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Red Eve 3094.txt
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Red Eve 3094.txt
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Produced by John Bickers; Dagny; David Widger
RED EVE
by H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1911.
DEDICATION
Ditchingham, May 27, 1911. My dear Jehu:
For five long but not unhappy years, seated or journeying side by side,
we have striven as Royal Commissioners to find a means whereby our
coasts may be protected from "the outrageous flowing surges of the
sea" (I quote the jurists of centuries ago), the idle swamps turned to
fertility and the barren hills clothed with forest; also, with small
success, how "foreshore" may be best defined!
What will result from all these labours I do not know, nor whether grave
geologists ever read romance save that which the pen of Time inscribes
upon the rocks. Still, in memory of our fellowship in them I offer to
you this story, written in their intervals, of Red Eve, the dauntless,
and of Murgh, Gateway of the Gods, whose dreadful galley still sails
from East to West and from West to East, yes, and evermore shall sail.
Your friend and colleague, H. Rider Haggard. To Dr. Jehu, F.G.S., St.
Andrews, N.B.
RED EVE
MURGH THE DEATH
They knew nothing of it in England or all the Western countries in those
days before Crecy was fought, when the third Edward sat upon the throne.
There was none to tell them of the doom that the East, whence come light
and life, death and the decrees of God, had loosed upon the world. Not
one in a multitude in Europe had ever even heard of those vast lands of
far Cathay peopled with hundreds of millions of cold-faced yellow
men, lands which had grown very old before our own familiar states and
empires were carved out of mountain, of forest, and of savage-haunted
plain. Yet if their eyes had been open so that they could see, well
might they have trembled. King, prince, priest, merchant, captain,
citizen and poor labouring hind, well might they all have trembled when
the East sent forth her gifts!
Look across the world beyond that curtain of thick darkness. Behold! A
vast city of fantastic houses half buried in winter snows and reddened
by the lurid sunset breaking through a saw-toothed canopy of cloud.
Everywhere upon the temple squares and open spaces great fires burning a
strange fuel--the bodies of thousands of mankind. Pestilence was king
of that city, a pestilence hitherto unknown. Innumerable hordes had died
and were dying, yet innumerable hordes remained. All the patient East
bore forth those still shapes that had been theirs to love or hate, and,
their task done, turned to the banks of the mighty river and watched.
Down the broad street which ran between the fantastic houses advanced a
procession toward the brown, ice-flecked river. First marched a company
of priests clad in black robes, and carrying on poles lanterns of black
paper, lighted, although the sun still shone. Behind marched another
company of priests clad in white robes, and bearing white lanterns, also
lighted. But at these none looked, nor did they listen to the dirges
that they sang, for all eyes were fixed upon him who filled the centre
space and upon his two companions.
The first companion was a lovely woman, jewel-hung, wearing false
flowers in her streaming hair, and beneath her bared breasts a kirtle of
white silk. Life and love embodied in radiance and beauty, she danced
in front, looking about her with alluring eyes, and scattering petals
of dead roses from a basket which she bore. Different was the second
companion, who stalked behind; so thin, so sexless that none could
say if the shape were that of man or woman. Dry, streaming locks of
iron-grey, an ashen countenance, deep-set, hollow eyes, a beetling,
parchment-covered brow; lean shanks half hidden with a rotting rag,
claw-like hands which clutched miserably at the air. Such was its awful
fashion, that of new death in all its terrors.
Between them, touched of neither, went a man, naked save for a red
girdle and a long red cloak that was fastened round his throat and hung
down from his broad shoulders. There was nothing strange about this man,
unless it were perhaps the strength that seemed to flow from him and the
glance of his icy eyes. He was just a burly yellow man, whose age none
could tell, for the hood of the red cloak hid his hair; one who seemed
to be far removed from youth, and yet untouched by time. He walked on
steadily, intently, his face immovable, taking no heed.
Only now and again he turned those long eyes of his upon one of the
multitude who watched him pass crouched upon their knees in solemn
silence, always upon one, whether it were man, woman, or child, with a
glance meant for that one and no other. And ever the one upon whom it
fell rose from the knee, made obeisance, and departed as though filled
with some inspired purpose.
Down to the quay went the black priests, the white priests, and the
red-cloaked man, preceded by rose life, followed by ashen death. Through
the funeral fires they wended, and the lurid sunset shone upon them all.
To the pillars of this quay was fastened a strange, high-pooped ship
with crimson sails set upon her masts. The white priests and the black
priests formed lines upon either side of the broad gangway of that
ship and bowed as the red-cloaked man walked over it between them quite
alone, for now she with the dead roses and she of the ashen countenance
had fallen back. As the sun sank, standing on the lofty stern, he cried
aloud:
"Here the work is done. Now I, the Eating Fire, I the Messenger, get me
to the West. Among you for a while I cease to burn; yet remember me, for
I shall come again."
As he spoke the ropes of the ship were loosened, the wind caught her
crimson sails, and she departed into the night, one blood-red spot
against its blackness.
The multitude watched until they could see her no longer. Then they
flamed up with mingled joy and rage. They laughed madly. They cursed him
who had departed.
