Читать книгу The Red Saint - Warwick Deeping - Страница 7

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Grimbald the priest stood on guard under the ash tree where the road left Goldspur for the open fields. He had a buckler on his arm, and an axe over his shoulder. His short, frayed cassock showed the beginnings of a brown and mighty pair of calves, and the feet in the leather sandals looked like the feet of an Atlas whose shoulders wedged up the heavens.

There had been a panic at Goldspur that morning, when a lad had run in with the news that he had seen armed men riding through the mist, and that they were marching towards Goldspur. And Grimbald, stalking down into the village, had met some of the younger men skulking off as though there were no women and children to be remembered. Grimbald had twisted a stake out of the hedge, dusted some decent shame into these cowards, and driven them back into Goldspur much as a drover drives his cattle.

Grimbald had found the village in an uproar, for Aymery was away with Waleran, and the folk had tumbled over each other for the lack of a leader. Men and boys had herded in sheep and cattle, and the beasts were bolting all ways, and taking every road but the right one. Women, weeping, scolding, chattering, were carrying out their chattels from the cottages. One had a baby at the breast; another clutched a young pig; a third sat at her door, and screamed like a silly girl. Men were arguing, shouting, quarrelling, eager to do the same thing, but obstinate in trying to do it each in his several way.

Then Grimbald had come and shepherded the people, knocked together the heads of the men who quarrelled, and turned disorder into order. The sheep, cattle, and pigs were driven off towards the woods. Men, women, and children followed, carrying all that they could put upon their backs. In a quarter of an hour from Grimbald’s coming Goldspur village was a row of empty hovels, with nothing alive there but a few chickens, and the sparrows, who trusted in God, and continued to build in the thatch.

Grimbald had set himself at the lower end of the village, and stood there like the giant figure of some protecting saint. He was about to follow his flock when he saw a man on horseback round a spur of woodland in the valley. He came on at a canter for the village, and Grimbald knew him for Aymery by the colours of his surcoat and his horse.

Aymery reined in, hot with galloping, his eyes keen and full of flashes of light. He had been with Waleran, and had ridden to warn his people of what they might expect that day.

Grimbald pointed with his axe to the open doors of the hovels.

“They are safe in the woods by now. Have you had view of Peter’s gentry?”

Aymery turned his horse, and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“They left the priest’s house under Bright Ling—at dawn. Waleran tried a trick there, but the dogs smelt the smoke. I saw their spears coming down the hill as I crossed the valley.”

Aymery looked towards the beech wood on the hill, his eyes flashing back the morning sunlight. The muscles of his jaw were hard and tense.

“We must bide our time, and watch them,” he said; “they are coming to make a bonfire here. They can burn every stick of the place so long as they have not meddled with Denise.”

Grimbald shifted his axe from one shoulder to the other. If ever a man had cause to be jealous of a woman, that man was Grimbald. But his heart was too warm and too well tilled to harbour such a weed. He thanked God for the good he found in the world, and did not quarrel with it because it was not part of his own halo.

“She cannot be left yonder,” he said.

Aymery still looked at the beech wood, head thrown back, grey eyes a-glitter.

“We must take cover and watch. They will be here soon, and we shall see. To-night, I will take her away.”

A gleam of spears showed in the valley, and Aymery rode off to the nearest wood with Grimbald holding to his stirrups. They saw Gaillard and his men come over the fields to Goldspur village, and Denise was not with them. Aymery’s eyes made sure of that. The Gascon found nothing but the empty hovels, the untroubled sparrows, and a black cock crowing and scratching on a dunghill. One of Gaillard’s men fitted an arrow to the string, shot the black cock through the body, and laughed at the way the bird tumbled and flapped in the death agony.

“Brother Barnabo may find use for him,” said someone, and there was a laugh.

“He will wake him before daylight,” quoth another. “Such birds are useful to gallant clerks.”

Goldspur village did not go up in smoke that morning, for Gaillard, cunning as a fox, did not always run straight for the game in view.

“We will take our dinner elsewhere, sirs,” he said. “When we are over the hill, the fools may think that they will see us no more. When does a cat catch mice? We shall do better in the dark.”

And Aymery and Grimbald saw him and his men ride on towards the west as though an empty village were too miserable a thing even to be burnt. Nor did they turn aside to where the gable end of the manor house showed amid the oak trees. It seemed that Gaillard had another quest in view. Goldspur was left to the sparrows and the dead cock on the dunghill.

Aymery and Grimbald watched the raiders till they had disappeared.

“We are free of them for one day, brother. What about our people?”

“We had better look to the fools,” said Grimbald. “They are as frightened as rabbits.”

And they went off together into the woods.

