Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 20

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Placida was at matins in her chapel by the orchard, and when Geraint had helped Cornelia into the house and sent women to serve her, he went for his wife. Placida on her knees was of no use to anyone save Placida, and Geraint was for the road.

"Cornelia is here."

Cornelia! And what was the old pagan doing at Turris Alba at this hour when a woman should be on her knees or seeing that her servants were on their feet? Placida was not pleased.

"Cornelia?"

Geraint did not waste words.

"She has been on the road all night. Trouble at Calleva. Go to her, wife. They have turned her out of the city."

Placida rose from her knees. She had no liking for Cornelia, and such sympathy as she could command marched with Calleva.

"Well, I am not surprised. She and her idols!"

"She is an old woman, Placida, and she has been on her feet all night."

Geraint remounted his horse. He met Malgo and two old soldiers from the vicus just beyond the bailiff's house, and he gave Malgo the news. Calleva had shut its gates and declared itself a free and rebel city. Malgo was not surprised. Calleva looked like becoming an uncomfortable neighbour. And were my lord's men ready for the day's work? Yes, Mabon was calling them together in the stable court, and Malgo could put them through their paces. There were spears, and Malgo could use the wooden fencing-swords to teach them the elements of sword-play. Malgo had brought half a dozen light javelins with him.

"I may be able to teach them to throw by hand. They will be too raw for the throwing-thong."

The white horse was feeling his master's impatience.

"Teach them to stand shoulder to shoulder, Malgo."

"I can teach them that, lord, but a man must teach himself not to run away."

Geraint gave his horse the reins, and Malgo watched him go. My Lord Geraint had the face of a man who had some business that would not wait. He rode up the hill to the beech woods, and the valley's farewell to him was the sound of Caradoc's hammer in the smithy.

Geraint rode fast. He did not follow the road, but took an old grass track along the hills. His way lay through wild country. Deer went trotting from him to cover in the valleys. He saw hawks overhead, and at one place where the track went down to a brook he put up a boar who was rooting in the boggy ground. Geraint had no eyes for any of these things. He followed the rise and fall of that ribbon of turf with its rabbit-nibbled grass, a track hardened by the coming and going of men and beasts in the days when Rome was not.

An hour's hard riding brought him to less rolling country. The sky had a more level rim. There were farmsteads here; he was in the Calleva country. He slackened to a trot. Oak trees replaced the beeches; grassland in the valleys became heather on the low hills. He came to a birch wood on some rising ground, and by a round barrow and a clump of yew trees he reined in and sat at gaze.

Roofs—a little golden finger pointing skywards, a tower, a faint haze of smoke—Calleva.

Riding on another hundred paces, he was able to see the city wall, and the west gate with its two black arches. There were figures on the wall, little dark dots. He rode on still farther, and again he paused, for out of the west gate of Calleva a thing like a coloured snake came gliding. Geraint watched it. A procession? No, men marching out to the level space outside the gate, a column of men two or three hundred strong. It halted on the pomerium and then broke into half a dozen sections; some marched this way and some that. Other little figures distinct from the companies gestured and shouted. Geraint sat and watched the men of Calleva being drilled.

He touched the white horse with his heels and, turning south, rode towards the woods that came within a furlong of the southern gate. The west gate was closed to him—yes, obviously so. He rode on and round to the eastern face and, striking the main road, walked his horse towards the east gate.

He saw men on the walls, men on the watch-tower near the amphitheatre. Moreover, he saw that the gates were closed.

Geraint walked his horse to the east gate. There were men on the wall watching him, and the fellows were armed, though their spears were scythe-blades set upon poles. Geraint reined in his horse and sat waiting as though he expected the gate to be opened, but one of the men on the wall knew him. He shouted to the guards in the guard-room below.

A stone came flying from the battlements. It was followed by a javelin that passed over the back of Geraint's horse and buried its head in the grass beside the road. Geraint heard the bolts being drawn. These bold citizens, seeing but one man on a horse and remembering the occasion when this same gentleman had chased some of them up the street, were preparing to rush out in strength and engage him.

Geraint turned his horse and rode off just as one of the gates opened and a dozen men tumbled out with much noise and valour. Their weapons were the arms of a mob, hammers, knives, and scythe-blades on staves, clubs, an old sword or two. Their courage was very much the courage of a crowd when a chase is on and the game seems safe. But Geraint had other and greater devoirs to do than to get himself bludgeoned by a city mob. He put his horse at a canter, and his pursuers, outdistanced, stood and mocked him.

"Ha ha—the gentleman runs away."

"Coward."

"Ya—ya—poltroon."

Geraint swung back into the woods and, striking the Venta road, cantered along it for a mile before turning west into a field track. Calleva was shut to him; he had been chased away from it by those fellows of the baser sort. And Geraint's face was not gentle. About half a mile from the city he reined in and looked back. He saw the little golden figure on its column shining like a torch.

He turned his horse again and rode westwards, and life's face was the face of a woman.