"We live, we live, we live!" they cried. "Murgh is gone! Murgh is gone!
Kill his priests! Make sacrifice of his Shadows. Murgh is gone bearing
the curse of the East into the bosom of the West. Look, it follows him!"
and they pointed to a cloud of smoke or vapour, in which terrible shapes
seemed to move dimly, that trailed after the departing, red-sailed ship.
The black priests and the white priests heard. Without struggle, without
complaint, as though they were but taking part in some set ceremony,
they kneeled down in lines upon the snow. Naked from the waist up,
executioners with great swords appeared. They advanced upon the kneeling
lines without haste, without wrath, and, letting fall the heavy swords
upon the patient, outstretched necks, did their grim office till all
were dead. Then they turned to find her of the flowers who had danced
before, and her of the tattered weeds who had followed after, purposing
to cast them to the funeral flames. But these were gone, though none
had seen them go. Only out of the gathering darkness from some temple or
pagoda-top a voice spoke like a moaning wind.
"Fools," wailed the voice, "still with you is Murgh, the second Thing
created; Murgh, who was made to be man's minister. Murgh the Messenger
shall reappear from beyond the setting sun. Ye cannot kill, ye cannot
spare. Those priests you seemed to slay he had summoned to be his
officers afar. Fools! Ye do but serve as serves Murgh, Gateway of the
Gods. Life and death are not in your hands or in his. They are in the
hands of the Master of Murgh, Helper of man, of that Lord whom no eye
hath seen, but whose behests all who are born obey--yes, even the mighty
Murgh, Looser of burdens, whom in your foolishness ye fear."
So spoke this voice out of the darkness, and that night the sword of the
great pestilence was lifted from the Eastern land, and there the funeral
fires flared no more.
CHAPTER I
THE TRYSTING-PLACE
On the very day when Murgh the Messenger sailed forth into that
uttermost sea, a young man and a maiden met together at the Blythburgh
marshes, near to Dunwich, on the eastern coast of England. In this, the
month of February of the year 1346, hard and bitter frost held Suffolk
in its grip. The muddy stream of Blyth, it is true, was frozen only in
places, since the tide, flowing up from the Southwold harbour, where
it runs into the sea between that ancient town and the hamlet of
Walberswick, had broken up the ice. But all else was set hard and fast,
and now toward sunset the cold was bitter.
Stark and naked stood the tall, dry reeds. The blackbirds and starlings
perched upon the willows seemed swollen into feathery balls, the fur
started on the backs of hares, and a four-horse wain could travel in
safety over swamps where at any other time a schoolboy dared not set his
foot.
On such an eve, with snow threatening, the great marsh was utterly
desolate, and this was why these two had chosen it for their meeting
place.
To look on they were a goodly pair--the girl, who was clothed in the red
she always wore, tall, dark, well shaped, with large black eyes and a
determined face, one who would make a very stately woman; the man broad
shouldered, with grey eyes that were quick and almost fierce, long
limbed, hard, agile, and healthy, one who had never known sickness, who
looked as though the world were his own to master. He was young, but
three-and-twenty that day, and his simple dress, a tunic of thick wool
fastened round him with a leathern belt, to which hung a short sword,
showed that his degree was modest.
The girl, although she seemed his elder, in fact was only in her
twentieth year. Yet from her who had been reared in the hard school of
that cruel age childhood had long departed, leaving her a ripened woman
before her time.
This pair stood looking at each other.
"Well, Cousin Eve Clavering," said the man, in his clear voice, "why did
your message bid me meet you in this cold place?"
"Because I had a word to say to you, Cousin Hugh de Cressi," she
answered boldly; "and the marsh being so cold and so lonesome I thought
it suited to my purpose. Does Grey Dick watch yonder?"
"Ay, behind those willows, arrow on string, and God help him on whom
Dick draws! But what was that word, Eve?"
"One easy to understand," she replied, looking him in the
eyes--"Farewell!"
He shivered as though with the cold, and his face changed.
"An ill birthday greeting, yet I feared it," he muttered huskily, "but
why more now than at any other time?"
"Would you know, Hugh? Well, the story is short, so I'll let it out. Our
great-grandmother, the heiress of the de Cheneys, married twice, did she
not, and from the first husband came the de Cressis, and from the second
the Claverings. But in this way or in that we Claverings got the
lands, or most of them, and you de Cressis, the nobler stock, took to
merchandise. Now since those days you have grown rich with your
fishing fleets, your wool mart, and your ferry dues at Walberswick and
Southwold. We, too, are rich in manors and land, counting our acres by
the thousand, but yet poor, lacking your gold, though yonder manor"--and
she pointed to some towers which rose far away above the trees upon
the high land--"has many mouths to feed. Also the sea has robbed us at
Dunwich, where I was born, taking our great house and sundry streets
that paid us rent, and your market of Southwold has starved out ours at
Blythburgh."
"Well, what has all this to do with you and me, Eve?"
