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Title: The Water of the Wondrous Isles
Author: Morris, William
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Water of the Wondrous Isles" ***
Transcribed from the 1897 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
THE WATER OF THE
WONDROUS ISLES BY
WILLIAM MORRIS
* * * * *
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY
MDCCCXCVII
* * * * *
Copyright, 1897, by Longmans, Green, and Co.
* * * * *
_CONTENTS_
_The First Part_: _Of the House of Captivity_
PAGE
_Chap. I._ _Catch at Utterhay_ 1
_II._ _Now shall be told of the House by the 8
Waterside_
_III._ _Of Skin-changing_ 10
_IV._ _Of the Waxing of the Stolen Child_ 12
_V._ _Of Birdalone_, _and how she is grown into 15
Maidenhood_
_VI._ _Herein is told of Birdalone’s Raiment_ 18
_VII._ _Birdalone hath an Adventure in the Wood_ 22
_VIII._ _Of Birdalone and the Witch-wife_ 30
_IX._ _Of Birdalone’s Swimming_ 33
_X._ _Birdalone comes on New Tidings_ 36
_XI._ _Of Birdalone’s Guilt and the Chastisement 39
thereof_
_XII._ _The Words of the Witch-wife to Birdalone_ 43
_XIII._ _Birdalone meeteth the Wood-woman again_ 46
_XIV._ _Of Birdalone’s Fishing_ 51
_XV._ _Birdalone weareth her Serpent-ring_ 54
_XVI._ _Birdalone meeteth Habundia again_; _and 59
learneth her First Wisdom of her_
_XVII._ _The Passing of the Year into Winter_ 62
_XVIII._ _Of Springtide and the Mind of Birdalone_ 65
_XIX._ _They bid Farewell_, _Birdalone and the 68
Wood-mother_
_XX._ _Of Birdalone and the Sending Boat_ 70
_The Second Part_: _Of the Wondrous Isles_
_Chap. I._ _The First Isle_ 75
_II._ _Birdalone falleth in with New Friends_ 77
_III._ _Birdalone is brought before the 82
Witch-wife’s Sister_
_IV._ _Of the Witch’s Prison in the 85
Wailing-tower_
_V._ _They feast in the Witch’s Prison_ 89
_VI._ _Atra tells of how they three came unto the 97
Isle of Increase Unsought_
_VII._ _The three Damsels take Birdalone out of 109
the Witch’s Prison_
_VIII._ _In what Wise Birdalone was clad_, _and how 112
she went her Ways from the Isle of Increase
Unsought_
_IX._ _How Birdalone came to the Isle of the 117
Young and the Old_
_X._ _Birdalone comes to the Isle of the Queens_ 131
_XI._ _And now she comes to the Isle of the 136
Kings_
_XII._ _Of Birdalone_, _how she came unto the Isle 141
of Nothing_
_The Third Part_: _Of the Castle of the Quest_
_ Chap. I._ _Birdalone comes to the Castle of the 146
Quest_
_II._ _Of Birdalone_, _and how she rested the 152
Night through in a Bower without the Castle
of the Quest_
_III._ _How Birdalone dight her for meeting the 157
Champions of the Quest_
_IV._ _And now she meets the Champions_ 160
_V._ _Birdalone has True Tokens from the 167
Champions of the Quest_
_VI._ _How the Champions would do Birdalone to be 177
clad anew in the Castle of the Quest_
_VII._ _Of Birdalone_, _how she told the Champions 180
all her Tale_
_VIII._ _In the Meanwhile of the Departing of the 184
Champions_, _they would pleasure Birdalone
with Feats of Arms and Games of Prowess_
_IX._ _Birdalone cometh before the Champions in 186
her New Array_
_X._ _The Champions go their Ways in the Sending 190
Boat_
_The Fourth Part_: _Of the Days of Abiding_
_ Chap. I._ _Of Birdalone’s Grief_; _and of Leonard the 194
Chaplain_
_II._ _Birdalone learneth Lore of the Priest_. 197
_Ten Days of Waiting wear_
_III._ _Now would Birdalone ride abroad_ 200
_IV._ _Of Birdalone’s Faring abroad_ 205
_V._ _Sir Aymeris showeth Birdalone the 208
Mountains afar off_
_VI._ _Birdalone heareth tell Tales of the Black 213
Valley of the Greywethers_
_VII._ _Birdalone beguileth the Priest to help her 216
to Outgoing_
_VIII._ _Birdalone fares on her Adventure_ 220
_IX._ _Birdalone comes to the Black Valley_ 224
_X._ _How Birdalone fell in with a Man in the 227
Black Valley of the Greywethers_
_XI._ _Birdalone is led up the Black Valley_ 231
_XII._ _How those Twain get them from out of the 235
Black Valley of the Greywethers_
_XIII._ _Now they rest for the Night in the Strait 243
Pass_
_XIV._ _The Black Knight tells the Truth of 245
Himself_
_XV._ _The Black Knight brings Birdalone to the 250
Bower in the Dale_
_XVI._ _Yet a Day and a Night they tarry in the 255
Dale_
_The Fifth Part_: _The Tale of the Quest’s Ending_
_Chap. I._ _Of Sir Leonard’s trouble and the Coming of 263
the Quest_
_II._ _Now ask they of Birdalone_, _and Sir 268
Leonard speaks_
_III._ _How they follow the Slot of Birdalone and 271
the Black Knight_
_IV._ _Of the Slaying of Friend and Foe_ 276
_V._ _They come home to the Castle of the Quest_ 283
_VI._ _Of the Talk betwixt Birdalone and Viridis_ 285
_VII._ _Birdalone telleth the Tale of her 289
Wandering up the Valley of the Greywethers_
_VIII._ _Atra and Birdalone talk together while the 305
Lords sit at the Murder-council_
_IX._ _Hugh tells the Story of the Quest’s 309
Ending_
_X._ _How it fared with the Three Ladies after 340
the Escape of Birdalone_
_XI._ _Birdalone and the Black Squire talk 350
together in the Hall of the Castle_
_XII._ _The Knights and their Fellows betake them 355
to the Assaulting of the Red Hold_
_XIII._ _Birdalone bethinks her to fulfil the 358
Promise made unto Atra_
_XIV._ _Birdalone leaves the Castle of the Quest_ 364
_The Sixth Part_: _The Days of Absence_
_Chap. I._ _Birdalone rides to Greenford and there 366
takes Leave of Arnold and his Men_
_II._ _Of Birdalone and her Fellowship_, _their 372
Faring over the Downland_
_III._ _They come to the City of the Five Crafts_, 374
_and Birdalone meets with the Poor-wife_
_IV._ _Of the Love of Gerard’s Sons and of 385
Jacobus for Birdalone_
_V._ _Of the death of Audrey_, _Mother to 389
Birdalone_. _She is warned in a Dream to
seek the Black Squire_, _and is minded to
depart the City of the Five Crafts_, _and
seek again the Castle of the Quest_
_VI._ _Of the Sundering of Birdalone from Gerard 396
and his Sons_
_VII._ _Birdalone cometh to Greenford_, _and hears 401
of the Wasting of the Castle of the Quest_
_VIII._ _Birdalone cometh to the Castle of the 406
Quest_, _heareth the Tale thereof from
Leonard_, _and departeth thence by the
Sending Boat_
_IX._ _Birdalone findeth the Isle of Nothing 413
greatly bettered_, _and is kindly entreated
there_
_X._ _Of Birdalone’s Flitting from the Isle of 420
Nothing_
_XI._ _Coming to the Isle of Kings Birdalone 422
findeth there a Score and Two of Fair
Damsels who would fain have her Company_
_XII._ _Birdalone cometh again to the Isle of 427
Queens_, _and findeth a Perilous Adventure
therein_
_XIII._ _Coming to the Isle of the Young and the 438
Old_, _Birdalone findeth it peopled with
Children_
_XIV._ _The Sending Boat disappeareth from the 442
Isle of Increase Unsought_, _and Birdalone
seeketh to escape thence by Swimming_
_XV._ _Birdalone lacketh little of Drowning_, 446
_but cometh latterly to the Green Eyot_
_XVI._ _Birdalone findeth her Witch-mistress dead_ 449
_XVII._ _Birdalone layeth to Earth the Body of the 454
Witch_, _and findeth the Sending Boat
broken up_
_XVIII._ _The Wood-mother cometh to Birdalone and 458
heareth her Story_
_XIX._ _Habundia hideth Birdalone’s Nakedness with 463
Faery Raiment_
_XX._ _Birdalone telleth Habundia of her Love for 465
Arthur_, _and getteth from her Promise of
Help therein_
_XXI._ _How the Wood-wife entered the Cot_, _and a 468
Wonder that befell thereon_
_XXII._ _Birdalone wendeth the Wildwood in 472
Fellowship with Habundia_
_XXIII._ _The Wood-wife bringeth Birdalone to the 475
Sight of Arthur in the Wildwood_
_XXIV._ _The Wood-mother changeth her Form to that 485
of a Woman stricken in Years_
_XXV._ _The Wood-wife healeth and tendeth the 489
Black Squire_
_XXVI._ _The Black Squire telleth the Wood-wife of 493
his Doings since Birdalone went from the
Castle of the Quest_
_XXVII._ _Sir Arthur cometh to the House under the 500
Wood_
_XXVIII._ _Fair Days in the House of Love_ 505
_XXIX._ _Those Twain will seek the Wisdom of the 505
Wood-wife_
_XXX._ _They have Speech with Habundia concerning 509
the Green Knight and his Fellows_
_XXXI._ _Habundia cometh with Tidings of those Dear 512
Friends_
_XXXII._ _Of the Fight in the Forest and the Rescue 518
of those Friends from the Men of the Red
Company_
_XXXIII._ _Viridis telleth the Tale of their Seeking_ 525
_The Seventh Part_: _The Days of Returning_
_Chap. I._ _Sir Hugh asketh Birdalone where she would 524
have the Abode of their Fellowship to be_
_II._ _Birdalone taketh Counsel with her 537
Wood-mother concerning the Matter of Sir
Hugh_
_III._ _Of the Journeying through the Forest of 541
Evilshaw unto the Town of Utterhay_
_IV._ _Of the Abiding in Utterhay in Love and 550
Contentment_
THE FIRST PART: OF THE HOUSE OF CAPTIVITY.
CHAPTER I. CATCH AT UTTERHAY.
WHILOM, as tells the tale, was a walled cheaping-town hight Utterhay,
which was builded in a bight of the land a little off the great highway
which went from over the mountains to the sea.
The said town was hard on the borders of a wood, which men held to be
mighty great, or maybe measureless; though few indeed had entered it, and
they that had, brought back tales wild and confused thereof.
Therein was neither highway nor byway, nor wood-reeve nor way-warden;
never came chapman thence into Utterhay; no man of Utterhay was so poor
or so bold that he durst raise the hunt therein; no outlaw durst flee
thereto; no man of God had such trust in the saints that he durst build
him a cell in that wood.
For all men deemed it more than perilous; and some said that there walked
the worst of the dead; othersome that the Goddesses of the Gentiles
haunted there; others again that it was the faery rather, but they full
of malice and guile. But most commonly it was deemed that the devils
swarmed amidst of its thickets, and that wheresoever a man sought to, who
was once environed by it, ever it was the Gate of Hell whereto he came.
And the said wood was called Evilshaw.
Nevertheless the cheaping-town throve not ill; for whatso evil things
haunted Evilshaw, never came they into Utterhay in such guise that men
knew them, neither wotted they of any hurt that they had of the Devils of
Evilshaw.
Now in the said cheaping-town, on a day, it was market and high noon, and
in the market-place was much people thronging; and amidst of them went a
woman, tall, and strong of aspect, of some thirty winters by seeming,
black-haired, hook-nosed and hawk-eyed, not so fair to look on as
masterful and proud. She led a great grey ass betwixt two panniers,
wherein she laded her marketings. But now she had done her chaffer, and
was looking about her as if to note the folk for her disport; but when
she came across a child, whether it were borne in arms or led by its
kinswomen, or were going alone, as were some, she seemed more heedful of
it, and eyed it more closely than aught else.
So she strolled about till she was come to the outskirts of the throng,
and there she happened on a babe of some two winters, which was crawling
about on its hands and knees, with scarce a rag upon its little body.
She watched it, and looked whereto it was going, and saw a woman sitting
on a stone, with none anigh her, her face bowed over her knees as if she
were weary or sorry. Unto her crept the little one, murmuring and merry,
and put its arms about the woman’s legs, and buried its face in the folds
of her gown: she looked up therewith, and showed a face which had once
been full fair, but was now grown bony and haggard, though she were
scarce past five and twenty years. She took the child and strained it to
her bosom, and kissed it, face and hands, and made it great cheer, but
ever woefully. The tall stranger stood looking down on her, and noted
how evilly she was clad, and how she seemed to have nought to do with
that throng of thriving cheapeners, and she smiled somewhat sourly.
At last she spake, and her voice was not so harsh as might have been
looked for from her face: Dame, she said, thou seemest to be less busy
than most folk here; might I crave of thee to tell an alien who has but
some hour to dwell in this good town where she may find her a chamber
wherein to rest and eat a morsel, and be untroubled of ribalds and ill
company? Said the poor-wife: Short shall be my tale; I am over poor to
know of hostelries and ale-houses that I may tell thee aught thereof.
Said the other: Maybe some neighbour of thine would take me in for thy
sake? Said the mother: What neighbours have I since my man died; and I
dying of hunger, and in this town of thrift and abundance?
The leader of the ass was silent a while, then she said: Poor woman! I
begin to have pity on thee; and I tell thee that luck hath come to thee
to-day.
Now the poor-wife had stood up with the babe in her arms and was turning
to go her ways; but the alien put forth a hand to her, and said: Stand a
while and hearken good tidings. And she put her hand to her
girdle-pouch, and drew thereout a good golden piece, a noble, and said:
When I am sitting down in thine house thou wilt have earned this, and
when I take my soles out thereof there will be three more of like
countenance, if I be content with thee meanwhile.
