Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 15

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It was very early, and mist lay in the valley when Geraint rode out. The tops of the fruit trees on the island showed above the mist, and the white vapour spread as far as the grove of Sylvanus, but the domes of the high woods on the hills were beginning to flash and to glitter. The valley was full of the singing of birds, and as Geraint rode up the farther slope, rabbits scurried for cover. He was alone with the stealth of the morning.

The beech woods were dim and silent as death. A narrow ride with its grass all dew ran south between the great trees. Here the world still seemed asleep. Not a dead leaf stirred in the forest floor, not a live leaf on the branches. The ground rose and fell, and before him Geraint saw other woods towering like misty cliffs. He rode armed, in lorica and steel casque, his sword at his side, a spear over his shoulder. The lorica had been his grand-father's, and the metal plates were gilded. His helmet carried cheek-pieces. The white horse's harness was of red leather.

The beech woods extended for two miles. The last wooded ridge rose ahead of him; beyond it lay downland, and as he topped the slope, the trees became full of broken light. It splashed the grey trunks, and suddenly he saw a great yellow sun hanging above a world of hills and valleys. The landscape was silver, the sky pale blue. And a little sound came to him out of the high silence, a sound that was both plaintive and joyous, the notes of a shepherd's pipe.

Clear of the trees Geraint saw the shepherd and his sheep, and the little hut of skins and branches in a grassy hollow. The shepherd wore a sheepskin and leggings of leather. He was sitting on another sheepskin, with his dog at his feet, the fingers of his right hand stopping and unstopping the vents of the pipe. The yellow sunlight fell full upon the flock. Lambs were sucking, or nosing their mother's dugs. Two youngsters were frisking and leaping. The grass, still glistening with dew, was stippled with blue and yellow flowers. In the valley below, the white vapour was wearing thin.

It was the dog who discovered Geraint. He was up, barking and growling, and the ewes, lifting meek heads, gazed at the man on the white horse and did not seem to fear him. One or two called to their lambs. The shepherd was on his feet and telling the dog to lie down. Both the sheep and the shepherd were Geraint's.

He walked his horse forward.

"The pride of the morning to you, Coel."

The shepherd was quite a young man with a mop of wheat-coloured hair and blue eyes.

"And to you, lord."

"Is all well?"

"All is well, lord. I have not lost another lamb since that snow in April."

He stood holding his pipe in his right hand and looking up at Geraint. His life was a very peaceful life. There were no wolves in these parts, and marauding dogs and men were rare. This lad had never seen blood spilt in anger. The great grey hills and the beech woods were serene. His blue eyes looked at Geraint. Why did his lord ride armed?

Geraint felt that look. But why trouble the lad or put fear into his yellow head? On such a morning as this, violence and fear seemed far away.

"Your lambs look well, Coel."

The lad smiled.

"Good weather, lord, great weather."

"May it stay so!—One word, Coel, up here you can see the hills at night."

"I can see miles and miles, lord."

"Watch. If you should see fire on the hills, come down and tell us."

"Yes, lord."

Geraint smiled at him.

"The fire will be far away.—I am for Fontes. You can play me on with your pipe."

Geraint rode eastward along the ridge before turning down into the valley. He came to a high and grassy bluff with banks and ditches encircling it, an old grass fort. The view from the fort was vast, hill upon hill, with the valley clefts all shadow. Geraint sat his horse there and looked east. He saw water flashing as the sun climbed, glittering woods, a dim horizon. Over there lay Calleva, and in Calleva Guinevra would be putting up her shining hair.