"Much, Hugh, as you should know who have been bred to trade," and she
glanced at his merchant's dress. "Between de Cressi and Clavering there
has been rivalry and feud for three long generations. When we were
children it abated for a while, since your father lent money to mine,
and that is why they suffered us to grow up side by side. But then they
quarrelled about the ferry that we had set in pawn, and your father
asked his gold back again, and, not getting it, took the ferry, which I
have always held a foolish and strife-breeding deed, since from that day
forward the war was open. Therefore, Hugh, if we meet at all it must be
in these frozen reeds or behind the cover of a thicket, like a village
slut and her man."
"I know that well enough, Eve, who have spoken with you but twice in
nine months." And he devoured her beautiful face with hungry eyes. "But
of that word, 'Farewell'----"
"Of that ill word, this, Hugh: I have a new suitor up yonder, a fine
French suitor, a very great lord indeed, whose wealth, I am told, none
can number. From his mother he has the Valley of the Waveney up to
Bungay town--ay, and beyond--and from his father, a whole county in
Normandy. Five French knights ride behind his banner, and with them ten
squires and I know not how many men-at-arms. There is feasting yonder at
the manor, I can tell you. Ere his train leaves us our winter provender
will be done, and we'll have to drink small beer till the wine ships
come from France in spring."
"And what is this lord's name?"
"God's truth, he has several," she answered. "Sir Edmund Acour in
England, and in France the high and puissant Count of Noyon, and in
Italy, near to the city of Venice--for there, too, he has possessions
which came to him through his grandmother--the Seigneur of Cattrina."
"And having so much, does he want you, too, as I have heard, Eve? And if
so, why?"
"So he swears," she answered slowly; "and as for the reason, why, I
suppose you must seek it in my face, which by ill-fortune has pleased
his lordship since first he saw it a month ago. At the least he has
asked me in marriage of my father, who jumped at him like a winter pike,
and so I'm betrothed."
"And do you want him, Eve?"
"Ay, I want him as far as the sun is from the moon or the world from
either. I want him in heaven or beneath the earth, or anywhere away from
me."
At these words a light shone in Hugh's keen grey eyes.
"I'm glad of that, Eve, for I've been told much of this fine
fellow--amongst other things that he is a traitor come here to spy on
England. But should I be a match for him, man to man, Eve?" he asked
after a little pause.
She looked him up and down; then answered:
"I think so, though he is no weakling; but not for him and the five
knights and the ten squires, and my noble father, and my brother, and
the rest. Oh, Hugh, Hugh!" she added bitterly, "cannot you understand
that you are but a merchant's lad, though your blood be as noble as any
in this realm--a merchant's lad, the last of five brothers? Why were
you not born the first of them if you wished for Eve Clavering, for then
your red gold might have bought me."
"Ask that of those who begot me," said Hugh. "Come now, what's in
your mind? You're not one to be sold like a heifer at a faring and go
whimpering to the altar, and I am not one to see you led there while I
stand upon my feet. We are made of a clay too stiff for a French lord's
fingers, Eve, though it is true that they may drag you whither you would
not walk."
"No," she answered, "I think I shall take some marrying against my wish.
Moreover, I am Dunwich born."
"What of that, Eve?"
"Go ask your godsire and my friend, Sir Andrew Arnold, the old priest.
In the library of the Temple there he showed me an ancient roll, a
copy of the charter granted by John and other kings of England to the
citizens of Dunwich."
"What said this writing, Eve?"
"It said, among other things, that no man or maid of Dunwich can be
forced to marry against their will, even in the lifetime of their
parents."
"But will it hold to-day?"
"Ay, I think so. I think that is why the holy Sir Andrew showed it to
me, knowing something of our case, for he is my confessor when I can get
to him."
"Then, sweet, you are safe!" exclaimed Hugh, with a sigh of relief.
"Ay, so safe that to-morrow Father Nicholas, the French chaplain in his
train, has been warned to wed me to my lord Acour--that is, if I'm there
to wed."
"And if this Acour is here, I'll seek him out to-night and challenge
him, Eve," and Hugh laid hand upon his sword.
"Doubtless," she replied sarcastically, "Sir Edmund Acour, Count of
Noyon, Seigneur of Cattrina, will find it honour to accept the challenge
of Hugh de Cressi, the merchant's youngest son. Oh, Hugh, Hugh! are your
wits frozen like this winter marsh? Not thus can you save me."
The young man thought a while, staring at the ground and biting his
lips. Then he looked up suddenly and said:
"How much do you love me, Eve?"
With a slow smile, she opened her arms, and next moment they were
kissing each other as heartily as ever man and maid have kissed since
the world began, so heartily, indeed, that when at length she pushed him
from her, her lovely face was as red as the cloak she wore.
"You know well that I love you, to my sorrow and undoing," she said, in
a broken voice. "From childhood it has been so between us, and till the
grave takes one or both it will be so, and for my part beyond it, if
the priests speak true. For, whatever may be your case, I am not one to
change my fancy. When I give, I give all, though it be of little worth.
In truth, Hugh, if I could I would marry you to-night, though you are
naught but a merchant's son, or even----" And she paused, wiping her
eyes with the back of her slim, strong hand.
"I thank you," he answered, trembling with joy. "So it is with me. For
you and no other woman I live and die; and though I am so humble I'll
be worthy of you yet. If God keeps me in breath you shall not blush for
your man, Eve. Well, I am not great at words, so let us come to deeds.