The woman looked on the gold, and tears came into her eyes; but she
laughed and said: Houseroom may I give thee for an hour truly, and
therewithal water of the well, and a mouse’s meal of bread. If thou deem
that worth three nobles, how may I say thee nay, when they may save the
life of my little one. But what else wouldst thou of me? Little enough,
said the alien; so lead me straight to thine house.
So went they forth of the market-place, and the woman led them, the alien
and the ass, out of the street through the west gate of Utterhay, that,
to wit, which looked on Evilshaw, and so into a scattering street without
the wall, the end of which neared a corner of the wood aforesaid: the
houses there were nought so evil of fashion, but whereas they were so
nigh unto the Devil’s Park, rich men might no longer away with them, and
they were become wares for poor folk.
Now the townswoman laid her hand on the latch of the door that was hers,
and threw the door open; then she put forth her palm to the other, and
said: Wilt thou give me the first gold now, since rest is made sure for
thee, as long as thou wilt? The ass-leader put it into her hand, and she
took it and laid it on her baby’s cheek, and then kissed both gold and
child together; then she turned to the alien and said: As for thy
way-beast, I have nought for him, neither hay nor corn: thou wert best to
leave him in the street. The stranger nodded a yeasay, and the three
went in together, the mother, the child, and the alien.
Not right small was the chamber; but there was little therein; one stool
to wit, a yew-chair, a little table, and a coffer: there was no fire on
the hearth, nought save white ashes of small wood; but it was June, so
that was of no account.
The guest sat down in the yew-chair, and the poor-wife laid her child
down gently on the floor and came and stood before the stranger, as if
abiding her bidding.
Spake the alien: Nought so uncomely or strait is thy chamber; and thy
child, which I see is a woman, and therefore belike shall long abide with
thee, is lovely of shape, and fair of flesh. Now also thou shalt have
better days, as I deem, and I pray them on thine head.
She spake in a kind wheedling voice, and the poor-wife’s face grew
softer, and presently tears fell down on to the table from her, but she
spake no word. The guest now drew forth, not three nobles, but four, and
laid them on the table, and said: Lo, my friend, the three nobles which I
behight thee! now are they thine; but this other thou shalt take and
spend for me. Go up into the town, and buy for me white bread of the
best; and right good flesh, or poulaine if it may be, already cooked and
dight; and, withal, the best wine that thou mayst get, and sweetmeats for
thy baby; and when thou comest back, we will sit together and dine here.
And thereafter, when we be full of meat and drink, we shall devise
something more for thy good speed.
The woman knelt before her weeping, but might speak no word because of
the fullness of her heart. She kissed the guest’s hands, and took the
money, and then arose and caught up her child, and kissed her bare flesh
eagerly many times, and then hastened out of the house and up the street
and through the gate; and the guest sat hearkening to the sound of her
footsteps till it died out, and there was nought to be heard save the
far-off murmur of the market, and the chirrup of the little one on the
floor.
Then arose the guest and took up the child from the floor, who kicked and
screamed, and craved her mother as her broken speech might; but the alien
spake softly to her, and said: Hush, dear one, and be good, and we will
go and find her; and she gave her therewith a sugar-plum from out of her
scrip. Then she came out of doors, and spake sweetly to the little one:
See now this pretty way-beast. We will ride merrily on him to find thy
mother.
Then she laid the child in the pannier with a soft cushion under, and a
silk cloth over her, so that she lay there happily. Then she took her
ass’s rein and went her ways over the waste toward Evilshaw; for, as ye
may deem, where the houses and the street ended, the beaten way ended
also.
Quietly and speedily she went, and met but three men on the way; and when
these saw her, and that she was making for Evilshaw, they turned their
heads away, each one, and blessed themselves, and went past swiftly. Not
one sought to stay her, or held any converse with her, and no foot she
heard following after her. So in scarce more than the saying of a low
mass she was in amongst the trees, with her ass and her wares and her
prey.
No stay she made there, but held forward at her best before the night
should fall upon her. And whatsoever might be told concerning the
creatures that other folk had met in Evilshaw, of her it must needs be
said that therein she happened on nought worser than herself.
CHAPTER II. NOW SHALL BE TOLD OF THE HOUSE BY THE WATER-SIDE.
FOUR days they wended the wood, and nought befell to tell of. The
witch-wife (for even such was she) fed the stolen child well and duly,
and whiles caressed her and spake sweetly unto her; whiles also she would
take her out of the pannier, and set her on the ass’s back and hold her
thereon heedfully; or, otherwhiles, when they came upon grassy and
flowery places, she would set her down on the ground and let her roam
about, and pluck the flowers and the strawberries. And whoso might be
sorry, the child was glad, so many things new and fair as she came upon.
At last, when the fifth day was waning, and they had been a long while
wending a wood set thick with trees, it began to grow grey betwixt the
distant boles, and then from grey to white, and it was as if a new world
of light lay before them. Thitherward went they, and in a little, and
before the sun was set, came they to the shore of a great water, and
thence was no more land to be seen before them than if it had been the
main sea itself, though this was a sweet water. Albeit, less than a half
mile from the shore lay two eyots, as it might have been on the salt sea;
but one of these sat low down on the water, and was green and well
bushed, but the other, which lay east of it, and was nigher to the shore,
was high, rocky, and barren.
Now the ending of the wood left a fair green plain betwixt it and the
water, whiles more than a furlong across, whiles much less; and whiles
the trees came down close to the water-side. But the place whereas they
came from out the wood was of the widest, and there it was a broad bight
of greensward of the fashion of the moon seven nights old, and a close
hedge of thicket there was at the back of it; and the lake lay south, and
the wood north. Some deal of this greensward was broken by closes of
acre-land, and the tall green wheat stood blossoming therein; but the
most was sweet meadow, and there as now was a gallant flock of goats
feeding down it; five kine withal, and a tethered bull. Through the
widest of this meadow ran a clear stream winding down to the lake, and on
a little knoll beside a lap of the said stream, two bow-shots from the
water, was a knoll, whereon stood, amidst of a potherb garden, a little
house strongly framed of timber. Before it the steep bank of the lake
broke down into a slowly-shelving beach, whose honey-coloured sand thrust
up a tongue in amongst the grass of the mead.
Went the witch-wife straight to the door of the said house as if she were
at home, as was sooth indeed. She threw the door open, and unladed the
ass of all his wares, and first of the youngling, whom she shook awake,
and bore into the house, and laid safely on the floor of the chamber; nor
did she wait on her wailing, but set about what was to be done to kindle
fire, and milk a she-goat, and get meat upon the board. That did she,
and fed both herself and the child plenteously: neither did she stint her
of meat ever, from that time forward, however else she dealt with her.
CHAPTER III. OF SKIN-CHANGING.
ONE thing must here be told: Whenas the said dame stood forth clad amidst
of the chamber the next morning, the child ran up to her to greet her or
what not, but straightway when she saw her close, drew aback, and stood
gasping with affright; for verily she deemed this was nowise she who had
brought her last night into the fair chamber, and given bread and milk to
her and put her to bed, but someone else. For this one had not dark
hair, and hooked nose, and eyen hawk-bright; stark and tall was she
indeed, as that other one, and by seeming of the same-like age; but there
came to an end all her likeness to last night’s housewife. This one had
golden-red hair flowing down from her head; eyes of hazel colour, long
and not well-opened, but narrow and sly. High of cheekbones she was,
long-chinned and thin-lipped; her skin was fine and white, but without
ruddiness; flat-breasted she was, and narrow-hipped.
Now she laughed at the babe’s terror, and said, but in her old voice at
least: Thou foolish little beast! I know what scares thee, to wit, that
thou deemest me changed: now I tell thee that I am the one who brought
thee here last night, and fed thee; neither is my changing a matter of
thine, since at least I am the one who shall keep thee from hunger and
weather henceforward; that is enough for thee to know as now. Now thou
hast to eat and sleep and play and cry out, that thou mayest the sooner
wax, and grow into the doing of my will.
Therewith she led her out into the sunshine, and tethered her to an ash
sapling which grew anigh the door, that the child might be safe the while
she went about her work in acre and mead.
But as for that matter of changing of aspect, the maiden came to know
thereafter that the witch durst not go into the wood in the same skin as
that which she wore at home, wherefore she had changed it for the journey
to Utterhay, and changed back again in the night-tide before she arose.
CHAPTER IV. OF THE WAXING OF THE STOLEN CHILD.
THIS little one, who is henceforth called Birdalone, though the witch
called her but seldom so, nor indeed by any name, dwelt there betwixt the
water and the wood, and saw none save the said witch-wife, who, as
aforesaid, fed her well, but scarce meddled with her else for a long
while; so she wandered well-nigh as she had will, and much in the wood;
for she had no fear thereof, nor indeed of aught else save of the dame.
She learned of the ways and the wont of all the creatures round about
her, and the very grass and flowers were friends to her, and she made
tales of them in her mind; and the wild things feared her in no wise, and
the fowl would come to her hand, and play with her and love her. A
lovely child she was, rosy and strong, and as merry as the birds on the
bough; and had she trouble, for whiles she came across some ugly mood of
the witch-wife, she bore it all as lightly as they.
Wore the years thus, till now she was grown tall and thin, and had seen
twelve winters, and was far stronger and handier than at first sight she
looked to be. That found her mistress, and would not forego the using of
her deftness. For indeed the maiden knew all matters of wood and field
full well, and somewhat of the water also (though no boat had she ever
seen there), for she learned herself swimming, as the ducks do belike.
But now her mistress would learn her swinking, and hard was the lesson,
for with twiggen rods and switches was she learned, and was somewhat
stubborn with this woman, who she deemed loved her not; and, however it
were, there began to grow in her an inkling that all was not well with
the dame, and howsoever she might fear her, she trusted her not, nor
worshipped her; otherwise she had learned her lesson speedily; for she
was not slack nor a sluggard, and hated not the toil, even when it pained
and wearied her, but against the anger and malice she hardened her heart.
It is to be said, that though there she dwelt alone with the witch-wife,
she had somehow got to know that they two were not alone in the world,
and she knew of male and female, and young and old. Thereof doubtless
the witch herself had learned her, would she, would she not; for though
she were mostly few-spoken, yet whiles the tongue of her would loosen,
and she would tell Birdalone tales of men and women, and kings and
warriors and thralls, and the folk of the world beyond them, if it were
but to scare the child. Yea, and when she rated Birdalone, or girded at
her, words would come forth which the maiden stored up, and by laying two
and two together gat wisdom howso it were. Moreover, she was of the race
of Adam, and her heart conceived of diverse matters from her mother’s
milk and her father’s blood, and her heart and her mind grew up along
with her body. Herein also was she wise, to wit, how to give wrath the
go-by, so that she oft found the wood a better home than the house: for
now she knew that the witch-wife would enter it never; wherefore she
loved it much, and haunted it daily if she might.
Amidst all this she lived not unmerrily; for the earth was her friend,
and solaced her when she had suffered aught: withal she was soon grown
hardy as well as strong; and evil she could thole, nor let it burden her
with misery.
CHAPTER V. OF BIRDALONE, AND HOW SHE IS GROWN INTO MAIDENHOOD.
WEAR the years and the years amidst such days as these, and now is
Birdalone grown a dear maiden of seventeen summers; and yet was her life
not unhappy; though the mirth of her childhood was somewhat chastened in
her, and she walked the earth soberly and measurely, as though deep
thoughts were ever in her head: though, forsooth, it is not all so sure
that her serious face and solemn eyes were but a part of the beauty which
was growing with the coming forth of childhood into youth and maidenhood.
But this at least is sure, that about this time those forebodings which
had shown her that she had no call to love and honour her mistress took
clearer shape, and became a burden on her, which she might never wholly
shake off. For this she saw, that she was not her own, but a chattel and
a tool of one who not only used her as a thrall in the passing day, but
had it in her mind to make of her a thing accursed like to herself, and
to bait the trap with her for the taking of the sons of Adam. Forsooth
she saw, though dimly, that her mistress was indeed wicked, and that in
the bonds of that wickedness was she bound.
One thing, moreover, had she noted now this long while, that once and
again, it might be once every two moons, the witch-wife would arise in
the dead of night and go forth from the house, and be away for a day, or
two or three, or whiles more, and come back again weary and fordone; but
never said she any word to Birdalone hereof. Yet oft when she arose to
go this errand, before she left the chamber would she come to Birdalone’s
truckle-bed, and stand over her to note if she were asleep or not; and
ever at such times did Birdalone feign slumber amidst of sickening dread.
Forsooth in these latter days it whiles entered the maiden’s head that
when the dame was gone she would rise and follow her and see whither she
went, and what she did; but terror constrained her that she went not.
Now from amidst all these imaginings arose a hope in her that she might
one day escape from her thralldom: and whiles, when she was lonely and
safe in the wood, to this hope she yielded herself; but thereof came such
tumult of her soul for joy of the hope, that she might not master her
passion; the earth would seem to rise beneath her, and the woods to whirl
about before her eyes, so that she might not keep her feet, but would
sink adown to earth, and lie there weeping. Then most oft would come the
cold fit after the hot, and the terror would take her that some day the
witch would surprise the joy of that hope in her eyes, and would know
what it meant, or that some light word might bewray her; and therewith
came imaginings of what would then befall her, nor were that hard to
picture, and it would come before her over and over again till she became
weary and worn out therewith.
