Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 5

Table of Contents

It was Geraint's dog who heard the sound. Head up, collar bristling, body quivering, he stood with his muzzle pointing south. Geraint, riding ahead of the wagon and its guard of spears, reined in, and held up an arm.

He spoke to the dog, and the big boarhound, looking up at him, whimpered and stood sniffing the air. From the road a stretch of grass rose gradually to a beech wood, a black wood powdered gold and green and steeping its summit in the sunlight of a May morning. The sky was blue, the grass full of flowers; a little warm wind came out of the south. The stillness was absolute, the stillness of grass and of trees.

Geraint sat watching the wood—its grey trunks and the blackness within were mysterious and mute. His men had taken their spears from the wagon and stood leaning on them, their faces turned towards the wood. There might be nothing there—or there might be death. Their lord had loosed his sword in its sheath. The dog's legs quivered.

Suddenly a jay screamed. They saw the bird go bustling and scolding among the tree-tops. Again there was silence, but a silence that had become sinister. That dark wood held something—but what?

A cry. It rose, held for a moment, and broke like the plume of a fountain into a scattering of words. They were mere little sounds in the silence, distant and yet somehow distinct, like fingers plucking wildly at the strings of a harp. And the voice was a woman's.

Geraint turned in the saddle.

"Martin—a spear. Caradoc and four of you, come with me. The rest—on guard here."

He set his white horse at the green slope and went up it at a canter, his men running in a bunch at his heels. The beech trees were old trees, and within the droop of the outer branches the trunks rose like the grey pillars of a vast temple. Last year's leaves lay here in bronze. A greenish light filtered through the young foliage. Ahead Geraint saw nothing but the crowded trunks.

But there were sounds, and he rode on with the hound beside him, and his men's feet pattering over dead leaves. A splash of sunlight marked the break of a little glade. The grey trunks dwindled. He saw—what he saw.

A girl, a dead body, four men in harness. The girl and a man were on the ground—the others—Geraint sloped his spear and rode in.

Quick work while it lasted—a scramble of surprised cut-throats caught like a fire by the wind. Geraint ran one man through; his dog pulled down another. He left his spear in the first scoundrel, and fell to with his sword. Three of the fellows were down before Geraint's men rushed in. Caradoc cut down the last of them.

Geraint rolled out of the saddle and stood over the fellow. The man was lying on his side, propped on one arm. Blood ran from him.

Geraint spoke. He was a big man, dark, quiet as death.

"Pia—Fidelis—men of the Second Legion—turned wolves! That badge—"

The man lifted a bloody face.

"Pia—Fidelis—no pay for a year—! Pia—Fidelis!"

He let out a choked laugh, which ended in a wet moan. The tanned arm crumpled. He fell on his face and died.

Geraint looked at the girl. She was leaning against a tree, her arm over her eyes, her hair hanging in a cloud. It was the colour of copper, and it hid her face. One hand, with fingers spread, held the clothes over her bosom. Her gown was of apple green, and below it a red shoe showed. The hound sniffed at the shoe.

She seemed to wrench herself round; she dropped the arm from her face; her dark eyes stared, for though her hair was bright and burnished, her eyes were stag's eyes. She looked at the dead men, especially at the one who lay with arms spread and a red hole in his throat. She looked at Geraint.

"God have mercy—"

She seemed to shrink into herself, head down, her hands pressing against the front of her thighs, mute, dark, abject. There was blood on her shift. Geraint swept an arm at his men. He heard their feet brushing the dead leaves. He and the dog, the horse, the girl, and the dead men were alone together. She was leaning back against the tree, and her face was a white streak amid her hair.

He said: "God has pity."

She shuddered. She put her hair aside and looked at him for a moment like a frightened creature peering from a dark window. Her words came in a whisper.

"He is dead."

She let her hair fall over her face as though she could bear neither too much light nor too much looking, and then she fell a-sobbing. The dog nosed her leg, and his eyes were the eyes of a dog. One of her hands came to rest upon his head. As for Geraint, he turned away and walked to where the man in the black cloak lay spread like a cross. He was not a young man; he had a paunch on him and a little greyish beard. His eyes stared up through the beech boughs. He had the look of a rich man's steward or freedman. Geraint's horse followed him, stepping between the bodies. His white nozzle rested against his master's arm.

For a minute there was silence. He would have said that she needed it, the stillness and the half light of this beech wood. Her young shame had its anguish to cover. She had sobbed it out amid her burning hair.

With an arm over the neck of his horse he turned and looked. She was bending down with her face pressed to the dog's head. He was smothered by her hair. And suddenly she straightened; her two hands put her hair back over her shoulders, and for a moment she stood rigid. Her eyes had a blind look.

She spoke.

"I—would—go."

Geraint did not utter a word. He went and lifted her and placed her upon his horse and, taking the bridle, led the beast out of the wood. At the edge of the grass Geraint's men were leaning upon their spears. They looked at their master and not at the girl. He pointed into the wood.

"Get the spades from the wagon. Bury—the one in the black cloak. Take the arms and the harness from the others. Hasten."

He looked up at the girl. Had she heard? Had she any orders for him? She was mute. He saw her cross herself. So—she was a Christian. He was not.

He led on across the grass, walking between the horse and the hound. His sword was bloody in its scabbard, but for its cleansing it would have to wait. There were questions to be asked, questions to be answered.

"How—this thing happened—you may tell me when you please. I am Geraint of the White Tower. In two hours we shall be in Calleva. What is your wish?"

She looked at her two red shoes.

"I—lord—was for Calleva—"

"And whence?"

Her right hand was gripping the pommel of the saddle.

"Londinium. My uncle—is dead. I lived with my uncle. Justus, his freedman—yes, he who lies there—was taking me to friends at Calleva."

They had reached the road. The three men left with the wagon stood and stared, but they ceased to stare when Geraint looked at them. He waved them to the wood.

"Spades. Work to do. Help Caradoc and the others."

They went. He put a hand under the girl's feet and let her slip to earth. Her hair clouded his shoulder for an instant. She did not look at him, but sat down on the grass, and Bran, the hound, lay at her feet.

"I have not thanked you, lord."

He had slung his bridle over one of the horns of the wagon. She was caressing the dog. Her face was mysterious.

"Thanks come from the heart, child.—Tell me your name."

She seemed to murmur amid her hair.

"I am named Guinevra, lord."