Will you away with me now? I think that Father Arnold would find you
lodging for the night and an altar to be wed at, and to-morrow our ship
sails for Flanders and for France."
"Yes, but would your father give us passage in it, Hugh?"
"Why not? It could not deepen the feud between our Houses, which already
has no bottom, and if he refused, we would take one, for the captain is
my friend. And I have some little store set by; it came to me from my
mother."
"You ask much," she said; "all a woman has, my life, perchance, as well.
Yet there it is; I'll go because I'm a fool, Hugh; and, as it chances,
you are more to me than aught, and I hate this fine French lord. I tell
you I sicken at his glance and shiver when he touches me. Why, if he
came too near I should murder him and be hanged. I'll go, though God
alone knows the end of it."
"Our purpose being honest, the end will be good, Eve, though perhaps
before all is done we may often think it evil. And now let's away,
though I wish that you were dressed in another colour."
"Red Eve they name me, and red is my badge, because it suits my dark
face best. Cavil not at my robe, Hugh, for it is the only dowry you will
get with Eve Clavering. How shall we go? By the Walberswick ferry? You
have no horses."
"Nay, but I have a skiff hidden in the reeds five miles furlongs off. We
must keep to the heath above Walberswick, for there they might know your
red cloak even after dark, and I would not have you seen till we are
safe with Sir Arnold in the Preceptory. Mother of Heaven! what is that?"
"A peewit, no more," she answered indifferently.
"Nay, it is my man Dick, calling like a peewit. That is his sign when
trouble is afoot. Ah, here he comes."
As he spoke a tall, gaunt man appeared, advancing towards them. His
gait was a shambling trot that seemed slow, although, in truth, he was
covering the ground with extraordinary swiftness. Moreover, he moved so
silently that even on the frost-held soil his step could not be heard,
and so carefully that not a reed stirred as he threaded in and out among
their clumps like an otter, his head crouched down and his long bow
pointed before him as though it were a spear. Half a minute more, and he
was before them--a very strange man to see. His years were not so many,
thirty perhaps, and yet his face looked quite old because of its lack
of colouring, its thinness, and the hard lines that marked where
the muscles ran down to the tight, straight mouth and up to the big
forehead, over which hung hair so light that at a little distance he
seemed ashen-grey. Only in this cold, rocky face, set very far apart,
were two pale-blue eyes, which just now, when he chose to lift their
lids that generally kept near together, as though he were half asleep,
were full of fire and quick cunning.
Reaching the pair, this strange fellow dropped to his knee and raised
his cap to Eve, the great lady of the Claverings--Red Eve, as they
called her through that country-side. Then he spoke, in a low, husky
voice:
"They're coming, master! You and your mistress must to earth unless you
mean to face them in the open," and the pale eyes glittered as he tapped
his great black bow.
"Who are coming, Dick? Be plain, man!"
"Sir John Clavering, my lady's father; young John, my lady's brother;
the fine French lord who wears a white swan for a crest; three of the
nights, his companions; and six--no seven--men-at-arms. Also from the
other side of the grieve, Thomas of Kessland, and with him his marsh men
and verderers."
"And what are they coming for?" he asked again. "Have they hounds, and
hawk on wrist?"
"Nay, but they have swords and knife on thigh," and he let his pale eyes
fall on Eve.
"Oh, have done!" she broke in. "They come to take me, and I'll not be
taken! They come to kill you, and I'll not see you slain and live. I had
words with my father this morning about the Frenchman and, I fear, let
out the truth. He told me then that ere the Dunwich roses bloomed again
she who loved you would have naught but bones to kiss. Dick, you know
the fen; where can we hide till nightfall?"
"Follow me," said the man, "and keep low!"
Plunging into the dense brake of reeds, through which he glided like a
polecat, Dick led them over ground whereon, save in times of hard frost,
no man could tread, heading toward the river bank. For two hundred paces
or more they went thus, till, quite near to the lip of the stream, they
came to a patch of reeds higher and thicker than the rest, in the centre
of which was a little mound hid in a tangle of scrub and rushes. Once,
perhaps a hundred or a thousand years before, some old marsh dweller
had lived upon this mound, or been buried in it. At any rate, on its
southern side, hidden by reeds and a withered willow, was a cavity of
which the mouth could not be seen that might have been a chamber for the
living or the dead.
Thrusting aside the growths that masked it, Dick bade them enter and lie
still.
"None will find us here," he said as he lifted up the reeds behind them,
"unless they chance to have hounds, which I did not see. Hist! be still;
they come!"
CHAPTER II
THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER
For a while Hugh and Eve heard nothing, but Grey Dick's ears were
sharper than theirs, quick as these might be. About half a minute later,
however, they caught the sound of horses' hoofs ringing on the hard
earth, followed by that of voices and the crackle of breaking reeds.
Two of the speakers appeared and pulled up their horses near by in a
dry hollow that lay between them and the river bank. Peeping between the
reeds that grew about the mouth of the earth-dwelling, Eve saw them.
"My father and the Frenchman," she whispered. "Look!" And she slid back
a little so that Hugh might see.