But though they abode ever with her, these troubling thoughts pricked not
so oft at the keenest, but were as the dull ache of little import that
comes after pain overcome: for in sooth busy and toilsome days did she
wear, which irked her in nowise, since it eased her of the torment of
those hopes and fears aforesaid, and brought her sound sleep and sweet
awaking. The kine and the goats must she milk, and plough and sow and
reap the acre-land according to the seasons, and lead the beasts to the
woodland pastures when their own were flooded or burned; she must gather
the fruits of the orchard, and the hazel nuts up the woodlands, and beat
the walnut-trees in September. She must make the butter and the cheese,
grind the wheat in the quern, make and bake the bread, and in all ways
earn her livelihood hard enough. Moreover, the bowman’s craft had she
learned, and at the dame’s bidding must fare alone into the wood now and
again to slay big deer and little, and win venison: but neither did that
irk her at all, for rest and peace were in the woods for her.
True it is, that as she wended thicket or glade or wood-lawn, she would
at whiles grow timorous, and tread light and heedfully, lest rustling
leaves or crackling stick should arouse some strange creature in human
shape, devil, or god now damned, or woman of the faery. But if such were
there, either they were wise and would not be seen, or kind and had no
will to scare the simple maiden; or else maybe there were none such in
those days. Anyhow, nought evil came to her out of Evilshaw.
CHAPTER VI. HEREIN IS TOLD OF BIRDALONE’S RAIMENT.
LANK and long is Birdalone the sweet, with legs that come forth bare and
browned from under her scant grey coat and scantier smock beneath, which
was all her raiment save when the time was bitter, and then, forsooth, it
was a cloak of goat-skin that eked her attire: for the dame heeded little
the clothing of her; nor did Birdalone give so much heed thereto that she
cared to risk the anger of her mistress by asking her for aught.
But on a day of this same spring, when the witch-wife was of sweeter
temper than her wont was, and the day was very warm and kindly, though it
was but one of the last of February days, Birdalone, blushing and
shamefaced, craved timidly some more womanly attire. But the dame turned
gruffly on her and said: Tush, child! what needeth it? here be no men to
behold thee. I shall see to it, that when due time comes thou shalt be
whitened and sleeked to the very utmost. But look thou! thou art a handy
wench; take the deer-skin that hangs up yonder and make thee brogues for
thy feet, if so thou wilt.
Even so did Birdalone, and shaped the skin to her feet; but as she was
sewing them a fancy came into her head; for she had just come across some
threads of silk of divers colours; so she took them and her shoon and her
needle up into the wood, and there sat down happily under a great
spreading oak which much she haunted, and fell to broidering the kindly
deer-skin. And she got to be long about it, and came back to it the next
day and the next, and many days, whenso her servitude would suffer it,
and yet the shoon were scarce done.
So on a morning the dame looked on her feet as she moved about the
chamber, and cried out at her: What! art thou barefoot as an hen yet?
Hast thou spoilt the good deer-skin and art yet but shoeless? Nay, our
lady, said Birdalone, but the shoon are not altogether done. Show them
to me, said the dame.
Birdalone went to her little coffer to fetch them, and brought them
somewhat timorously, for she knew not how her mistress would take her
working on them so long, if perchance she would blame her, or it might be
chastise her, for even in those days the witch-wife’s hand was whiles
raised against her. But now when the dame took the shoes and looked on
them, and saw how there were oak-leaves done into them, and flowers, and
coneys, and squirrels, she but smiled somewhat grimly on Birdalone, and
said: Well, belike thou art a fool to waste thy time and mine in such
toys; and to give thee thy due would be to give thee stripes. But thou
doest herein after the nature of earthly women, to adorn thy body,
whatsoever else is toward. And well is that, since I would have thee a
woman so soon as may be; and I will help thy mind for finery, since thou
art so deft with thy needle.
Therewith she went to the big coffer and drew forth thence a piece of
fine green cloth, and another of fine linen, and said to Birdalone: This
mayest thou take, and make thee a gown thereof and a new smock, and make
them if thou wilt as gay as thy new shoon are gotten to be; and here is
wherewithal. And therewith she gave her two handfuls of silken threads
and gold, and said: Now I suppose that I must do the more part of thy
work, while thou art making thee these gaudy garments. But maybe someone
may be coming this way ere long, who will deem the bird the finer for her
fine feathers. Now depart from me; for I would both work for thee and
me, and ponder weighty matters.
Who was glad now but Birdalone; she grew red with new pleasure, and knelt
down and kissed the witch’s hand, and then went her ways to the wood with
her precious lading, and wrought there under her oak-tree day after day,
and all days, either there, or in the house when the weather was foul.
That was in the middle of March, when all birds were singing, and the
young leaves showing on the hawthorns, so that there were pale green
clouds, as it were, betwixt the great grey boles of oak and
sweet-chestnut; and by the lake the meadow-saffron new-thrust-up was
opening its blossom; and March wore and April, and still she was at work
happily when now it was later May, and the hare-bells were in full bloom
down the bent before her.
All this while the witch had meddled little with Birdalone, and had
bidden her to no work afield or in the stead which was anywise grievous,
but had done all herself; yet was she few-spoken with her, and would oft
behold her gloomily. And one evening when Birdalone came in from the
wood, the witch came close up to her and stared her in the face, and said
suddenly: Is it in thine heart to flee away from me and leave me?
A sharp pang of fear shot through Birdalone’s heart at that word, and she
turned very red, and then pale to the lips, but stammered out: No, lady,
it is not in mine heart. The dame looked grimly on her and said: If thou
try it and fail, thou shalt rue it once only, to wit, lifelong; and thou
canst but fail. She was silent a while, and then spake in a milder
voice: Be content here a while with me, and thereafter thou shalt be more
content, and that before long.
She said no more at that time; but her word clave to Birdalone’s heart,
and for some time thereafter she was sorely oppressed with a burden of
fear, and knew not how to hold herself before the witch-wife. But the
days wore, and nought betid, and the maiden’s heart grew lighter, and
still she wrought on at her gown and her smock, and it was well-nigh
done. She had broidered the said gown with roses and lilies, and a tall
tree springing up from amidmost the hem of the skirt, and a hart on
either side thereof, face to face of each other. And the smock she had
sewn daintily at the hems and the bosom with fair knots and buds. It was
now past the middle of June, hot and bright weather.
CHAPTER VII. BIRDALONE HATH AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOOD.
ON a day she went to the wood, and sat down under her oak-tree, and it
was far and far out of sight of anyone standing in the meadow by the
lake; and in the wood Birdalone looked to see nought at all save the
rabbits and squirrels, who were, forsooth, familiar enough with her, and
fearless, so that they would come to her hand and sport with her when she
hailed them. Wherefore, as the day was exceeding hot, she put off from
her her simple raiment, that she might feel all the pleasure of the cool
shadow and what air was stirring, and the kindness of the greensward upon
her very body. So she sat sewing, covered but by a lap of the green gown
which her needle was painting.
But as she sat there intent on her work, and her head bent over it, and
it was now at the point of high noon, she heard as if some creature were
going anigh to her; she heeded it not, deeming that it would be but some
wandering hind. But even therewith she heard one say her name in a soft
voice, and she leapt up trembling, deeming at first that it would be the
witch come to fetch her: but yet more scared she was, when she saw
standing before her the shape of a young woman as naked as herself, save
that she had an oak wreath round about her loins.
The new-comer, who was now close to her, smiled on her, and said in a
kind and sweet voice: Fear nought, Birdalone, for I deem thou wilt find
me a friend, and it is not unlike that thou wilt need one ere long. And
furthermore, I will say it, said she smiling, that since I am not afraid
of thee, thou needest not be afraid of me. Said Birdalone, she also
smiling: True it is that thou art nought fearsome to look on. The
new-comer laughed outright, and said: Are we not well met then in the
wildwood? and we both as two children whom the earth loveth. So play we
at a game. At what game? said Birdalone. Spake she of the oak-wreath:
This; thou shalt tell me what I am like in thine eyes first, because thou
wert afraid of me; and then when thou art done, I will tell thee what
thou seemest to me.
Quoth Birdalone: For me that will be hard; for I have nought to liken
thee to, whereas save this sight of thee I have seen nought save her that
dwelleth in the House by the Water, and whom I serve. Nay, said the
other, then will I begin, and tell thee first whatlike thou art, so that
thou wilt know the better how to frame thy word concerning me. But tell
me, hast thou ever seen thyself in a mirror? What thing is that? said
Birdalone. It is a polished round of steel or some other white metal,
said the wood-maiden, which giveth back in all truth the image of whatso
cometh before it. Said Birdalone and reddened therewith: We have at home
a broad latten dish, which it is my work, amongst other things, to
brighten and keep bright; yet may I not make it so bright that I may see
much of mine image therein; and yet. What wouldst thou? said the
wood-woman. Said Birdalone: I shall tell thee presently when thy part of
the play is done.
Laughed the new-comer, and said: It is well; now am I to be thy mirror.
Thus it is with thee: thou standest before me a tall and slim maiden,
somewhat thin, as befitteth thy seventeen summers; where thy flesh is
bare of wont, as thy throat and thine arms and thy legs from the middle
down, it is tanned a beauteous colour, but otherwhere it is even as fair
a white, wholesome and clean, and as if the golden sunlight, which
fulfilleth the promise of the earth, were playing therein. Fairer and
rounder shall be thine arms and thy shoulders when thou hast seen five
more summers, yet scarce more lovesome, so strong and fine as now they
are. Low are thy breasts, as is meet for so young a maiden, yet is there
no lack in them; nor ever shall they be fairer than now they are. In
goodly fashion sits thine head upon thy shoulders, upheld by a long and
most well-wrought neck, that the sun hath tanned as aforesaid. The hair
of thee is simple brown, yet somewhat more golden than dark; and ah! now
thou lettest it loose it waveth softly past thy fair smooth forehead and
on to thy shoulders, and is not stayed by thy girdlestead, but hideth
nought of thy knees, and thy legs shapely thin, and thy strong and
clean-wrought ankles and feet, which are with thee as full of thine heart
and thy soul and as wise and deft as be thy wrists and thine hands, and
their very fellows. Now as to thy face: under that smooth forehead is
thy nose, which is of measure, neither small nor great, straight, and
lovely carven at the nostrils: thine eyen are as grey as a hawk’s, but
kind and serious, and nothing fierce nor shifting. Nay, now thou lettest
thine eyelids fall, it is as fair with thy face as if they were open, so
smooth and simple are they and with their long full lashes. But well are
thine eyen set in thine head, wide apart, well opened, and so as none
shall say thou mayst not look in the face of them. Thy cheeks shall one
day be a snare for the unwary, yet are they not fully rounded, as some
would have them; but not I, for most pitiful kind are they forsooth.
Delicate and clear-made is the little trench that goeth from thy nose to
thy lips, and sweet it is, and there is more might in it than in sweet
words spoken. Thy lips, they are of the finest fashion, yet rather thin
than full; and some would not have it so; but I would, whereas I see
therein a sign of thy valiancy and friendliness. Surely he who did thy
carven chin had a mind to a master-work and did no less. Great was the
deftness of thine imaginer, and he would have all folk that see thee
wonder at thy deep thinking and thy carefulness and thy kindness. Ah
maiden! is it so that thy thoughts are ever deep and solemn? Yet at
least I know it of thee that they be hale and true and sweet.
My friend, when thou hast a mirror, some of all this shalt thou see, but
not all; and when thou hast a lover some deal wilt thou hear, but not
all. But now thy she-friend may tell it thee all, if she have eyes to
see it, as have I; whereas no man could say so much of thee before the
mere love should overtake him, and turn his speech into the folly of love
and the madness of desire. So now I have played the play, and told thee
of thee; tell me now of me, and play thy play.
For a while stood Birdalone silent, blushing and confused, but whiles
casting shy glances at her own body, what she might see of it. At last
she spake: Fair friend, I would do thy will, but I am not deft of speech;
for I speak but little, save with the fowl and wild things, and they may
not learn me the speech of man. Yet I will say that I wonder to hear
thee call me fair and beauteous; for my dame tells me that never, nor
sayeth aught of my aspect save in her anger, and then it is: Rag! and
bag-of-bones! and when wilt thou be a woman, thou lank elf thou? The
new-comer laughed well-favouredly hereat, and put forth a hand, and
stroked her friend’s cheek. Birdalone looked piteous kind on her and
said: But now I must needs believe thy words, thou who art so kind to me,
and withal thyself so beauteous. And I will tell thee that it fills my
heart with joy to know that I am fair like to thee. For this moreover I
will tell thee, that I have seen nought in field or woodland that is as
lovely to me as thou art; nay, not the fritillary nodding at our brook’s
mouth, nor the willow-boughs waving on Green Eyot; nor the wild-cat
sporting on the little woodlawn, when she saw me not; nor the white doe
rising up from the grass to look to her fawn; nor aught that moves and
grows. Yet there is another thing which I must tell thee, to wit, that
what thou hast said about the fashion of any part of me, that same,
setting aside thy lovely words, which make the tears come into the eyes
of me, would I say of thee. Look thou! I take thine hair and lay the
tress amongst mine, and thou mayst not tell which is which; and amidst
the soft waves of it thy forehead is nestling smooth as thou saidst of
mine: hawk-grey and wide apart are thine eyen, and deep thought and all
tenderness is in them, as of me thou sayest: fine is thy nose and of due
measure; and thy cheeks a little hollow, and somewhat thin thy lovely
lips; and thy round chin so goodly carven, as it might not be better
done. And of thy body else I will say as thou sayst of mine, though I
deem these hands have done more work than thine. But see thou! thy leg
and mine as they stand together; and thine arm, as if it were of my body.
Slim and slender thou art, or it may be lank; and I deem our dame would
call thee also bag-of-bones. Now is this strange. Who art thou? Art
thou my very own sister? I would thou wert.
Spake then to Birdalone that image of her, and said, smiling kindly on
her: As to our likeness, thou hast it now; so alike are we, as if we were
cast in one mould. But thy sister of blood I am not; nay, I will tell
thee at once that I am not of the children of Adam. As to what I am,
that is a long story, and I may not tell it as now; but thou mayst call
me Habundia, as I call thee Birdalone. Now it is true that to everyone I
show not myself in this fair shape of thee; but be not aghast thereat, or
deem me like unto thy mistress herein, for as now I am, so ever shall I
be unto thee.
