth of the green sprang men, wild and terrible, to slay and plunder; and Earl Gilles, pinned beneath his dead horse, opened swooning eyes to see his small son beside him, blue eyes wide in little, pale face, but sword grasped in resolute hand.

“My lord,” he cried, “oh, father, art hurt?”

“Nay, son, ’tis but my foot. Yet I cannot budge, so get thee down, boy! Down, I say, behind yon bush!”

“But, messire, dear, my father, I have a sword to fend thee——”

“Down, I say! For now must——” A horn shrilled from the bank above and, glancing up, they beheld a very tall, grim man in rusty mail who, pointing down at them with his sword, beckoned to divers of his wild fellows.

“Bring these to me!” he commanded, and vanished amid the thickets.

So, having disarmed and freed the Earl from his dead steed, they pinioned him with thongs and his little son also, who, seeing his proud father murmured not, himself endured as silently, though his blue eyes yearned after his little new sword.

By devious ways amid dense, tangled underwoods and beneath mighty forest trees, the prisoners were marched until, deep amid the wild, they reached a small clearing where burned a fire beside which sat the tall, grim man, bugle-horn about his neck, long-sword across mailed thighs.

“So, Norman thieves,” quoth he, scowling at them beneath battered helmet, “slayers of Saxon women, murderers of Saxon children, Saxon am I and men do call me ‘The Boar.’ Well, boars have tusks to rend withal,—so will I rend ye twain—Norman wolf and cub! And first the cub, for short rede is good rede! Bring hither the cub, Wulfstan!” and slowly he drew his sword.

“Hold, sir Saxon!” said the Earl, his bold eye dauntless as ever, but brow haggard with sharp anxiety. “Rend me, an ye will, but this my son is young, a child innocent of war——”

“Good!” cried the outlaw. “Thus shall he die ere he learn. Bring me the Norman cub, Wulfstan!”

So they urged forward the little captive, who, looking into those merciless eyes, beholding the bright, sharp sword, quailed somewhat and bowed his head; but, seeing thus his own knightly mail, so bright and very new, he stood suddenly upright and stared into the fierce visage so near his own, flinching no more—only he breathed short and quick.

But now the Earl, shivering in his bonds, his lean hawk-face wet and agonized, spake in a voice that cracked strangely:

“Sir Outlaw, take my life, here and now, but set my son to ransom. Give him safe return to my castle of Brandon, and thy guerdon shall——”

“Ha—Brandon? Thy castle of Brandon? Then who art thou, Norman?”

“I am Gilles de Broc, Earl of Brandon, and——”

“Aha,—and this—this thy son will be son also of——?”

“Githa, my loved Countess.”

Slowly, slowly the outlaw reached forth his great hands. He drew the child nearer, staring upon him in strange fashion; then lifting off the small helmet, he pushed back the close-fitting camail, discovering a silky shock of curling yellow hair.

“Boy,” said he, sharply, “how art named?”

“Godric, messire.”

Bowing grim head upon clenched fist, the outlaw stared at the fire awhile, then:

“Why art so named, boy?” he questioned, his face still averted.

“Sir Outlaw,” answered young Godric, staring fearfully on that sharp sword, yet speaking boldly as he might, “it was in memory of mine Uncle Godric that was a valiant and noble Saxon.”

Then this outlaw, whom men called “The Boar,” rose up, his harsh face marvellously transfigured, his sword falling to lie all unheeded, and, looking at the Earl, above that small golden head, he spake in a voice as changed as his look:

“Ha, Gilles—Gilles de Broc, though Norman thou art, this thy son is true and proper Saxon. These bold blue eyes, that quail not at death, this yellow poll,—ha, by Holy Rood, thy boy is Saxon as I or ... my sister Githa!”

The proud Earl uttered a choking cry; his eyes swam, though his voice was glad and joyous:

“Godric!” he cried. “Is it forsooth thou? Oh, brother, here is not death then ...?”

“The lad is Saxon!” quoth Godric. “And Saxon slays not Saxon. But thou art Norman ... yet lord to Saxon lady, and so——” He motioned to his wild men, and the Earl was freed of his bonds by quick and eager hands.

“Godric,” said Gilles the Earl, reaching forth his hand, “there is a place of honour for thee in Brandon that hath waited thee these many years, with loving welcome from thy noble sister! And in this England of ours a man’s work for thee to do. How say’st thou,—brother?”

“That I am outlaw with these my fellows—outlaws each and every.”

“There shall be pardon for them!” cried the Earl, looking round upon the wild company. “Pardon full and free to one and all—pardon and bounty! And this swear I upon my knightly word, for King William, though Norman and mayhap something harsh, is a just man. So Godric, my brother, come thou back to hearth and home; our England needs the like of thee.”

“Boy,” said big Godric, setting a large finger beneath little Godric’s chin that he might look down into those steadfast blue eyes, “thou small Saxon,—little kinsman and namesake, how sayst thou?”

“Come, messire, for I’ve ever lacked of uncles,” said the boy eagerly. “And now, Sir Uncle, an it please thee, I’ll have my sword again.”

Then Godric the Outlaw laughed and, catching the son within mighty arms, gave the father his hand.

“So be it!” he cried, fronting his eager followers. “Inlaws all are we henceforth! And yet, Gilles,” said he as their hands clasped and wrung each other, “and yet—thou art a Norman!”

“Ay, brother,” quoth the Earl, “Norman am I; yet there shall come a day, mayhap, in this fair England when there shall be neither Saxon nor Norman but a people greater, mightier,—who knows?”

“Ay, who knows?” said Godric, laying a gentle hand upon small Godric’s golden crown. “And yet, my brother, ’spite all thy Norman blood,—here stands a Saxon!”