Peering through the stems of the undergrowth, set as it were in a little
frame against the red and ominous sky, the eyes of Hugh de Cressi fell
upon Sir Edmund Acour, a gallant, even a splendid-looking knight--that
was his first impression of him. Broad shouldered, graceful, in age
neither young nor old, clean featured, quick eyed, with a mobile mouth
and a little, square-cut beard, soft and languid voiced, black haired,
richly dressed in a fur robe, and mounted on a fine black horse, such
was the man.
Staring at Acour, and remembering that he, too, loved Red Eve, Hugh grew
suddenly ashamed. How could a mere merchant compare himself with this
magnificent lord, this high-bred, many-titled favourite of courts and
of fortune? How could he rival him, he who had never yet travelled
a hundred miles from the place where he was born, save once, when he
sailed on a trading voyage to Calais? As well might a hooded crow try to
match a peregrine that swooped to snatch away the dove from beneath its
claws. Yes, he, Hugh, was the grey crow, Eve was the dove whom he had
captured, and yonder shifty-eyed Count was the fleet, fierce peregrine
who soon would tear out his heart and bear the quarry far away. Hugh
shivered a little as the thought struck him, not with fear for himself,
but at the dread of that great and close bereavement.
The girl at his side felt the shiver, and her mind, quickened by
love and peril, guessed its purport. She said nothing, for words were
dangerous; only turning her beautiful face she pressed her lips upon
her lover's hand. It was her message to him; thereby, as he knew well,
humble as he might be, she acknowledged him her lord forever. I am with
you, said that kiss. Have no fear; in life or in death none shall divide
us. He looked at her with grateful eyes, and would have spoken had she
not placed her hand upon his mouth and pointed.
Acour was speaking in English, which he used with a strong French
accent.
"Well, we do not find your beautiful runaway, Sir John," he said, in a
clear and cultivated voice; "and although I am not vain, for my part
I cannot believe that she has come to such a place as this to meet a
merchant's clerk, she who should company with kings."
"Yet I fear it is so, Sir Edmund," answered Sir John Clavering, a stout,
dark man of middle age. "This girl of mine is very heady, as I give
warning you will find out when she is your wife. For years she has
set her fancy upon Hugh de Cressi; yes, since they were boy and girl
together, as I think, and while he lives I doubt she'll never change
it."
"While he lives--then why should he continue to live, Sir John?" asked
the Count indifferently. "Surely the world will not miss a chapman's
son!"
"The de Cressis are my kin, although I hate them, Sir Edmund. Also they
are rich and powerful, and have many friends in high places. If this
young man died by my command it would start a blood feud of which none
can tell the end, for, after all, he is nobly born."
"Then, Sir John, he shall die by mine. No, not at my own hands, since
I do not fight with traders. But I have those about me who are pretty
swordsmen and know how to pick a quarrel. Before a week is out there
will be a funeral in Dunwich."
"I know nothing of your men, and do not want to hear of their quarrels,
past or future," said Sir John testily.
"Of course not," answered the Count. "I pray you, forget my words. Name
of God! what an accursed and ill-omened spot is this. I feel as though
I were standing by my own grave--it came upon me suddenly." And he
shivered and turned pale.
Dick lifted his bow, but Hugh knocked the arrow aside ere he could loose
it.
"To those who talk of death, death often draws near," replied Clavering,
crossing himself, "though I find the place well enough, seeing the hour
and season."
"Do you--do you, Sir John? Look at that sky; look at the river beneath
which has turned to blood. Hark to the howl of the wind in the reeds and
the cry of the birds we cannot see. Ay, and look at our shadows on the
snow. Mine lies flat by a great hole, and yours rising against yonder
bank is that of a hooded man with hollow eyes--Death himself as I should
limn him! There, it is gone! What a fool am I, or how strong is that
wine of yours! Shall we be going also?"
"Nay, here comes my son with tidings. Well, Jack, have you found your
sister?" he added, addressing a dark and somewhat saturnine young man
who now rode up to them from over the crest of the hollow.
"No, sir, though we have beat the marsh through and through, so that
scarce an otter could have escaped us. And yet she's here, for Thomas of
Kessland caught sight of her red cloak among the reeds, and what's more,
Hugh de Cressi is with her, and Grey Dick too, for both were seen."
"I am glad there's a third," said Sir John drily, "though God save me
from his arrows! This Grey Dick," he added to the Count, "is a wild,
homeless half-wit whom they call Hugh de Cressi's shadow, but the finest
archer in Suffolk, with Norfolk thrown in; one who can put a shaft
through every button on your doublet at fifty paces--ay, and bring down
wild geese on the wing twice out of four times, for I have seen him do
it with that black bow of his."
"Indeed? Then I should like to see him shoot--at somebody else,"
answered Acour, for in those days such skill was of interest to all
soldiers. "Kill Hugh de Cressi if you will, friend, but spare Grey Dick;
he might be useful."
"Ay, Sir Edmund," broke in the young man furiously, "I'll kill him if I
can catch him, the dog who dares to bring scandal on my sister's name.
Let the Saints but give me five minutes face to face with him alone,
with none to help either of us, and I'll beat him to a pulp, and hang
what's left of him upon the nearest tree to be a warning to all such
puppies."