Quoth Birdalone, looking on her anxiously: Yea, and I shall see thee
again, shall I not? else should I grieve, and wish that I had never seen
thee at all. Yea, forsooth, said Habundia, for I myself were most fain
to see thee oft. But now must thou presently get thee back home, for
evil as now is the mood of thy mistress, and she is rueing the gift of
the green gown, and hath in her mind to seek occasion to chastise thee.
Now was Birdalone half weeping, as she did on her raiment while her
friend looked on her kindly. She said presently: Habundia, thou seest I
am hard bestead; give me some good rede thereto.
That will I, said the wood-wife. When thou goest home to the house, be
glad of countenance, and joyous that thy gown is nigh done; and therewith
be exceeding wary. For I deem it most like that she will ask thee what
thou hast seen in the wood, and then if thou falter, or thy face change,
then she will have an inkling of what hath befallen, to wit, that thou
hast seen someone; and then will she be minded to question thy skin. But
if thou keep countenance valiantly, then presently will her doubt run off
her, and she will cease grudging, and will grow mild with thee and meddle
not. This is the first rede, and is for to-day; and now for the second,
which is for days yet unborn. Thou hast in thy mind to flee away from
her; and even so shalt thou do one day, though it may be by way of
Weeping Cross; for she is sly and wise and grim, though sooth it is that
she hateth thee not utterly. Now thou must note that nowise she
hindereth thee from faring in this wood, and that is because she wotteth,
as I do, that by this way there is no outgoing for thee. Wherefore look
thou to it that it is by the way of the water that thou shalt fare to the
land of men-folk. Belike this may seem marvellous to thee; but so it is;
and belike I may tell thee more hereof when time serveth. Now cometh the
last word of my rede. Maybe if thou come often to the wood, we shall
whiles happen on each other; but if thou have occasion for me, and
wouldst see me at once, come hither, and make fire, and burn a hair of my
head therein, and I will be with thee: here is for thee a tress of mine
hair; now thou art clad, thou mayst take a knife from thy pouch and shear
it from off me.
Even so did Birdalone, and set the tress in her pouch; and therewith they
kissed and embraced each other, and Birdalone went her ways home to the
house, but Habundia went back into the wood as she had come.
CHAPTER VIII. OF BIRDALONE AND THE WITCH-WIFE.
IT went with Birdalone as Habundia had foretold, for she came home to the
house glad of semblance, flushed and light-foot, so that she was lovely
and graceful beyond her wont. The dame looked on her doubtfully and
grimly a while, and then she said: What ails thee, my servant, that thou
lookest so masterful? Nought ails me, lady, said Birdalone, save that I
am gay because of the summer season, and chiefly because of thy kindness
and thy gift, and that I have well-nigh done my work thereon, and that
soon now I shall feel these dainty things beating about my ankles. And
she held up and spread abroad the skirt with her two hands, and it was
indeed goodly to look on.
The witch-wife snorted scornfully and scowled on her, and said: Thine
ankles forsooth! Bag-o’-bones! thou wisp! forsooth, thou art in love
with thy looks, though thou knowest not what like a fair woman is.
Forsooth, I begin to think that thou wilt never grow into a woman at all,
but will abide a skinny elf thy life long. Belike I did myself wrong to
suffer thee to waste these three or four months of thy thrall’s work,
since for nought but thrall’s work shalt thou ever be meet.
Birdalone hung her head adown, and blushed, but smiled a little, and
swayed her body gently, as a willow-bough is swayed when a light air
arises in the morning. But the witch stood so scowling on her, and with
so sour a look, that Birdalone, glancing at her, found her heart sink so
within her, that she scarce kept countenance; yet she lost it not.
Then said the witch sharply: Wert thou in the wood to-day? Yea, lady,
said the maiden. Then said the dame fiercely: And what sawest thou?
Quoth Birdalone, looking up with an innocent face somewhat scared: Lady,
I saw a bear, one of the big ones, crossing a glade. And thou without
bow and arrow or wood-knife, I warrant me, said the witch. Thou shalt be
whipped, to keep thee in mind that thy life is mine and not thine. Nay,
nay, I pray thee be not wroth! said the maid; he was a long way down the
glade, and would not have followed me if he had seen me: there was no
peril therein. Said the witch-wife: Didst thou see aught else? Yea,
said Birdalone, and was weeping somewhat now; which forsooth was not hard
for her to do, over-wrought as she was betwixt hope and fear: yea, I saw
my white doe and her fawn, and they passed close by me; and two herons
flew over my head toward the water; and . . . But the witch turned
sharply and said: Thrall! hast thou seen a woman to-day in the wood? A
woman? said Birdalone, and what woman, my lady, said Birdalone. Hath any
woman come to the house, and passed forth into the wood?
The dame looked on her carefully, and remembered how she had faltered and
changed countenance that other day, when she had charged her with being
minded to flee; and now she saw her with wondering face, and in no wise
confused or afraid of guilt, as it seemed; so she believed her tale, and
being the more at ease thereby, her wrath ran off her, and she spake
altogether pleasantly to Birdalone, and said: Now I have had my gird at
thee, my servant, I must tell thee that in sooth it is not all for
nothing that thou hast had these months of rest; for verily thou hast
grown more of a woman thereby, and hast sleekened and rounded much.
Albeit, the haysel will wait no longer for us, and the day after
to-morrow we must fall to on it. But when that is done, thou shalt be
free to do thy green gown, or what thou wilt, till wheat harvest is
toward; and thereafter we shall see to it. Or what sayest thou?
Birdalone wondered somewhat at this so gracious word, but not much; for
in her heart now was some guile born to meet the witch’s guile; so she
knelt down and took the dame’s hands and kissed them, and said: I say
nought, lady, save that I thank thee over and over again that thou art
become so good to me; and that I will full merrily work for thee in the
hay-field, or at whatsoever else thou wilt.
And indeed she was so light-hearted that she had so escaped from the hand
of the witch for that time, and above all, that she had gotten a friend
so kind and dear as the wood-woman, that her heart went out even toward
her mistress, so that she went nigh to loving her.
CHAPTER IX. OF BIRDALONE’S SWIMMING.
FULL fair was the morrow morn, and Birdalone arose betimes before the sun
was up, and she thought she would make of this a holiday before the swink
afield began again, since the witch was grown good toward her. So she
did on her fair shoes, and her new raiment, though the green gown was not
fully done, and said to herself that she would consider what she would do
with her holiday when she was amidst of her bathing.
So she went down to the water-side, and when she was standing knee-deep
in the little sandy bight aforesaid, she looked over to Green Eyot, and
was minded to swim over thither, as oft she did. And it was a windless
dawn after a hot night, and a light mist lay upon the face of the water,
and above it rose the greenery of the eyot.
She pushed off into the deep and swam strongly through the still water,
and the sun rose while she was on the way, and by then she had laid a
hand on the willow-twigs of the eyot, was sending a long beam across the
waters; and her wet shoulders rose up into the path of it and were turned
into ruddy gold. She hoisted herself up, and climbing the low bank, was
standing amongst the meadow-sweet, and dripping on to its fragrance.
Then she turned about to the green plain and the house and the hedge of
woodland beyond, and sighed, and said softly: A pity of it, to leave it!
If it were no better otherwhere, and not so fair?
Then she turned inward to the eyot, which had done her nought but good,
and which she loved; and she unbound her hair, and let it fall till the
ends of the tresses mingled with the heads of the meadow-sweet, and
thereafter walked quietly up into the grassy middle of the isle.
She was wont to go to a knoll there where the grass was fine, and flowery
at this time with white clover and dog violet, and lie down under the
shade of a big thorn with a much-twisted bole: but to-day some thought
came across her, and she turned before she came to the thorn, and went
straight over the eyot (which was but a furlong over at that place) and
down to the southward-looking shore thereof. There she let herself
softly down into the water and thrust off without more ado, and swam on
and on till she had gone a long way. Then she communed with herself, and
found that she was thinking: If I might only swim all the water and be
free.
And still she swam on: and now a light wind had been drawn up from the
west, and was driving a little ripple athwart the lake, and she swam the
swiftlier for it awhile, but then turned over on her back and floated
southward still. Till on a sudden, as she lay looking up toward the
far-away blue sky, and she so little and low on the face of the waters,
and the lake so deep beneath her, and the wind coming ever fresher from
the west, and the ripple rising higher against her, a terror fell upon
her, and she longed for the green earth and its well-wrought little
blossoms and leaves and grass; then she turned over again and swam
straight for the eyot, which now was but a little green heap far away
before her.
Long she was ere she made land there, and the sun was high in the heavens
when she came, all spent and weary, to the shadow of the hawthorn-tree;
and she cast herself down there and fell asleep straightway. Forsooth
her swim was about as much as she had might for.
When she awoke it lacked but an hour of noon-tide, and she felt the life
in her and was happy, but had no will to rise up for a while; for it was
ajoy to her to turn her head this way and that to the dear and dainty
flowers, that made the wide, grey, empty lake seem so far away, and no
more to be dealt with than the very sky itself.
At last she arose, and when she had plucked and eaten some handfuls of
the strawberries which grew plenteously on the sweet ground of the eyot,
she went down to the landward-looking shore, and took the water, and swam
slowly across the warm ripple till she came once more to the strand and
her raiment. She clad herself, and set her hand to her pouch and drew
forth bread, and sat eating it on the bank above the smooth sand. Then
she looked around, and stood up with her face toward the house, to see if
the dame would call to her. But she saw the witch come out of the porch
and stand there looking under the sharp of her hand toward her, and
thereafter she went back again into the house without giving any sign.
Wherefore Birdalone deemed that she had leave that day, and that she
might take yet more holiday; so she stepped lightly down from her place
of vantage, turned her face toward the east, and went quietly along the
very lip of the water.
CHAPTER X. BIRDALONE COMES ON NEW TIDINGS.
SOON she had covered up the house from her, for on that eastern end, both
a tongue of the woodland shoved out west into the meadow, and, withal,
the whole body of the wood there drew down to the water, and presently
cut off all the greensward save a narrow strip along by the lake, off the
narrowest whereof lay the rocky eyot aforesaid, nigher unto the shore
than lay Green Eyot.
Now never had Birdalone gone so far east as to be over against Rock Eyot.
In her childish days the witch had let her know that she might go where
she would, but therewith had told her a tale of a huge serpent which
dwelt in the dark wood over against Rock Eyot, whose wont it was to lap
his folds round and round living things that went there, and devour them;
and many an evil dream had that evil serpent brought to Birdalone. In
after days belike she scarce trowed in the tale, yet the terror of it
abode with her. Moreover the wildwood toward that side, as it drew
toward the water, was dark and dreary and forbidding, running into black
thickets standing amidst quagmires, all unlike to the sweet, clean upland
ridges, oak begrown and greenswarded, of the parts which lay toward the
north, and which she mostly haunted.
But this summer day, which was so bright and hot, Birdalone deemed she
might harden her heart to try the adventure; and she had a mind to enter
the wood thereby, and win her way up into the oakland whereas she had met
Habundia, and perchance she might happen on her; for she would not dare
to summon her so soon after their first meeting. And if she met her,
there would be the holiday worthily brought to an end!
On went Birdalone, and was soon at the narrowest of the greensward, and
had the wood black on her left hand, for the trees of it were mostly
alder. But when she was come just over against Rock Eyot, she found a
straight creek or inlet of the water across her way; and the said creek
ran right up into the alder thicket; and, indeed, was much overhung by
huge ancient alders, gnarled, riven, mossy, and falling low over the
water. But close on the mouth of the creek, on Birdalone’s side thereof,
lay a thing floating on the dull water, which she knew not how to call a
boat, for such had she never seen, nor heard of, but which was indeed a
boat, oarless and sailless.
She looked on it all about, and wondered; yet she saw at once that it was
for wending the water, and she thought, might she but have a long pole,
she might push it about the shallow parts of the lake, and belike take
much fish. She tried to shove it somewhat toward the lake, but with her
little might could make nothing of the work; for the craft was heavy,
like a barge, if there were nothing else that withstood her.
About this new thing she hung a long while, wondering that she had never
heard thereof, or been set to toil therewith. She noted that it was
mostly pale grey of hue, as if it had been bleached by sun and water, but
at the stem and stern were smears of darker colour, as though someone had
been trying the tints of staining there.
Now so much did this new matter take up all her mind, that she thought no
more of going up into the wood; but though she had fain abided there long
to see whatever might be seen, she deemed it would go ill with her did
the witch happen on her there; wherefore she turned about, and went back
the way she had come, going very slowly and pondering the tidings. And
ever she called to mind what Habundia had said to her, that it was by
water she must flee, and wondered if she had sent her this thing that she
might escape therein; so different as her going would be thereby to
swimming the lake with her wet body. Then again she thought, that before
she might let herself hope this, it were best, if she might, to find out
from the witch what was the thing, and if she knew thereof. Yet at last
she called to mind how little patient of questions was her mistress, and
that if she were unheedful she might come to raise an evil storm about
her. Wherefore she took this rede at the last, that she would keep all
hidden in her own breast till she should see Habundia again; and
meanwhile she might steal down thither from time to time to see if the
thing still abode there; which she might the easier do by swimming if she
chose her time heedfully, and go thither from Rock Eyot, which now and
again she visited.
CHAPTER XI. OF BIRDALONE’S GUILT AND THE CHASTISEMENT THEREOF.
BY this she was come back to the sandy bight, and the sun was westering;
and she looked up toward the house and saw that it was the time of their
evening meal, for the blue smoke of the cooking fire was going up into
the air. So she went thither speedily, and entered gay of seeming. The
witch looked on her doubtfully, but presently fell to speaking with her
graciously as yesterday, and Birdalone was glad and easy of mind, and
went about the serving of her; for always she ate after the dame; and the
mistress asked her of many matters concerning the house, and the
gathering of stuff.
