Читать книгу Uther & Igraine (Historical Novel) - Warwick Deeping - Страница 8

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As they watched, looking down betwixt two thorn trees, a faint puff of dust rose on the road far to the east, and hung like a diminutive cloud over the meadows. This danger signal counselled the pair. Pelleas caught his horse and sprang to selle; Igraine clambered by his stirrup, and was lifted to her seat before him. Pelleas slung his shield forward, and loosened his sword.

“If it comes to battle,” he said, “I will set you down, and you must hide in the meadows or woods, while I fight. You would but cumber me, and be in great peril here. Rest assured, though, that I shall not desert you while I live.”

With that he turned his horse to the road, and halted, gazing down amid the placid fields to where the little cloud of dust had hinted at life. It was there still, only larger, and sounded on by the distant triple canter of horses at the gallop. Pelleas and Igraine could see three mounted figures coming up the road amid a white haze, moving fast, as though pressed by some as yet unseen enemy. It was soon evident to Pelleas and the girl that one of the fugitives was a woman.

“We will abide them,” said the man, “and learn their peril. We shall be stronger, too, for company, and may succour one another if it comes to smiting. Look! yonder comes the heathen pack.”

A second and larger cloud of dust had appeared, a mile or less beyond the first. Pelleas watched it awhile, and then turned and began riding at a trot towards the west, so that the three fugitives should overtake him. He bade Igraine keep watch over his shoulder while he scanned the meadows before them for sign of peril or of friendly harbour.

“Have no fear, child,” he said; “I could vow, by these fields, that there is a manor near. I trust confidently that we shall find refuge.”

Igraine smiled at him.

“I am no coward,” she said.

“That is well spoken.”

“I would, though, that you would give me your dagger, so that, if things come to an evil pass, I shall know how to quit myself.”

“My dagger!” he said, with a sudden stare. “I left it in the man’s heart in Andredswold.”

“Ah!” said Igraine; “then I must do without.”

The dull thunder of the nearing gallop came up to them—a stirring sound, full of terse life and eager hazard. Pelleas spurred to a canter, while Igraine’s hair blew about his face and helmet as they began to meet the kiss of the wind. She clung fast to him with both hands, and told what was passing on the road in their rear.

“How they ride,” she said; “a tangle of dust and whirling hoofs. There is a lady in blue on a white horse, with an armed man on either flank. They are very near now. I can see the heathen far away over the meadows. They are galloping, too, in a smoke of dust. Our folk will be with us soon.”

In a minute the lady and her men were hurtling close in Pelleas’s wake. He spurred to a gallop in turn, and bade Igraine wave them on to his side. The three were soon with them, stride for stride. The girl on the white horse drew up on Pelleas’s right flank. She was habited in blue and silver—a flaxen-haired damosel, with the round face of a child. Seemingly she was possessed of little hardihood, for her mouth was a red streak in a waste of white, and her blue eyes so full of fear that Igraine pitied her. She cried shrilly to Pelleas, her voice rising above the din like the cry of a frightened bird.

“The heathen!” she cried.

“Many?” shouted the man.

“Two score or more. There is a strong manor near. If we gain it we may live.”

“How far?”

“Not a mile over the meadows.”

“Lead on,” said Pelleas; “we will follow as we may.”

The damosel on the white horse turned from the road, and headed southwards over the meadows, with her men galloping beside her. The long grass swayed, water-like, before them, its summer seed flying like a mist of dew. Wood and pasture slid back on either hand. The ground seemed to rise and fall before them as a sea, while rocks here and there thrust up bluff noses in the grass like great lizards stirred by the hurtling thunder of the gallop.

On they went, with white spume on breast and bridle; leaping, swerving where rough ground showed. To Igraine the ride was life indeed, bringing back many a whistling gallop from the past. She felt her heart in her leaping to the horse’s stride. Now and again she took a sly look at Pelleas’s face, finding it calm and vigilant—the face of a man whose thought ran a silent course unruffled by the breeze of peril. She felt his bridle-arm staunchly about her like a girdle of steel. Although she could see the dust gathering thickly on the distant road, she felt blithe as a new bride in the man’s company, and there was no fear at all in her thought.

The grassland began to slope gradually towards the south. A quavering screech of joy came back to them from the woman riding in the van. Pelleas spoke his first word during the gallop.

“Courage,” he said. “Southwards lies our refuge.”

Igraine looked over his shoulder, and saw how their flight tended down the flank of a gentle hill into the lap of a fair valley. The grass stretch was broken by great trees—oaks, beeches, and huge, corniced cedars. Down in the green hollow below them a mere shone with the soul of the sky steeped in its quiet waters. It was ringed with trailing willows, and an island held its centre, piled with green shadows and the grey shape of a fair manor. The place looked as peaceful as sleep in the eye of the morning.

The woman on the white horse bade one of her men take his bugle-horn and blow a summons thereon to rouse the folk upon the island. Twice the summons sounded down over the water, but there was no answering stir to be marked about the house or garden. The place was smokeless, lifeless, silent. Like many another home, its hearths were cold for fear of the barbarian sword.