"I note the challenge," said Sir Edmund, "and should the chance come my
way will keep the lists for you with pleasure, since whatever this Hugh
may be I doubt that from his blood he'll prove no coward. But, young
sir, you must catch your puppy ere you hang him, and if he is in this
marsh he must have gone to ground."
"I think so, too, Sir Edmund; but, if so, we'll soon start the badger.
Look yonder." And he pointed to smoke rising at several spots half a
mile or more away.
"What have you done, son?" asked Sir John anxiously.
"Fired the reeds," he said with a savage laugh, "and set men to watch
that the game does not break back. Oh, have no fear, father! Red Eve
will take no harm. The girl ever loved fire. Moreover, if she is there
she will run to the water before it, and be caught."
"Fool," thundered Sir John, "do you know your sister so little? As like
as not she'll stay and burn, and then I'll lose my girl, who, when all
is said, is worth ten of you! Well, what is done cannot be undone, but
if death comes of this mad trick it is on your head, not mine! To the
bank, and watch with me, Sir Edmund, for we can do no more."
Ten minutes later, and the fugitives in the mound, peeping out from
their hole, saw clouds of smoke floating above them.
"You should have let me shoot, Master Hugh," said Grey Dick, in his
hard, dry whisper. "I'd have had these three, at least, and they'd have
been good company on the road to hell, which now we must walk alone."
"Nay," answered Hugh sternly, "I'll murder none, though they strive
to murder us, and these least of all," and he glanced at Eve, who sat
staring out of the mouth of the hole, her chin resting on her hand. "You
had best give in, sweetheart," he said hoarsely. "Fire is worse than
foes, and it draws near."
"I fear it less," she answered. "Moreover, marriage is worse than
either--sometimes."
Hugh took counsel with Grey Dick.
"This place will burn like tinder," he said, pointing to the dry reeds
which grew thickly all about them, and to the masses of brushwood and
other rubbish that had drifted against the side of the little mound
in times of flood. "If the fire reaches us we must perish of flame, or
smoke, or both."
"Ay," answered Dick, "like old witch Sarah when they burned her in
her house. She screeched a lot, though some say it was her cat that
screeched and she died mum."
"If we could get into the water now, Dick?"
He shook his ash-hued head.
"The pools are frozen. Moreover, as well die of heat as cold; I love not
ice-water."
"What counsel, then, Dick?"
"You'll not take the best, master--to loose my bow upon them. That fine
fellow did well to be afraid, for had you not knocked up my hand there'd
be an arrow sticking in his throat by now. He was right, Death walked
near to him."
"It must not be, Dick, unless they strike first. What else?"
"Perchance, when the smoke begins to trouble them, which it must soon,
they'll move. Then we will run for the river; 'tis but fifty yards. The
Lady Eve can swim like a duck, and so can you. The tide has turned, and
will bear you to the point, and I'll hold the bank against any who try
to follow, and take my chance. What say you of that plan, lady?"
"That it is good as another, or as bad," she answered indifferently.
"Let's bide where we are and do what we must when we must. Nay, waste no
more breath, Hugh. I'll not yield and go home like a naughty child to be
married. It was you who snatched away Grey Dick's shaft, not I; and now
I'll save myself."
"Red Eve!--that's Red Eve!" muttered the henchman, with a dry chuckle of
admiration. "The dead trouble neither man nor woman. Ah, she knows, she
knows!"
After this there was silence for a while, save for the roar of the fire
that ever drew more near.
Eve held her cloak pressed against her mouth to filter the smoke, which
grew thick.
"It is time to move," said Hugh, coughing as he spoke. "By Heaven's
grace, we are too late! Look!"
As he spoke, suddenly in the broad belt of reeds which lay between them
and the river bank fire appeared in several places, caused doubtless
by the flaming flakes which the strong wind had carried from behind
the mound. Moreover, these new fires, burning up briskly and joining
themselves together, began to advance toward the three in the hole.
"The wind has turned," said Dick. "Now it is fire, or water if you can
get there. How do you choose to die?" and as he spoke he unstrung his
bow and slipped it into its leathern case.
"Neither one way nor the other," answered Eve. "Some may die to-night,
but we shall not."
Hugh leapt up and took command.
"Cover your faces to the eyes, and run for it," he said. "I'll go first,
then you, Eve, and Dick behind. Make for the point and leap--the water
is deep there."
They sprang to their feet and forward into the reeds. When they were
almost at the edge of the fire a shout told them that they had been
seen. Eve, the swift of foot, outpaced Hugh, and was the first to leap
into that circle of tall flames. She was through it! They were all
through it, scorched but unharmed. Thirty paces away was the little
point of land where nothing grew, for the spring tides washed it, that
jutted out into the waters of the Blythe, and, perhaps a hundred
to their right, the Claverings poured down on them, foot and horse
together.
Hugh caught his foot in a willow root and fell. Eve and Grey Dick sped
onward unknowing. They reached the point above the water, turned, and
saw. Dick slipped his bow from its case, strung it, and set an arrow on
the string. Hugh had gained his feet, but a man who had come up sprang,
and cast his arms about him. Hugh threw him to the ground, for he was
very strong, and shook himself free. Then he drew the short and heavy
sword that he wore, and, shouting out, "Make way!" to those who stood
between him and the little promontory, started to run again.