So came the talk on the fishing of the brook that ran before their door,
and how the trouts therein were but little, and not seldom none at all;
and even therewith came these words into Birdalone’s mouth, she scarce
knew how: My lady, why do we not fish the lake, whereas there be shoal
places betwixt us and the eyots where lie many and great fish, as I have
seen when I have been swimming thereover? And now in that same creek
whereas the serpent used to lurk when I was little, we have a thing come,
which is made to swim on the water; and I, could I have a long pole to
shove withal.
But no time she had to make an end, ere the witch-wife sprang up and
turned on her with a snarl as of an evil dog, and her face changed
horribly: her teeth showed grinning, her eyes goggled in her head, her
brow was all to-furrowed, and her hands clenched like iron springs.
Birdalone shuddered back from her and cringed in mere terror, but had no
might to cry out. The witch hauled her up by the hair, and dragged her
head back so that her throat lay bare before her all along. Then drew
the witch a sharp knife from her girdle, and raised her hand over her,
growling and snarling like a wolf. But suddenly she dropped the knife,
her hand fell to her side, and she fell in a heap on the floor and lay
there hushed.
Birdalone stood gazing on her, and trembling in every limb; too confused
was she to think or do aught, though some image off light through the
open door passed before her: but her feet seemed of lead, and, as in an
evil dream, she had no might to move her limbs, and the minutes went by
as she stood there half dead with fear.
At last, (and belike it was no long while) the witch-wife came to herself
again, and sat up on the floor, and looked all about the chamber, and
when her eyes fell upon Birdalone, she said in a weak voice, yet
joyfully; Hah! thou art there still, my good servant! Then she said: A
sickness fell upon me suddenly, as whiles it is wont; but now am I myself
again; and presently I have a word for thee.
Therewith she rose up slowly, Birdalone helping her, and sat in her big
chair silent awhile, and then she spake: My servant, thou hast for the
more part served me well: but this time thou hast done ill, whereas thou
hast been spying on my ways; whereof may come heavy trouble but if we
look to it. Well is it for thee that thou hast none unto whom thou
mightest babble; for then must I needs have slain thee here and now. But
for this first time I pardon thee, and thou hast escaped the wrath.
Her voice was soft and wheedling; but for Birdalone the terror had
entered into her soul, and yet abode with her.
The witch-wife sat a while, and then arose and went about the chamber,
and came to a certain aumbry and opened it, and drew forth a little
flasket of lead and a golden cup scored over with strange signs, and laid
them on the board beside her chair, wherein she now sat down again, and
spake once more, still in the same soft and wheedling voice: Yet, my
servant, thy guilt would be required of me, if I let this pass as if
to-day were the same as yesterday; yea, and of thee also would it be
required; therefore it is a part of the pardon that thou be corrected:
and the correction must be terrible to thee, that thou mayst remember
never again to thrust thyself into the jaws of death. And what may I do
to correct thee? It shall be in a strange way, such as thou hast never
dreamed of. Yet the anguish thereof shall go to thine heart’s root; but
this must thou needs bear, for my good and thine, so that both we may
live and be merry hereafter. Go now, fill this cup with water from the
spring and come back with it. Birdalone took the cup with a sinking
heart, and filled it, and brought it back, and stood before the witch
more dead than alive.
Then the witch-wife took up the flasket and pulled out the stopple and
betook it to Birdalone, and said: Drink of this now, a little sip, no
more. And the maiden did so, and the liquor was no sooner down her
gullet than the witch-wife and the chamber, and all things about her,
became somewhat dim to her; but yet not so much so as that she could not
see them. But when she stretched out her arm she could see it not at
all, nor her limbs nor any other part of her which her eyes might fall
upon. Then would she have uttered a lamentable wail, but the voice was
sealed up in her and no sound came from her voice. Then she heard the
witch-wife how she said (and yet she heard it as if her voice came from
afar), Nay, thou canst not speak, and thou canst not see thyself, nor may
any other, save me, and I but dimly. But this is but part of what I must
lay upon thee; for next I must give thee a new shape, and that both
thyself and all other may see. But, before I do that, I must speak a
word to thee, which thy new shape would not suffer the sense thereof to
reach to thine heart. Hearken!
CHAPTER XII. THE WORDS OF THE WITCH-WIFE TO BIRDALONE.
SAID the witch-wife: When thou comest to thyself (for it is not my will
that thou shouldest never have thine own shape again), doubtless the
first thing which thou shalt do with thy new-gained voice and thy
new-gained wit shall be to curse me, and curse me again. Do as thou wilt
herein; but I charge thee, disobey me not, for that shall bring thee to
thy bane. For if thou do not my bidding, and if thou pry into my
matters, and lay bare that which I will have hidden, then will it be
imputed unto thee for guilt, and will I, will I not, I must be avenged on
thee even to slaying: and then is undone all the toil and pain I have had
in rearing thee into a deft and lovely maiden. Deem thou, then, this
present anguish kind to thee, to keep thee that thou come not to nought.
Now since I have begun speaking, I will go on; for little heretofore have
I spoken to thee what was in mine heart. Well I wot that thou thinkest
of me but as of an evil dream, whereof none can aught but long to awake
from it. Yet I would have thee look to this at least; that I took thee
from poverty and pinching, and have reared thee as faithfully as ever
mother did to child; clemming thee never, smiting thee not so oft, and
but seldom cruelly. Moreover, I have suffered thee to go whereso thou
wouldest, and have compelled thee to toil for nought but what was needful
for our two livelihoods. And I have not stayed thy swimmings in the
lake, nor thy wanderings in the wood, and thou hast learned bowshot
there, till thou art now a past-master in the craft: and, moreover, thou
art swift-foot as the best of the deer, and mayest over-run any one of
them whom thou wilt.
Soothly a merry life hast thou had as a child, and merry now would be thy
life, save for thine hatred of me. Into a lovely lily-lass hast thou
grown. That I tell thee now, though my wont has been to gird at thee for
the fashion of thy body; that was but the word of the mistress to the
thrall. And now what awaiteth thee? For thou mayst say: I am lonely
here, and there is no man to look on me. Of what avail, therefore, is my
goodliness and shapeliness? Child, I answer thee that the time is coming
when thou shalt see here a many of the fairest of men, and then shalt
thou be rather rose than lily, and fully come to womanhood; and all those
shall love and worship thee, and thou mayst gladden whom thou wilt, and
whom thou wilt mayst sadden; and no lack soever shalt thou have of the
sweetness of love, or the glory of dominion.
Think of it then! All this is for thee if thou dwell here quietly with
me, doing my will till thy womanhood hath blossomed. Wherefore I beseech
and pray thee put out of thy mind the thought of fleeing from me. For if
thou try it, one of two things shall be: either I shall bring thee back
and slay thee, or make thee live in misery of torment; or else thou wilt
escape, and then what will it be? Dost thou know how it shall go with
thee, coming poor and nameless, an outcast, into the world of men? Lust
shalt thou draw unto thee, but scarce love. I say an outcast shalt thou
be, without worship or dominion; thy body shall be a prey to ribalds, and
when the fine flower thereof hath faded, thou shalt find that the words
of thy lovers were but mockery. That no man shall love thee, and no
woman aid thee. Then shall Eld come to thee and find thee at home with
Hell; and Death shall come and mock thee for thy life cast away for
nought, for nought. This is my word to thee: and now I have nought to do
to thee save to change thee thy skin, and therein must thou do as thou
canst, but it shall be no ugly or evil shape at least. But another time
maybe I shall not be so kind as to give thee a new shape, but shall let
thee wander about seen by none but me. Then she took the cup and took
water in the hollow of her hand and cast it into Birdalone’s face, and
muttered words withal; and presently she saw herself indeed, that she was
become a milk-white hind; and she heard and saw again, but not as she,
the maiden, was wont to hear and see; for both her hearing and seeing and
her thought was of a beast and not of a maiden.
Said the witch-wife: It is done now, till I give thee grace again; and
now be off into the field; but if thou stray more than half a bowshot
from the brook, it shall be the worse for thee. And now the day was done
and night was come.
CHAPTER XIII. BIRDALONE MEETETH THE WOOD-WOMAN AGAIN.
IT was fifteen days thereafter that Birdalone awoke lying in her bed on a
bright morning, as if all this had been but a dream. But the witch-wife
was standing over her and crying out: Thou art late, slug-a-bed, this
fair-weather day, and the grass all spoiling for lack of the scythe.
Off! and down to the meadow with thee.
Birdalone waited not for more words, but sprang out of bed, and had her
work-a-day raiment on in a twinkling, and stayed but to wash her in a
pool of the brook, and then was amidst the tall grass with the swathe
falling before her. As she worked she thought, and could scarce tell
whether joy at her present deliverance, or terror of the witch-wife, were
the greatest. Sore was her longing to go see her friend in the wood, but
the haysel lasted more than a week, and when that was done, whether it
were of set purpose or no, the dame forgat her other promise, to give
Birdalone more holiday, and kept her close to her work about meadow and
acre. Otherwise her mistress nowise mishandled or threatened her, though
she had gone back to the surliness and railing which was her wont. At
last, on a morning when the dame had bidden her to nought of work,
Birdalone took her bow in her hand and cast her quiver on her back, and
went her ways into the wood, and forgat not the tress of Habundia’s hair;
but she had no need to use it, for when she was come to the Oak of Tryst,
straightway came Habundia forth from the thicket, and now so like to
Birdalone that it was a wonder, for as her friend she bare bow and
quiver, and green gown trussed up till her knees were naked.
So they kissed and embraced, and Birdalone wept upon her friend’s bosom,
but was ashamed of the words which would have told her of her case. Then
Habundia set her down upon the greensward, and sat down beside her, and
caressed her and soothed her; then she smiled on Birdalone, and said: Thy
tale is partly told without words, and I would weep for thee if I might
shed tears. But thou mayest tell me wherefore thou didst suffer this;
though forsooth I have an inkling thereof. Hast thou happened on the
witch’s ferry?
Even so it was, sister, quoth Birdalone. And therewith she plucked up
heart, and told her all the tale of the vanishing of her body and the
skin-changing. And Habundia answered: Well then, there is this to be
said, that sooner or later this must have happened, for thereby lieth thy
road of escape; wherefore it is better sooner than later. But tell me
again: was she fierce and rough in words with thee? for what she said to
thee thou hast not yet told me. Said Birdalone: In her first fury, when
she was like to have slain me, she had no words, nought but wolfish
cries. But thereafter she spake unto me strangely, yet neither fiercely
nor roughly; nay, it seemed to me as if almost she loved me. And more
than almost she besought me rather than commanded me not to flee from
her. And wert thou beguiled by her soft speech? said Habundia. Nowise
to cast aside my hope of escape, nay, not even in that hour, said
Birdalone; but amidst all the confusion and terror somewhat was I moved
to compassion on her.
Spake Habundia, looking anxiously on her: Dost thou deem that thou art
somewhat cowed by what she hath done to thee? Said Birdalone, and
flushed very red: Oh no, no! Nought save death or bonds shall come
betwixt me and my utmost striving for escape. That is better than well,
said Habundia; but again, canst thou have patience a little, and be wary
and wise the while? So meseemeth, said the maiden. Said Habundia: Again
it is well. Now is the summer beginning to wane, and by my rede thou
shalt not try the flight until May is come again and well-nigh worn into
June; for thou wilt be bigger then, little sister, and tidings are waxing
that shall get matters ready for thy departure: moreover, thou must yet
learn what thou hast to do meanwhile, and thereof shall I tell thee
somewhat as now. For that boat, the thing which thou didst find, and for
which thou didst suffer, is called the Sending Boat, and therein thy
mistress fareth time and again, I deem to seek to some other of her kind,
but I know not unto whom, or whereto. Hast thou noted of her that whiles
she goeth away privily by night and cloud? Yea, verily, said Birdalone,
and this is one of the things which heretofore hath made me most afraid.
Said Habundia: Well now, that she wendeth somewhither in this ferry I
wot; but as I wot not whither, so also I know not what she doth with the
Sending Boat to make it obey her; whereas, though I know all things of
the wood, I know but little of the lake. Wherefore, though there be
peril to thee therein, follow her twice or thrice when she riseth up for
this faring, and note closely what is her manner of dealing with the said
Sending Boat, so that thou mayst do in like wise. Wilt thou risk the
smart and the skin-changing, or even if it were the stroke of the knife,
to gather this wisdom? And thereafter thou shalt come hither and tell me
how thou hast sped. With a good heart will I, dear sister, said
Birdalone.
Then Habundia kissed her and said: It is a joy to me to see thee so
valiant, but herein may I help thee somewhat; here is a gold finger-ring,
see thou! fashioned as a serpent holding his tail in his mouth; whenso
thou goest on this quest, set thou this same ring on the middle finger of
thy left hand, and say thou above thy breath at least:
To left and right,
Before, behind,
Of me be sight
As of the wind!
And nought then shall be seen of thee even by one who standeth close
beside. But wear not the ring openly save at such times, or let the
witch have sight thereof ever, or she will know that thou hast met me.
Dost thou understand, and canst thou remember?
Laughed Birdalone, and took the ring and set it on her finger, and spake
aloud even as Habundia had given her the words. Then quoth Habundia,
laughing: Now have I lost my friend and sister, for thou art gone,
Birdalone. Take off the ring, sweetling, and get thee to thine hunting,
for if thou come home empty-handed there will be flyting awaiting thee,
or worse.
So Birdalone took off the ring and came back to sight again laughing;
then the wood-woman kissed her and turned her heels to her, and was gone;
but Birdalone strung her bow, and got to her woodcraft, and presently had
a brace of hares, wherewith she went back home to the dame; who indeed
girded at her for her sloth, and her little catch in so long a while; but
there it ended.
CHAPTER XIV. OF BIRDALONE’S FISHING.