Aymery and the priest found the Goldspur folk penning their cattle in a wild part of the forest. The men had cut boughs and furze bushes, and the women were building rude huts for shelter at night. Aymery sent some of the boys to scout through the forest, and bring back any news of Gaillard that they could gather. About noon one of Waleran’s men came in, with a word to Aymery that Waleran and the woodlanders were gathering to ambush the Savoyard’s men. Grimbald and Aymery went off to join in the tussle, but saw nothing of Waleran though they sought him most of the day. A woodman who was felling oak trees to bark for the tanner, told them that young St. Leger had ridden by, and that Gaillard and his company had marched back beyond Bright Ling. Aymery and the priest turned homewards towards Goldspur. The long shadows of evening were purple upon the grass, and Aymery’s heart remembered Denise.

They came to Goldspur manor as the dusk was falling, and the song of the birds went up towards the sunset, and everything was very still. The bridge was down over the narrow moat, and the gate open; no man had been there all that day, for Aymery’s servants had fled with the village folk, and two men who could handle their bows had been sent two days ago with Waleran into the woods.

Grimbald drew the bridge, while Aymery went to the stable to feed and water his horse. They had no fear of Peter of Savoy’s riders that night, and took their augury from the fact that Gaillard had left the place untouched that morning. Grimbald carried tinder and steel in his wallet, and he lit a torch in the hall, and went to the pantry and kitchen to get bread, beer, and meat for supper. He and Aymery sat down in the empty hall, and ate for a while in silence, like men who were weary, or were sunk in thought.

They were nearly through with their hunger, and were talking of Denise and the hermitage, when Grimbald, who was about to finish his mead, paused with the horn between the table and his mouth. The men’s eyes met across the board. They were both listening, motionless as images carved in stone.

The night seemed dark and silent without, the woodlands asleep, the night empty of all unrest. Yet there had come to Grimbald a sense of something moving in the darkness. And as they listened there was a faint splash from the moat, and a sound like the creaking of wet leather.

Grimbald’s eyes were fixed on Aymery’s face.

“Listen!”

“A rat in the moat?”

Grimbald put his horn down on the table, rose up swiftly and silently, and taking his axe, went out into the courtyard. Aymery’s sword and shield hung from a peg in the wall. He took them down, and had gained the door of the hall when he heard a sudden scuffling of feet, an oath in the darkness, the harsh breathing of men at grips, the splash of something into the water of the moat.

A scattering of arrows whirred and pecked at the walls, one slanting in and smiting the flagstones close to Aymery’s feet. He heard the dull jingle of armed men on the move. Grimbald towered back suddenly out of the night, a red splash of blood on his forehead, his eyes shining in the torchlight.

He flung the door to, and ran the oak bar through the staples.

“Brother, we are trapped! I took the first of them and pitched him into the moat.”

He shook his shaggy head, and looked round the hall. Aymery was buckling on his sword.

“There is the garden bridge,” he said. “We can make a dash for it.”

“Away, then; they are wading the moat, and climbing the palisade.”

Aymery pushed in front of Grimbald as they hurried down a narrow passage-way that led from the hall and the kitchen quarters into the garden.

“I go first, brother,” he said. “I have my steel coat; a stab in the dark might find your heart.”

Grimbald passed a huge arm about Aymery as they went.

“Lad, what is that to me!”

They came out into the garden, and stood for a moment listening. They could hear Gaillard’s men beating in the door of the hall, but towards the garden everything seemed quiet.

Aymery laid a hand on Grimbald’s arm.

“If one of us is taken, brother, let not the other tarry. Remember Denise.”

Grimbald understood him.

“Come,” he said in an undertone, and they crossed the garden side by side.

Now there was a trestle-bridge from the garden over the moat, a footbridge made of a single plank that could be thrust across and withdrawn at pleasure. A wicket in the palisade led to the bridge. Aymery unbarred the gate, and ran the plank forward on to the trestles.

“We shall trick them,” he said grimly, “quick, they have broken in.”

He ran across the bridge, Grimbald following, the plank creaking and sagging under the priest’s weight. Aymery had stooped to drag the plank away again, when he heard Grimbald give a short, deep cry, and saw him spring forward and smite at something with his axe.

“Guard, brother, guard.”

Steel crashed upon steel, a glitter of sparks flying from axe and helmet. An arrow stopped quivering in Aymery’s shield as he sprang forward to Grimbald’s aid. Men rose at him out of the darkness. Dimly in the midst of the waving swords, he had a glimpse of two men clinging to Grimbald. He saw the priest shake them off, and beat them down before him as a boy snaps thistles with a stick. There was a rush of armed men in the darkness, the dash of steel against steel as they blundered one against another. The red splutter of a torch came tossing out of the night, with the hoarse shouting of men trying to tell friend from foe. Grimbald and Aymery lost each other, and fought each for his own hand.