These opened to the right and left to let him pass, for they feared the
look in his eyes and the steel in his hand. Only young John Clavering,
who had leapt from his horse, would not budge. As Hugh tried to push
past him, he struck him in the face, calling out:
"We have caught the de Cressi thief! Take him and hang him!"
At the insult of the blow and words, Hugh stopped dead and turned quite
white, whereupon the men, thinking that he was afraid, closed in upon
him. Then in the silence the harsh, croaking voice of Grey Dick was
heard saying:
"Sir John of Clavering, bid your people let my master go, or I will send
an arrow through your heart!" and he lifted the long bow and drew it.
Sir John muttered something, thinking that this was a poor way to die,
and again the men fell back, except one French knight, who, perhaps, did
not catch or understand his words.
This man stretched out his hand to seize Hugh, but before ever it fell
upon his shoulder the bow twanged and Acour's retainer was seen whirling
round and round, cursing with pain. In the palm of his hand was an arrow
that had sunk through it to the feathers.
"You are right; that knave shoots well," said the Count to Sir John, who
made no answer.
Now again all fell back, so that Hugh might have run for it if he would.
But his blood was up, and he did not stir.
"John Clavering," he said, addressing the young man, "just now, when
I lay hid in yonder hole, I heard you say that if you had five minutes
with me alone you'd beat me to a pulp and hang what was left of me on
the nearest tree. Well, here I stand, and there's a tree. Having first
tried to burn me and your sister, you have struck me in the face. Will
you make good your words, or shall I strike you in the face and go my
way? Nay, keep your dogs off me! Grey Dick yonder has more arrows."
Now a tumult rose, some saying one thing and some another, but all
keeping an eye upon Grey Dick and his bent bow. At last Sir Edmund Acour
rode forward, and in his polished, stately way said to John:
"Young sir, this merchant is in the right, and whatever his trade may
be, his blood is as good as your own. After your brave words, either you
should fight him or take back the blow you gave."
Then he leaned down and whispered into John's ear:
"Your sword is longer than his. Make an end of him and of all his
trouble, lest men should laugh at you as an empty boaster."
Now John, who was brave and needed but little urging, turned to his
father and said:
"Have I your leave to whip this fellow, sir?"
"You should have asked that before you struck him in the face," replied
the knight. "You are a man grown. Do as best pleases you. Only if you
take the blow, begone from Blythburgh."
Then Eve, who all this time had been listening, called out from where
she stood above the river.
"Brother John, if you fight your cousin Hugh, who is my affianced
husband, and fall, on your own head be it, for know, your blood shall
not stand between him and me, since it was you who struck him, and not
he you. Be warned, John, and let him go, lest he should send you farther
than you wish to travel. And to you, Hugh, I say, though it is much to
ask, if he throws down his sword, forget that unknightly blow and come
thither."
"You hear," said Hugh shortly to John. "Now, because she is your sister,
if it's your will I'll begone in peace."
"Ay," answered John, setting his thin lips, "because you are a coward,
woman-thief, and seek to live that you may bring shame upon our House.
Well, that will pass when you die presently!"
"John, John, boast not," cried Eve. "Who has shown you where you will
sleep to-night?"
"Whether I shall live or die, God knows alone," said Hugh solemnly. "But
what I seek to know is, should it chance to be your lot to die, whether
your people or this Frenchman will set on me, or raise a blood-feud
against me. Tell me now, Sir John Clavering."
"If you kill my son in combat à outrance, he being the challenger,"
answered the knight, "none shall lift hand against you for that deed
if I can hold them back. But know that I have other cause of quarrel
against you"--and he pointed to his daughter--"and that if you meddle
more with her, who is not for you, certainly you shall die."
"And, young sir," broke in Sir Edmund, "I pray you to understand that
this Lady Eve to-morrow becomes my wife with the will of her father and
her kin; and that if you try to stand between us, although I may not
fight you, seeing what I am and what you are, I'll kill you like a rat
when and where I get the chance! Yes," he added, in a savage snarl, "I
pledge my knightly honour that I will kill you like a rat, if I must
follow you across the world to do so!"
"You will not have need to travel far if I have my will," answered the
young man sternly, "since Red Eve is mine, not yours, and, living or
dead, mine she will remain. As for your fine knightly honour, Sir Edmund
Acour, Count de Noyon, Seigneur of Cattrina, what has a traitor to his
King to do with honour, one who is here as a spy of Philip of France, as
the poor merchant's lad knows well? Oh, take you hand from your sword,
of which you say I am not worthy, and, since you say also that I have so
many enemies, let me begin with a squire of my own degree."
Now at these bold words arose a clamour of voices speaking in French and
English.
"What say you to this, Sir Edmund?" shouted Sir John Clavering above
them all. "You are a great lord and a wealthy, beloved by me also as the
affianced of my daughter, but I am a loyal Englishman who have no truck
with traitors to my King."
"What say I?" asked Sir Edmund calmly. "I say that if this fellow can
fight as well as he can lie, your son has but a poor chance with him.