As they held downhill, Igraine wove the matter through her thought like swift silk through a shuttle.

“Should there be no boat,” she said, giving voice to her misgivings, “what can you do for us?”

“We must swim for it,” said Pelleas, keenly.

“It is a broad, fair water, and the horse cannot bear us both.”

“He shall, if needs be.”

She felt that the brute would, after Pelleas had spoken so. She patted the arched black neck, and smiled at the sky as they came down to the mere’s edge at a canter. The water was lapping softly at the sedges amid a blaze of marsh marigolds and purple flags, the surface gleaming like glass in the sun. Half a score water-hens went winging from the reeds, and skimming low and fast towards the island. A heron rose from the shallows, and laboured heavenwards with legs trailing.

Riding round the margin, they found to their joy a barge grounded in a little bay, with sweeps ready upon the thwarts, and a horse-board fitted at the prow. A purple cloak hung over one bulwark, trailing in the water; a small crucifix and a few trinkets were scattered on the poop, as though those who had used the ferry last had fled in fear, forgetful of everything save flight.

Then came the embarkation. The barge would but hold three horses at one voyage, so Pelleas ordered Igraine and the rest into the boat, and bade the men row over and return. Igraine demurred a moment.

“Leave your horse,” she said; “they may come before the boat can take you.”

Pelleas refused her with a smile, running his fingers through the brute’s black mane.

“I have a truer heart than that,” he said.

The men launched away, and pulled at the sweeps with a will, Igraine helping, and doing her devoir for the man Pelleas’s sake. The barge slid away, with ripples playing from the prow, and a gush of foam leaping from each smile of the blades. It was a hundred yards or more to the island, and the craft was ponderous enough to make the crossing slow.

Pelleas sat still and watched the meadows. Suddenly—bleakly—a figure on horseback topped the low hill on the north, and held motionless on the summit, scanning the valley. A second joined the first. Pelleas caught a shout, muffled by the wind, as the two plunged down at full gallop for the mere, sleeping in its bed of green. Here were two gentlemen who had outstripped their fellows, and were as keen as could be to catch Pelleas before the barge could recross, and set the mere betwixt them. Pelleas saw his hazard in a moment. Even if the barge came before the heathen, there would be some peril of its capture in the shallows.

He would have to fight for it, unless he cared to swim the mere. Provided he could deal with these two outriders before the main company came up, well and good, the raiders would find clear water between the quarry and their swords. He thought of Avangel, and grew iron of heart. Then there was the nun, Igraine, with the wonderful eyes, and hair warm as the dun woods in autumn. He was her sworn knight as far as Winchester. God helping him, he thought, he would yet see her face again. So he rode out grimly to get fair field for horsecraft, and waited for the two who swept the meadows.

Igraine, standing on the wooden stage at the water’s edge, saw Pelleas taking ground and preparing for a tussle. The barge had put off again and had already half spanned the water. She was alone with the woman of the white horse, who stood beside her still quaking like a reed, and almost voiceless from the fulsome terror of an unshrived death. Igraine had no heed for her at the moment. Her whole thought lurked with the red shield and the black horse in the meadows. Worldly heart! her desire burnt redly in her own bosom, and found no flutter for the powers above.

She saw Pelleas gathering for the course, while the heathen slackened so as not to override their mark. A crescent of steel flashed as the foremost man launched his axe at the knight’s head. The red shield caught and turned it. In a trice Pelleas’s spear had picked the rogue from the saddle, despite his crouching low and seeking to shun it. The second fellow came in like a whirlwind. His horse caught the black destrier cross counter and rolled him down like a rammed wall. Pelleas avoided, and was up with bleak sword. Smiting low, he caught the man’s thigh, and broke the bone like a lath. The Saxon lost his seat, and came down with a snarling yell. The rest was easy as beating down a maimed wolf.

The main company had just topped the hill. Pelleas, with the skirmish ended to his credit, shook his sword at them, and led his horse into the shallows. The barge swept in, took its burden from the bank, and held back for the island, where Igraine stood watching on the stage, ready with her welcome. She was glad of Pelleas in her heart, as though the comradeship of half a day had given her the right to share his honour, and to chime her joy with his. The woman in her swamped the assumed sanctity of the nun. As the water stretch lessened between them, Pelleas, silent and dark-browed as was his wont, found himself beneath the beck of eyes that gazed like the half-born wonder of the sky at dawn. It was neither joy nor great light in them, but a kind of quiet musing, as though there were strange new music in her soul.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, as he sprang from the barge and stood beside her, with head thrown back and his great shoulders squared.

“Not a graze.”

“Two to one, and a fair field,” quoth she, with a quaver of triumph; “my heart sang when those men went down. That was a great spear thrust.”

“Less and less of the rosary!”

She caught his deep smile, and laughed.

“I am a greater heathen than either,” she said. “God rest their souls.”