NOW were the days wearing toward wheat-harvest, and nought befel to tell
of, save that on a morn the witch-wife called Birdalone to her, and said:
Now is little to be done till the wheat is ready for the hook, and thy
days are idle; or what is that word that fell from thee that other day,
that there be good swims for fish about the eyots? Canst thou swim
across bearing thine angle, and back again therewith, and thy catch
withal? Yea, certes, said Birdalone gaily; with one hand I may swim
gallantly, or with my legs alone, if I stir mine arms ever so little. I
will go straightway if thou wilt, lady; but give me a length of twine so
that I may tie my catch about my middle when I swim back again.
Therewith she went forth lightly to fetch her angle, which was in a shed
without; but just as she took it in her hand, a sudden thought came to
her, so wary as she was grown. She undid the bosom of her gown, and took
forth her serpent-ring; for she bore it next to her skin, made fast to
the bosom of her smock; but now she hid it carefully in the thickest of
her brow-hair, which was very thick and soft. Withal the tress of
Habundia’s hair she bore ever mingled with her own.
No sooner had she done it, but she was glad; for she heard the dame
calling her, who, when she came to the house-door, spake and said: Now
shall I fare with thee down to the water, and look to thy garments lest
they be fouled by some straying beast. And therewith she looked
curiously on Birdalone, and knit her brows when she saw that the maiden
changed countenance in nowise.
Down to the water went they, and the witch sat down close to where
Birdalone should take the water, and watched her do off her raiment, and
eyed her keenly when she was bare, but said nought. Birdalone turned her
head as she stood knee-deep, and said: How long shall I abide, lady, if I
have luck? As long as thou wilt, said the dame: most like I shall be
gone by then thou comest back, even if thou be away no long while.
Fell Birdalone to swimming then, and when she was more than half over,
the witch, stirring no more than need was, got hold of her raiment, which
was but the old grey coat over a smock, and ransacked it, but found
nought, as well ye may wot. And when she had done, she sat down again in
heavy mood as it seemed, and watched Birdalone swimming, and when she
beheld her body come forth out of the water, and pass out of sight
amongst the flowers of the eyot, she arose and went her ways home.
Birdalone looked through the willow-boughs, and saw her turn away; then
she fared to her fishing with a smile, and soon had plenteous catch from
under the willow-boughs. Then, whereas the day was very calm and fair,
and the dame had given her holiday, she wandered about the eyot, and most
in a little wood of berry-trees, as quicken and whitebeam and dog-wood,
and sported with the birds, who feared her not, but came and sat on her
shoulders, and crept about her feet. She went also and stood a while on
the southern shore, and looked on the wide water dim in the offing under
the hot-weather haze, and longed to be gone beyond it. Then she turned
away, and to the other shore, and gat her fish and strung them on the
string, and made them fast to her middle, and so took the water back
again to the yellow strand, where now was no one awaiting her. But
before she did on her garments, she looked on them, and saw that they lay
not as she had left them, whereby she knew well that the witch-wife had
handled them.
Amidst all this the day was wearing to an end, and again she saw the
smoke of the cooking-fire going up into the air from the chimney of the
house; and she smiled ruefully, thinking that the witch might yet find an
occasion for ransacking her raiment. But she plucked up heart, and came
home with her catch, and the dame met her with a glum face, and neither
praised her nor blamed her, but took the fish silently. Such ending had
that day.
CHAPTER XV. BIRDALONE WEARETH HER SERPENT-RING.
AFTER this she went once and again fishing on to Green Eyot by the
bidding of the dame, who went not again to the shore with her. These
times she had half a mind to go see the Sending Boat, but durst not, lest
the thing itself might have life enough to tell of her.
And now was come the time of wheat-harvest, and Birdalone must wear her
days swinking in the acre-land, clad but in smock and shoes; and the toil
was hard, and browned her skin and hardened her hands, but it irked her
not, for the witch let her work all alone, and it was holiday unto the
maiden if her mistress were not anigh, despite those words which had
somewhat touched her heart that other day.
But when wheat-getting was done, there was again rest for her body, and
swimming withal and fishing from the eyot by the witch’s leave. And
again by her own leave she went to seek Habundia in the wood, and spent a
happy hour with her, and came back with a fawn which she had shot, and so
but barely saved her skin from the twig-shower. Then yet again she went
into the wood on the witch’s errand as well as her own, and was paid by
her friend’s sweet converse, and by nought else save the grudging girding
of her mistress.
But on a night when September was well in, and the sky was moonless and
overcast, somewhat before midnight the dame came and hung over Birdalone
as she lay abed, and watched to see if she waked; forsooth the witch’s
coming had waked her; but even so she was wary, and lay still, nor
changed her breathing. So the witch turned away, but even therewith
Birdalone made a shift to get a glimpse of her, and this she saw thereby,
that the semblance of her was changed, and that she bore the self-same
skin wherewith she had come to Utterhay, and which she had worn twice or
thrice afterwards when she had an errand thither.
The witch now glided swiftly to the door, and out into the night.
Birdalone lay still a little, lest she should fall into a trap, and then
arose very quietly and did on her smock, which lay ever under her pillow
with the ring sewn thereto again, and so went out adoors also, and deemed
she saw the witch some way on ahead; but it was nothing for her light
feet to overtake her. So she stayed to take the ring from her smock, and
set it on her finger; then in a low voice she said:
To left and right,
Before, behind,
Of me be sight
As of the wind!
Then boldly she sped on, and was soon close on the heels of the witch,
who made her way to the edge of the lake, and then turned east, and went
even as Birdalone had gone when she came across the Sending Boat.
So fared the witch-wife straight to the creek-side, and Birdalone must
needs stick close to her, or she had known nought, so black was the night
amongst the alder-boughs. But the witch-wife fumbled about a while when
she was stayed by the creek, and presently drew somewhat from under her
cloak, and the maiden saw that she was about striking flint upon steel,
and quaked somewhat, lest her charm had played her false. Presently the
tinder quickened, and the dame had lighted a lantern, which she held up,
peering all about; and full she looked on the place whereas was
Birdalone, and made no show of seeing her, though well-nigh the maiden
looked for it to see her drop the lantern and spring on her.
Now the witch, holding the lantern aloft, steps over the gunwale of the
boat, and sits down on the thwart; and it was a near thing but that
Birdalone followed her into the boat, but she feared the getting forth
again, so she but hung over it as close as she might. Then she saw the
witch draw out of her girdle that sharp little knife which Birdalone had
seen raised against her own throat; and then the witch bared her arm, and
pricked it till the blood sprang from that barren white skin; thereat she
stood up, and went to the bows of the craft and hung over them, and drew
her arm to and fro over the stem to bloody it; and went thereafter to the
stern, and took blood into her right hand and passed it over the place of
the steerage (for there was no rudder) and came back and sat down on the
thwart again; and, so far as Birdalone might see, busied herself in
staunching the little wound on her arm. Then deemed Birdalone that she
knew what manner of paint was that which had made the rusty smears which
she had seen on the boat by daylight.
But now as the witch sat there, a harsh voice began to stir in her
throat, and then words came out of her, and she sang in a crow’s croak:
The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Then wake and awake
And the wonted way take!
The way of the Wender forth over the flood,
For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.
Therewithal began the boat to stir, and anon it glided forth out of the
creek into the waters of the lake, and the light of the lantern died, and
it was but a minute ere Birdalone lost all sight of it. She abode a
little longer, lest perchance boat and witch might come back on her
hands, and then turned and went swiftly back again. She would have drawn
off her ring straightway, but the thought came on her, that she had seen
the witch depart in her second semblance; how if she were abiding her at
home in her wonted skin? So she came to the house even as she was, and
opened the door, and looked in, quaking; but there was no image of a
child of Adam therein, and no living thing, save the cat drowsing before
the fire; wherefore Birdalone took the ring from her finger and went to
the hearth, and stirred up the cat with her foot till he arose and fell
to rubbing himself against her legs, and she was fain of him.
Thereafter she made her ring fast to her smock again, and set the smock
under her pillow as her wont was, and betook herself to bed, and fell
asleep sweetly, leaving all troublous thoughts for the morrow; and that
the more as she was free of the witch-wife for that night at least.
CHAPTER XVI. BIRDALONE MEETETH HABUNDIA AGAIN; AND LEARNETH HER FIRST
WISDOM OF HER.
WHEN morning was, Birdalone arose, and longed sore to go into the wood to
seek Habundia again, but durst not, lest the witch-wife should come to
hand again earlier than might be looked for. So she abode quiet and did
what was toward near about the house. All that day the witch came not
back, nor the next; but the morrow thereafter, when Birdalone arose, she
found the wonted aspect of her mistress in the wonted place, who, when
she saw the maiden, greeted her, and was somewhat blithe with her; and
Birdalone would have asked her leave to go to the wood, but she trusted
little in her unwonted soft mood; which yet lasted so long that on the
third day she herself bade Birdalone go take her pleasure in the wood,
and bear back with her what of venison she might.
Forthwith went Birdalone as glad as might be, and met her friend at the
Oak of Tryst, and told her closely how all had betid; and Habundia said:
Here, then, thou hast learned how to sail the lake. But hast thou
learned enough to try the adventure and not to fail? Even so I deem,
said Birdalone; but this I would say, that meseemeth it better that I
follow the witch down to the boat one more time at least; for this first
time it was dark; and moreover shall I not be surer of the spell if I
hear it said oftener, lest it be not ever the same words? What sayest
thou? She said: Thou art right herein, and, since the adventure may not
be tried till next June is at hand, there is time enough and to spare.
And now for this hour that is we need talk no more of it. Only, my
sweet, I beseech thee be wary; and above all suffer not the witch-wife to
set eye or hand on the ring. Truly mine heart oft aches sorely for thy
peril; for therein the image of thee abideth rather as of my daughter
than my friend. Yea, now thou laughest, but kindly, so that the sound of
thy laughter is as sweet music. But know that though thou art but a
young maiden, and I in all wise like unto thee of aspect, yet have I
dwelt many and many a year upon the earth, and much wisdom have learned.
Trowest thou me?
Yea, yea, said Birdalone, with all my heart. Then she hung her head a
while and kept silence, and thereafter looked up and spake: I would ask
thee a thing and crave somewhat of thee, as if thou wert verily my
mother; wilt thou grant it me? Yea, surely, child, said Habundia. Said
Birdalone: This it is then, that thou wilt learn me of thy wisdom.
Habundia smiled full kindly on her, and said: This of all things I would
have had thee ask; and this day and now shall we begin to open the book
of the earth before thee. For therein is mine heritage and my dominion.
Sit by me, child, and hearken!
So the maiden sat down by her likeness under the oak, and began to learn
her lesson. Forsooth forgotten is the wisdom, though the tale of its
learning abideth, wherefore nought may we tell thereof.
When it was done, Birdalone kissed her wood-mother and said: This is now
the best day of my life, this and the day when first I saw thee. I will
come hither now many times before the day of my departure. Yea, but,
sweet child, said Habundia, beware of the witch and her cruelty; I fear
me she shall yet be grim toward thee. So will I be wary, said Birdalone,
but I will venture some little peril of pain but if thou forbid me,
mother. And I pray thee by thy love to forbid me not. And this I pray
thee the more, because after one of these grim times then mostly doth she
meddle the less with me for a while, wherefore I shall be the freer to
come hither. Habundia kissed her and embraced her, and said: Valiant art
thou for a young maiden, my child, and I would not refrain thee more than
a father would refrain his young son from the strokes of the tilt-yard.
But I pray thee to forget not my love, and my sorrow for thy grief.
Therewith they sundered, and it was drawing toward evening. Birdalone
sought catch, and brought home venison to the dame, who was yet blithe
with her, and spake that evening as she eyed her: I cannot tell how it
is, but thou seemest changed unto me, and lookest more towards thy
womanhood than even yesterday. I mean the face of thee, for wert thou
stripped, lean enough I should see thee, doubtless. But now look to it,
I beseech thee, to be both deft and obedient, so that I may be as kind to
thee as I would be, and kinder than I have been heretofore.
CHAPTER XVII. THE PASSING OF THE YEAR INTO WINTER.
WORE the days now, till on a night of October, toward the end thereof,
the witch went a-night-tide to the Sending Boat, and Birdalone followed
her as erst. This time the night was wild and windy, but the moon was
high aloft and big, and all cloud save a few flecks was blown from off
the heavens; so that the night was as light as could be; and even at the
tree-hung creek it was easy to see all that was done. And so it was that
the witch did and spake in all wise as she did before.
Another time, when November was well-nigh out, the dame arose for her
lake-faring; but this night the snow lay deep betwixt house and water,
and Birdalone thought that it would scarce do to follow. Forsooth she
knew not whether her feet would the less leave their print in the snow
because they were not to be seen. When she asked Habundia thereof, she
laughed and said: Once more thou hast been wise, my child, for though it
had been no harder to put this might into thy ring, that whoso wore it
should not touch the ground, yet it hath not been done.
It must be told, that in this while Birdalone went oft to the Trysting
Tree, and called on her mother (as now she called her) to come to her,
and ever more and more of wisdom she won thereby. Though the witch was
oft surly with her, and spared not her girding, yet, the needful work
done, she meddled little with her. But on a day she straightly banned
her the wood, and Birdalone went notwithstanding, and when she was there
with the wood-mother nought she told her thereof, but was blithe and
merry beyond her wont. She came back home thereafter empty handed, and
stepped into the chamber proudly and with bright eyes and flushed cheeks,
though she looked for nought save chastisement; yea, it might be even the
skin-changing. Forsooth the witch was sitting crouched in her chair with
her hands on the elbows and her head thrust forward, like a wild beast at
point to spring; but when her eye fell on Birdalone, she faltered and
drew back into herself again, and muttered somewhat unheard; but to
Birdalone spake nought of good or bad.