As you know well, I came hither from France to visit my estates, not to
learn what strength his Grace of England, my liege lord, gathers for the
new war with Philip."
"Enough," said Sir John; "though this is the first I have heard of such
a war, for it would seem that you know more of King Edward's mind than
I do. The light begins to fail, there is no time for talk. Stand clear,
all men, and let these two settle it."
"Ay," croaked Grey Dick, "stand clear, all men, while my master cuts
the throat of his cousin Clavering, since he who stands not clear shall
presently lie straight!" and he tapped his terrible bow with his right
hand, then instantly seized the string again.
The two were face to face. Round them on horse and on foot, at a
distance perhaps of twenty paces, were gathered the Clavering men and
the French Count's troop; for now all had come up from the far parts of
the marsh. Only toward the river side the ring was open, whether because
those who made it feared Grey Dick's arrows, or in order that he and Red
Eve might see everything that chanced.
The pair were well matched, for though Hugh was the taller, John, his
senior by a year, was thicker set and better trained in arms. But the
sword of John was longer by a hand's breadth than that Hugh carried as
a merchant, which was heavy, of such a make as the ancient Romans used,
and sharpened on either edge. Neither of them wore armour, since Hugh
had no right to do so, and John had not come out to fight.
They stood still for a moment in the midst of a breathless silence, the
red light of the stormy sunset striking across them both. Everything was
red, the smoke-clouds rising from the sullen, burning marsh, into which
the fire was still eating far away; the waters of the Blythe brimful
with the tide that had just turned toward the sea, the snow and ice
itself. Even the triangle of wild swans brought by the hard weather from
the northern lands looked red as they pursued their heavy and majestic
flight toward the south, heedless of man and his affairs beneath.
Not long did these remain heedless, however, since, either to show his
skill or for some other purpose of his own, Grey Dick lifted his bow and
loosed an arrow, almost, it seemed, at hazard. Yet that arrow pierced
the leader of the flock, so that down it came in wide circles, and in
a last struggle hovered for a moment over the group of men, then fell
among them with a thud, the blood from its pierced breast bespattering
Sir Edmund Acour and John Clavering's black hair.
"An ill omen for those two, and especially for him who wears a white
swan for a crest," said a voice. But at the moment none took much
notice, except Grey Dick, who chuckled at the success of his shot, since
all were intent on greater matters--namely, which of those two young men
should die.
Sir John, the father, rode forward and addressed them.
"To the death without mercy to the fallen," he said grimly.
They bent their heads in answer.
"Now!" he cried, and reined back his horse.
"The first home thrust wins," whispered Acour to him, as he wiped the
blood of the swan off his sleeve. "Thank God, your son's sword is the
longer!"
Perhaps the pair heard this whisper, or, perhaps, being without mail,
they knew that it was so. At least for a while they circled round and
round each other, but out of reach.
Then at length John Clavering rushed in and thrust. Hugh sprang back
before his point. Again he rushed and thrust and again Hugh sprang
back. A third time and Hugh fairly ran, whereon a shout went up from the
Claverings.
"The chapman's afraid!" cried one. "Give him a yard measure," shouted
another; "he cannot handle steel!"
Eve turned her face, and her very eyes were sick with doubt.
"Is it true?" she gasped.
"Ay," answered Dick the Archer, "it's true that he draws him to the
river bank! Those who wait will learn why. Oh, the swan! He sees not the
swan!"
As he spoke, Hugh, in his retreat before another of John Clavering's
rushes, struck his foot against the great dead bird, and staggered. John
leapt upon him, and he went down.
"Is he pierced?" muttered Eve.
"Nay, missed," answered Dick, "by half an inch. Ah, I thought so!"
As the words left his lips Clavering fell sprawling on his back, for
Hugh had caught his leg with his left arm and thrown him, so that they
lay both together on the ground.
There they closed, rolling over each other, but too close to stab.
"Now good-night, John," said Dick, with his hoarse chuckle. "Throat him,
master--throat him!"
The flurry in the snow was at an end. John lay on his back, de Cressi
knelt on him and lifted his short sword.
"Do you yield?" men heard him say.
"Nay," answered Clavering. Then suddenly Hugh rose and suffered his
adversary to do likewise.
"I'll not stick you like a hog!" he said, and some cried, "Well done!"
for the act seemed noble. Only Acour muttered, "Fool!"
Next instant they were at it again, but this time it was Hugh who
attacked and John who gave back right to the river's edge, for skill and
courage seemed to fail him at once.
"Turn your head, lady," said Dick, "for now one must die." But Eve could
not.
The swords flashed for the last time in the red light, then that of de
Cressi vanished. Clavering threw his arms wide, and fell backward. A
splash as of a great stone thrown into water, and all was done.
Hugh stood a moment on the river's bank, staring at the stream beneath;
then he turned and began to walk slowly toward the dead swan.
Ere ever he reached it Sir John Clavering fell from his horse in a
swoon, and a shout of rage went up from all his people.
"Kill him!" they yelled, and leapt forward.
Now Hugh understood, and ran for the point of land. One man, a
Frenchman, got in front of him. He cut him down, and sped on.