Meanwhile the lady in the blue tunic had somewhat recovered her squandered wits and courage. She came forward with a simpering dignity, walking daintily, with her gown gathered in her right hand, and her left laid over her heart. Her eyes were very big and blue, their brightness giving her an eager, sanguine look that was upheld the more by an assumed simpleness of manner. Her childish bearing, winsomely studied, exercised its subtleties with a lavish embellishment of smiles and blushes. Looked at more closely, and in repose, her face belied in measure the perspicuous personality she had adopted. A sensual boldness lurked in mouth and nostrils, and there was more carnal wisdom there than a pretended child should possess.

“Courtesy fails me, sir,” she said, letting her shoulders fall into a graceful stoop, and turning her large eyes to Pelleas’s face; “courtesy fails me when I would most praise you for your knightly deed in yonder meadows. I am so frightened that I cannot speak as I would. My heart is quite tired with its fear and flutter. Think you—you can save us from these wolves?”

Pelleas had neither the desire nor the leisure to stand juggling courtesies with the woman.

“Madame,” he said, “we shall fight. Leave the rest to Providence. I can give you no better comfort.”

“No,” she said, “no”—as in a daze.

Pelleas, reading her misery, repented somewhat of his abrupt truthfulness.

“Come,” he said, with a kind strength and a hand on her shoulder; “go to the house and rest there with Sister Igraine. I see you are too much shaken. Go in and pray if you can, while we hold the island.”

The girl looked at him unreservedly for a moment. Then she gave a little laugh that was half a sob, and, bending to him, kissed his hand before he could prevent her. Giving him yet another glance from her tumbled hair, she stepped aside to Igraine, and they turned together towards the manor, and the trees and gardens that ringed it. The girl had set her hand in Igraine’s with a little gesture that was intended to be indicative of confidence in the supposed nun’s greater intelligence.

“Let us go and sit under that yew tree,” she suggested. “I cannot stifle within walls now. You are named Igraine. I am called Morgan—Morgan la Blanche,—and I am a lord’s daughter. I almost envy you your frock now, for death cannot frighten you as it frightens me. Of course you are very good, and the Saints guard and watch over you. As for me, I have always been very thoughtless.”

“Not more than I,” said Igraine, with a smile. “I have often hummed romances when I should have praised Paul or Peter.”

“But doesn’t the fear of death blight you like a frost?”

“I never think of death.”

“It seems so near us now that I can hardly breathe. Do you think we are tortured in the other world, if there be one?”

“How should I know, simple one?”

“I wish the mere were a league broad. I should feel further from the pit.”

“Is your conscience so unkind?”

“Conscience, sister? It is self-love, not conscience. I only want to live. Look!—the heathen are coming down to the mere. How their axes shine. Holy Mother!—I wish I could pray.”

Igraine, catching the girl’s pinched face, with lips drawn and twitching, pitied her from her very heart.

“Come then, I will pray with you,” she said.

“No, no, my prayers would blacken heaven. I cannot, I cannot.”

The wild company had swept down between the great trees in disorderly array. Their weapons shone in the sunlight, their round bucklers blickered. They were soon at the place where Pelleas had slain his men in fair and open field. Dismounting, they gathered about their dead fellows, and sent up, after their custom, a vicious, dismal ululation, a sound like the howling of wolves, drear enough to make the flesh tingle under the stoutest steel. Lining the bank among the willows, they shook buckler and axe, gesticulating, threatening, their long hair blowing wild, their skin-clad bodies giving them a wolfin look not pleasant to behold. Round the margin they paddled—searching—casting about for a boat. They seemed like beasts behind the gates of some Roman amphitheatre—caged from the slaughter. The girl Morgan looked at them, screamed, and hid her face in her tunic. Igraine found the girl’s quaking hand, and held it fast in hers.

“Courage, courage,” she said; “there is no boat, and, even if they swim, Sir Pelleas is a great knight.”

“What can he do against fifty?” whined the girl, with her face still covered.

“Fifty? There are but a score. I have numbered them myself.”

“I would give all the jewels in the world to be in Winchester.”

“Ah! girl, I have no jewels to give; but this, I promise you, is better than a convent.”

The barbarians had gathered in a group beneath a great willow. Plainly they were in debate as to what should be done. Some, by their gestures, their tossing weapons, and their bombast, were for swimming the mere. Their councils were palpably divided. Possibly the sager folk among them did not think the venture worth the loss to them it might entail, seeing that one of those cooped upon the island had already given proof of no mean prowess. They could see the three armed men waiting grimly by the water’s edge, ready to strike down the swimmer who should crawl half-naked from the water weeds and mire. Gradually, but surely, the elder tongues held the argument, and the balance went down solemnly for those upon the island.

Pelleas and the two men, watching keenly for any movement, saw the circle of figures break and melt towards the horses. They saw them pick up the bodies of their two dead fellows, and lay them across the saddle. In a minute the whole troop turned, and held away southwards at a trot, flinging back a last wild cry over the water. The meadows rolled away behind them; the gradual trees hid them from moment to moment. Pelleas and the two servants stood and watched till the black line had gone southwards into the thickening woods.

Under the yew tree Morgan la Blanche had uncased her white face, and was smiling feebly.

“I am glad I did not pray,” she said; “it would have been so weak. Look! I have torn my tunic, and my belt’s awry. Bind my hair for me, sister, quickly,—before Sir Pelleas comes.”