Now was winter-tide upon them, when there was nought to do in field and
acre, and but a little in the byre. In years bygone, and even in the
last one, the witch had not spared Birdalone toil any the more, but had
made errands for her amidst the snow and biting winds, or over the lake
when it was laid with ice. But now she bade her to nought save what she
had a will to; whereby she lost but little, whereas Birdalone was well
willing to strive against wind and weather and the roughness of the
winter earth, and overcome if she might, so that all were well done that
had to be done about the stead.
Still did the witch give her hard words and rail at her for the most
part, but from the teeth outward only, and because she was wont thereto.
Inwardly indeed she began to fear Birdalone, and deemed that she would
one day have the mastery; and this led her into fierce and restless
moods; so that she would sit staring at the maiden’s beauty handling her
knife withal, and scarce able to forbear her. And in such a mood she
once made occasion to chastise her as her wont had been erst, and looked
to see Birdalone rebel against her; but it fell out otherwise, for
Birdalone submitted herself to her meekly and with a cheerful
countenance. And this also was a terror to the witch, who deemed, as
indeed it was, that the purpose was growing in her thrall. So from that
time she meddled with her no more. All this while, as may be thought,
Birdalone went yet oftener to the Oak of Tryst, despite frost and snow
and wind, and gat much lore of her wood-mother, and learned wisdom
abundantly. And her days were happy.
CHAPTER XVIII. OF SPRING-TIDE AND THE MIND OF BIRDALONE.
NOW was the winter gone and the spring-tide come again, and with the
blossoming of the earth blossomed Birdalone also. Nought sweeter of
flesh might she be than erst, but there was now a new majesty grown into
her beauty; her limbs were rounded, her body fulfilled, her skin sleeked
and whitened; and if any mother’s son had beheld her feet as they trod
the meadow besprinkled with saffron and daffodil, ill had it gone with
him were he gainsaid the kisses of them, though for the kissing had he
fared the worse belike.
That spring-tide, amidst of April, she followed the witch-wife down to
the Sending Boat for the third time; and there went everything as erst,
and she deemed now that the lesson was well learned, and that she was
well-nigh as wise as the witch herself therein.
But the day after she went about somewhat pensive, as though a troublous
thought were on her; and when, three days thereafter, she met the
wood-mother, she spake to her even as they parted, and said: Mother, much
wisdom hast thou learned me, and now this at the last withal, that
hitherto there has been shame in my life; and now fain were I to be done
with it. Fair child, said Habundia, little is the shame though this
woman hath had the upper hand of thee and hath used thee cruelly: how
mightest thou, a child, strive with her? But now I see and know that
there is an end of that; that she feareth thee now, and will never again
raise a hand against thee save thou fall wholly into her power; as thou
shalt not, my child. Be comforted then for what is gone by! Nay,
mother, said Birdalone, it is not that which troubleth me; for, as thou
sayest, what else might I do? But thy wisdom which thou hast set in my
heart hath learned me that for these last months I have been meeting
guile with guile and lies with lies. And now will I do so no more, lest
I become a guileful woman, with nought good in me save the fairness of my
body. Wherefore hearken, sweet mother! What is done, is done; but when
it cometh to the day, which is speedily drawing nigh, that I must part
from thee, it may be for a long while, then will I not fare to the
Sending Boat by night and cloud and with hidden head, but will walk
thither in broad day, and let that befall which must befall.
Changed then Habundia’s face and became haggard and woeful, and she cried
out: O if I could but weep, as ye children of Adam! O my grief and
sorrow! Child, child! then will betide that falling into her hands which
I spake of e’en now; and then shall this wretch, this servant of evil,
assuredly slay thee there and then, or will keep thee to torment thee
till thy life be but a slow death. Nay, nay, do as I should do, and fare
with hidden head, and my ring on thy finger. Or else, O child, how wilt
thou hurt me!
Birdalone wept; but presently she fell to caressing the mother’s hand,
and said: This is thy doing, wherein thou hast made me wise. Yet fear
not: for I deem that the witch-wife will not slay me, whereas she looketh
to have some gain of me; moreover, in the evil of her heart is mingled
some love toward me, whereof, as erst I told thee, I have a morsel of
compassion. Mother, she will not slay me; and I say that she shall not
torment me, for I will compel her to slay me else. It is my mind that
she will let me go. Said the mother: Yea, mayhappen, yet but as a bird
with a string to its leg. If it be so, said Birdalone, then let my luck
prevail over her guile; as well it may be, since I have known thee, O
wise mother!
The wood-wife hung her head and spake nought for a while; then she said:
I see that thou wilt have it so, and that there is something in thine
heart which we, who are not children of Adam, may not understand; yet
once wert thou more like unto us. Now all I may say is, that thou must
rule in this matter, and that I am sad.
Then she looked down again and presently raised a brighter face, and
said: Belike all shall be better than I thought. Then she kissed
Birdalone and they parted for that time.
CHAPTER XIX. THEY BID FAREWELL, BIRDALONE AND THE WOOD-MOTHER.
NOW April was gone, and May was come with the thorn a-blossoming, and
there was Birdalone waxing still in loveliness. And now the witch had
left all girding at her even, and spake to her but little, save when she
needs must. But to Birdalone it seemed that she watched her exceeding
closely.
Birdalone went oft to the wood, and learned yet more of lore: but of the
matter of the Departure, how it was to be gone about they spake no more,
and great was the love betwixt them.
At last when May was worn nigh to June came Birdalone to the Oak of
Tryst, and found the wood-mother there; and when they had talked a while,
but ever from the teeth out, spake Habundia: Though thou be now the wiser
of us two maybe, yet have I wisdom to wot that this is the hour of our
sundering, and that to-morrow thou wilt try the adventure of the Sending
Boat: is it not so? Yea, mother, said Birdalone; I bid thee farewell
now: woe is me therefor! Said Habundia: And thou wilt deliver thyself
into the hands of the witch, wilt thou, as thou saidst that other day?
Quoth Birdalone: Is it not wisdom, dear mother, if I trust in my goodhap?
Alas, said the mother, it may be so when all is said. But O my sad
heart! and how I fear for thee!
My mother, my mother! said Birdalone, that I should make the days
grievous unto thee! and thou who hast made my days so joyous! But now
canst thou not say of thy wisdom that we shall meet again?
The wood-woman sat down, and let her head fall over her knees, and was
silent a long while; then she rose up and stood before Birdalone, and
said: Yea, we shall meet again, howsoever it may be. Let us depart with
that sweet word in the air between us. Yet first thou shalt give me a
tress of thine hair, as I did to thee when first we met; for by means of
it may I know to-morrow how thou hast sped.
Even so did Birdalone, and this was the end of their talk, save broken
words of lamentation as they said farewell. And therewith for that while
they sundered.
CHAPTER XX. OF BIRDALONE AND THE SENDING BOAT.
BIRDALONE woke up in the morning, and arose and clad herself, and she saw
not the witch-wife in the chamber, though her bed looked as if it had
been slept in. Birdalone accounted little thereof, whereas the dame
would oft go on one errand or another much betimes in the morning. Yet
was she somewhat glad, for she was nowise wishful for a wrangle with her.
Withal, despite her valiancy, as may well be thought, she was all
a-flutter with hopes and fears, and must needs refrain her body from
overmuch quaking and restlessness if she might.
Now she mingled the tress of the wood-mother’s hair with her own hair,
but deemed it nought perilous to leave the ring yet sewn to her smock:
she set some deal of bread and flesh in her scrip, lest her voyage should
be long, and then all simply stepped over the threshold of the House of
her Captivity.
She went straight to the strand aforesaid, seeing nought of the
witch-wife by the way; and when she came there, was about to turn
straightway to her left hand down to the creek, when it came into her
mind that she would first swim over to Green Eyot for this last of times.
For the eyot indeed she loved, and deemed it her own, since never had her
evil dream, the witch, set foot thereon. Moreover, she said to herself
that the cool lake would allay the fever of her blood, and make her flesh
firmer and less timorous for the adventure. And again, that if the witch
should see her from afar, as she could scarce fail to do, she would deem
the maiden was about her wonted morning swimming, and would be the less
like to spy on her.
So now, when she had let her garments slip from off her on to the sand
close to the water’s edge, she stood a while, with her feet scarce
covered by the little ripple of the bight, to be a token of safety to her
mistress. To say sooth, now it was come so nigh to the deed, she shrank
aback a little, and was fain to dally with the time, and, if it might be,
thrust something of no import betwixt her and the terror of the last
moment.
Now she took the water, and rowed strongly with her lovely limbs till she
came to the eyot, and there she went aland, and visited every place which
had been kind to her; and kissed the trees and flowers that had solaced
her, and once more drew the birds and rabbits to sport with her; till
suddenly it came into her head that the time was wearing overfast. Then
she ran down to the water and plunged in, and swam over to the strand as
fast as she might, and came aland there, thinking of nothing less than
what had befallen.
For lo! when she looked around for her raiment and her scrip, it was
nowhere to be seen; straightway then it came into her mind, as in one
flash, that this was the witch’s work; that she had divined this deed of
the flight, and had watched her, and taken the occasion of her nakedness
and absence that she might draw her back to the House of Captivity. And
this the more as the precious ring was sewn to Birdalone’s smock, and the
witch would have found it there when she handled the raiment.
Birdalone wasted no time in seeking for the lost; she looked down on to
the smooth sand, and saw there footprints which were not her own, and all
those went straight back home to the house. Then she turned, and for one
moment of time looked up toward the house, and saw plainly the witch come
out adoors, and the sun flashed from something bright in her hand.
Then indeed she made no stay, but set off running at her swiftest along
the water-side toward the creek and the Sending Boat. As is aforesaid
she was as fleet-foot as a deer, so but in a little space of time she had
come to the creek, and leapt into the boat, panting and breathless. She
turned and looked hastily along the path her feet had just worn, and
deemed she saw a fluttering and flashing coming along it, but some way
off; yet was not sure, for her eyes were dizzy with the swiftness of her
flight and the hot sun and the hurry of her heart. Then she looked about
a moment confusedly, for she called to mind that in her nakedness she had
neither knife, nor scissors, nor bodkin to let her blood withal. But
even therewith close to hand she saw hanging down a stem of half-dead
briar-rose with big thorns upon it; she hastily tore off a length thereof
and scratched her left arm till the blood flowed, and stepped lightly
first to stem and then to stern, and besmeared them therewith. Then she
sat down on the thwart and cried aloud:
The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Then wake and awake
And the wonted way take!
The way of the Wender forth over the flood,
For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.
Scarce had she time to wonder if the boat would obey her spell ere it
began to stir beneath her, and then glided out into the lake and took its
way over the summer ripple, going betwixt Green Eyot and the mainland, as
if to weather the western ness of the eyot: and it went not a stonecast
from the shore of the said mainland.
Hither to meet it now cometh the witch, running along the bank, her
skirts flying wild about her, and a heavy short-sword gleaming in her
hand. Her furious running she stayed over against the boat, and cried
out in a voice broken for lack of breath:
Back over the flood
To the house by the wood!
Back unto thy rest
In the alder nest!
For the blood of the Sender lies warm on thy bow,
And the heart of the Wender is weary as now.
But she saw that the Sending Boat heeded her words nothing, whereas it
was not her blood that had awakened it, but Birdalone’s. Then cried out
the witch: O child, child! say the spell and come back to me! to me, who
have reared thee and loved thee and hoped in thee! O come back!
But how should Birdalone heed her prayer? She saw the sax; and withal
had her heart forgotten, her flesh might well remember. She sat still,
nor so much as turned her head toward the witch-wife.
Then came wild yelling words from the witch’s mouth, and she cried: Go
then, naked and outcast! Go then, naked fool! and come back hither after
thou hast been under the hands of the pitiless! Ah, it had been better
for thee had I slain thee! And therewith she whirled the sax over her
head and cast it at Birdalone. But now had the boat turned its head
toward the ness of Green Eyot and was swiftly departing, so that
Birdalone but half heard the last words of the witch-wife, and the sax
fell flashing into the water far astern.
There the witch stood tossing her arms and screaming, wordless; but no
more of her saw Birdalone, for the boat came round about the ness of
Green Eyot, and there lay the Great Water under the summer heavens all
wide and landless before her. And it was now noon of day.
* * * * *
Here ends the First Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called Of the House of Captivity. And now begins the Second Part, which
is called Of the Wondrous Isles.
THE SECOND PART: OF THE WONDROUS ISLES
CHAPTER I. THE FIRST ISLE.
SO glided Birdalone over the lake and was come forth from the House of
Captivity; it might well be that she was but swimming unto death; naked
as she was, fireless, foodless, and helpless, at the mercy of mere
sorcery. Yet she called to mind the word of the wood-mother that they
should meet again, and took heart thereby; and she was glad in that she
had had her will, and shaken off the guile and thraldom of the witch.
Much she thought of the wood-mother, and loved her, and wondered had she
yet sought into and seen her welfare by the burning of a hair of that
tress of hers; and therewith she looked on that tress of Habundia’s hair
and kissed it.
All day the Sending Boat sped on, and she saw no land and nought to tell
of. It was but wave and sky and the familiar fowl of the lake, as coot,
and mallard, and heron, and now and then a swift wood-dove going her ways
from shore to shore; two gerfalcons she saw also, an osprey, and a great
ern on his errand high up aloft.
Birdalone waked in her loneliness till the day was spent, and somewhat
worn of the night; then she fell asleep for weariness; but so it was,
that before dusk she had deemed that a blue cloud lay before her in the
offing which moved not.
She slept the short night through, and was awakened by the boat smiting
against something, and when her eyes opened she saw that she was come
aland and that the sun was just risen. She stood up, and for the first
minute wondered where she was, and she beheld her nakedness and knew not
what it meant; then she loosened her hair, and shook its abundance all
about her, and thereafter she turned her eyes on this new land and saw
that it was fair and goodly. The flowery grass came down to the very
water, and first was a fair meadow-land besprinkled with big ancient
trees; thence arose slopes of vineyard, and orchard and garden; and,
looking down on all, was a great White House, carven and glorious. A
little air of wind had awakened with the sunrise, and bore the garden
sweetness down to her; and warm it was after the chill of the wide water.
No other land could she see when she looked lakeward thence.
She stepped ashore, and stood ankle-deep in the sweet grass, and looked
about her for a while, and saw no shape of man astir. She was yet weary,
and stiff with abiding so long amongst the hard ribs of the boat, so she
laid herself down on the grass, and its softness solaced her; and
presently she fell asleep again.
CHAPTER II. BIRDALONE FALLETH IN WITH NEW FRIENDS.
WHEN she next awoke, the sun was not yet high, and the morning young, yet
she stood upon her feet much refreshed by that short slumber. She turned
toward the hill and the gay house, and saw one coming over the meadow to
her, a woman to wit, in a shining golden gown, and as she drew nigh
Birdalone could see that she was young and fair, tall, white-skinned and
hazel-eyed, with long red hair dancing all about her as she tripped
lightly and merrily over the greensward.
Now she comes up to Birdalone with wonder in her eyes, and greets her
kindly, and asked her of her name, and Birdalone told it all simply; and
the new-comer said: What errand hast thou hither, that thou art come thus
naked and alone in this ill-omened ferry? Birdalone trembled at her
words, though she spake kindly to her, and she said: It is a long story,
but fate drave me thereto, and misery, and I knew not whither I was
bound. But is there no welcome for me in this lovely land? I lack not
deftness wholly; and I will be a servant of servants, and ask no better
if it must be so. Said the new-comer: Unto that mayst thou come, but
sore will be thy servitude. I fear me thy welcome here may be but evil.
Said Birdalone: Wilt thou not tell me how so? Quoth that lady: We know
thy ferry here, that it is the craft wherein cometh hither now and again
the sister of our lady the Queen, into whose realm thou art now come, and
who liveth up in the white palace yonder, and whom we serve. And meseems
thou wilt not have come hither by her leave, or thou wouldst be in other
guise than this; so that belike thou wilt be the runaway of thy mistress.
Wherefore I fear that thou wilt be sent back to thy said mistress after a
while, and that that while will be grievous to thee, body and soul.
Birdalone’s heart sank, and she was pale and trembling; but she said: O
dear lady, might I then depart as I have come hither, without the wotting
of this Queen! after thou hast given me a morsel of bread, for I am
hungry. Said the gold-clad one, looking on her pitifully: Nay, maiden, I
cannot choose but bring thee before our mistress, whereas most like she
hath already seen thee from above there. For she is far-sighted beyond
the wont of folk who be more manlike. But as for the bread, see thou! I
have brought a manchet in my pouch, and cheese withal, as I came
hurrying; for I thought, she will be hungry. And she reached the victual
out to her. And Birdalone took it and kissed the golden lady’s hands,
and she might not refrain her tears, but wept as she ate.
Meanwhile the golden lady spake unto her and said: Nevertheless, thou
poor maiden, somewhat may be done for thine helping, and I will presently
speak to my sisters thereon, who are, both of them, wiser than I.
Sisters by blood are we not, but by love and fellowship. And I doubt not
but that as we go up into the house we shall happen upon them in the
garden. But now I look upon thee, how fair a woman art thou!
Thou art kind and friendly, said Birdalone, smiling amidst of her tears,
might I know by what name to call so dear a woman? Thou shalt call me
Aurea, said the other; and my next sister is Viridis, and the third,
Atra; for that is according to the hues of our raiment, and other names
we have not now. And lo! here cometh Viridis over the meadow.
Birdalone looked, and saw a woman coming toward them clad all in green,
with a rose-wreath on her head. And she drew nigh, and greeted Birdalone
kindly, and she also was a very beauteous woman; not great of body,
whereas Aurea was tall and big-made, though excellently shapen. Light
brown and goodly waved of hair was Viridis, her eyes brown, and rather
long than great; her lips full and ruddy, her cheeks soft and sweet and
smooth, and as rosy-tinted pearl; her hands small and delicate of
fashion; her whole body soft-shapen as an egg; a kind, wheedling look her
face bore.
When she had looked a while on Birdalone, she kissed her, and said: I
would thou wert happier, for thou art beauteous, and all but the evil
must love thee. Therewith she drew a cate from her pouch, and said: Eat
somewhat, for thou wilt be hungry; and let us go meet our other sister,
who is wiser than we.
So they went, all three of them, and came from off the meadow on to the
garden-slopes, and at the entry thereof was come Atra to meet them; she
was clad all in black, a tall, slim woman, with the grace of the
willow-bough in the wind, with dark plenteous hair and grey hawk-eyes;
her skin privet-white, with but little red in her cheeks. She also
greeted Birdalone kindly, but sadly withal. She gave her strawberries to
eat laid on a big kale-blade; and she said: Sisters, here are we hidden
by the trees, and cannot be seen from the house; therefore we may sit
here for a minute or two, while we talk together as to what may perchance
be done for the helping of this unhappy maiden, who is so fair and
lovely, and hath strayed into so ugly a trap. Then she said to
Birdalone: Thou must know, poor wanderer, that this Queen, our mistress,
who is sister to the Witch Under the Wood, is big and strong, well-made,
and white-skinned, so that she deems herself a Queen of all beauty:
keen-eyed is she to see a fly where others would see nought smaller than
a coney; fine-eared withal; wise in wizardry; not altogether dull-witted,
though she be proud, and crueller than the cruellest. But herein she
faileth, that her memory is of the shortest for matters of the passing
hour, albeit she remembers her spells and witch-songs over well. But
other matters will scarce abide in her head for four and twenty hours.
Wherefore, sisters, if we may keep this maiden out of her sight (after
she hath seen her and given doom upon her) till the dead of to-morrow
night, we may perchance do some good for her; and it is in my mind that
then she may do good for us also.
Now they rejoiced in this word of Atra the wise; and Atra prayed
Birdalone to tell them somewhat more of her story; and she told them
much; but, whyso it were, she said nought concerning the wood-wife, whose
outward semblance was the same as hers. Then they pitied her, and
caressed her; but Atra said: We must tarry here no more, but go straight
up to the lady, or maybe we shall lose all.
So they went their ways and came into the pleasance, and trod the sweet
greensward betwixt the garland flowers and the beauteous trees; which now
indeed, though Birdalone saw them all clear and over-clear, were become
nought to her. Those three also spake gently to her, and now and then
asked her somewhat, as if to show her that she was one of themselves; but
she spake not, or answered at random, and to say sooth scarce heard their
words: forsooth she was now become heart-sick, and was half dead for
fear; and her nakedness, which would have troubled her little across the
water, was now grown a shame and a terror unto her, and every deal of her
body quivered with the anguish thereof.
CHAPTER III. BIRDALONE IS BROUGHT BEFORE THE WITCH-WIFE’S SISTER.
SO came they at last to the very house, and whereas it stood high on the
bent, a great stair or perron of stone went up to it, and was of much
majesty. They went through the porch, which was pillared and lovely, and
into a great hall most nobly builded, and at the other end thereof, on a
golden throne raised upon a dais, sat a big woman clad in red scarlet.
The three damsels led Birdalone to some four paces of the great lady, and
then stood away from her, and left her standing there alone, the
scarlet-clad woman before her; on the right and the left the tall pillars
going up gleaming toward the roof, and about her feet the dark polished
pavement, with the wallowing of strange beasts and great serpents and
dragons all done on the coal-blue ground.
When she was so left alone, at first she tottered, and went nigh to
falling; but then came back some little heart to her, as she said to
herself that now she should verily die once for all, and that no long
while would be the passing from life into death. She looked up and
beheld the lady-witch, that she was somewhat like to her sister,
white-skinned and of plenteous golden-hair as was she, but younger of
aspect, and nowise so ill-looked as that other had now become; for
somewhat well-shapen of body she was; but her face forbidding; her lower
lip thrust out, her cheeks flaggy and drooping, her eyes little more than
half open; to be short, a face both proud, foolish, and cruel; terrible
indeed, sitting in judgment in that place on a shrinking naked creature.
Now she spake; and if there were no majesty or solemnity in the voice,
there was ugly glee and malice therein; but she said to those damsels: Is
this the woman that my keen eyes beheld come aland from my sister’s
Sending Boat e’en now? Aurea knelt on one knee, and said: Yea, so please
you, my lady.
Then said the witch: Ho thou! Wilt thou plead some errand hither from my
sister? Dost thou deem me so witless as not to know that if she had sent
thee hither thou wouldst not have come in this plight? Nay, I know; thou
hast stolen thyself from her: thou art a thief, and as a thief shalt thou
be dealt with.
Spake Birdalone in a clear voice: No errand do I feign from thy sister,
lady: when I could bear my life there no longer, I took occasion to flee
from her: this is all the tale. Yet once and again it hath been in my
mind that it was thy sister who stole me from them that loved me.
Hah, thrall! said the lady, thou art bold; thou art over-bold, thou naked
wretch, to bandy words with me. What heed I thy tale now thou art under
my hand? Her voice was cold rather than fierce, yet was there the poison
of malice therein. But Birdalone spake: If I be bold, lady, it is
because I see that I have come into the House of Death. The dying may
well be bold.
The House of Death! cried the stupid lady; and wilt thou call my noble
house the House of Death? Now art thou no longer bold, stripped thrall,
but impudent.
Scorn rose into Birdalone’s heart at this word, but she refrained her,
and spake: I meant that I have stirred the wrath in thee, and that thou
wilt slay me therefor; and that it availeth not to crave mercy of thee.
Laughed the lady: Thou art a fool, thrall, said she; if a sparrow fled
hither from my sister, I should not wring its neck, but keep it for her.
So shall I do with thee. I shall not slay thee, and so destroy my
sister’s chattel; nor shall I spoil thee, and spoil her possession. I
shall send thee back unto her, the stolen thrall in the stolen boat, when
I have learned thee a lesson here. Forsooth it was for that cause
meseemeth that she let thee slip through her fingers, for she is wise
enough to have stayed thee from this holiday had she willed it. But she
is tender-hearted, and kind, and soft, and might well deem that if thy
chastisement were done to her hand here, it were better done than by her
mercy. Now, thrall, I have spoken enough to thee, or more than enough:
get thee back out of earshot!
CHAPTER IV. OF THE WITCH’S PRISON IN THE WAILING-TOWER.
BIRDALONE did as she was bidden, and the witch called unto her Atra, who
came and stood humbly on the footpace beside her, and held converse with
her mistress a while. Then she went backward from her a little, and then
came to Birdalone, and in a somewhat harsh voice bade her come with her.
Birdalone followed her, quaking, and they came out of the hall and into a
long passage, which led to a wide stair winding round a newel; and all
was builded exceeding fair, had Birdalone’s heart suffered her eyes to
see it; but her flesh was weak, and quaked before the torment to come, so
that her knees well-nigh failed her.
But now Atra lays a hand kindly on her shoulder and stays her, and says:
Now meseems the walls of the Wailing-Tower, for so it hight, have no ears
to hear, and we may talk together. Wottest thou why I have brought thee
hither? Said Birdalone in a faint voice: Hast thou been bidden to whip
me? And if I had been so bidden, dear maiden, said Atra laughing, nowise
would I do it. Hold up thine heart! For all hath gone well so far, and
now meseems betwixt us three we shall save thee.
Birdalone’s spirit came back to her at that word, and she put her hands
to her face and fell a-weeping. But Atra was kind to her and made much
of her; and she kissed her and wiped her tears, and Birdalone smiled
again amidst her sobs, and she thanked Atra; who said to her: First of
all I must tell thee that I am taking thee to prison by the witch’s
bidding. Yea, said Birdalone, and what is prison? Said Atra: A prison
is a grim place where poor folk who have done that which pleaseth not
rich folk are shut up, that they may be grieved and tormented by not
being able to fare abroad, or go where they would; and by suffering
whatsoever their masters may lay upon them, as darkness, and cold, and
hunger, and stripes. Somewhat so, or worse, our lady would have it for
thee; but so would not we. Therefore for thee shall this prison be a
place where thou shalt be safe till we may bring thee forth when the
night hath worn towards its ending. For she will have forgotten thee by
to-morrow; and this she knoweth; wherefore just now, when thou stoodest
out of earshot, she was bidding me, amongst other matters, to bring thee
before her to-morrow morning, and tell her the tale of thee, that she
might call it to mind then what she had will to this morning.
Yea, said Birdalone, but will she not remember that she hath given thee a
charge concerning me? But little thereof, said Atra, and with a few
words I may easily confuse her memory so that speech thereon will fail
her. Keep up thine heart, sweetling; but let us up this stair now
forthwith, for I were fain to have thee hid away in this prison, and then
will I down to her and tell her that thou art lying therein in all misery
and terror, lest it come into her head to send for thee ere her memory is
grown dim.
Again did Birdalone take heart, and they hastened a long way up the
stair, till Atra stayed at last at a door all done with iron, endlong and
over-thwart. Then she took a leash of keys from her girdle, one big and
two little, and set the big one in the lock and turned it, and shoved the
heavy door and entered thereby a chamber four-square and vaulted; and the
vault was upheld by a pillar of red marble, wherein, somewhat higher than
a man’s head, were set stanchions of latten, that could be clasped and
unclasped. This chamber was in a way goodly, but yet grim to look on;
for the walls were all of black ashlar stone close-jointed, and the floor
black also, but of marble polished so wholly that it was as dark water,
and gave back the image of Birdalone’s dear feet and legs as she went
thereon. The windows were not small, and the chamber was light in every
corner because of them, but they were so high up under the vaulting that
none might see thereout aught save the heavens. There was nought in the
chamber save a narrow bench of oak and three stools of the same, a great
and stately carven chair dight with cushions of purple and gold, and in
one corner a big oaken coffer.
Now spake Atra: This is our lady’s prison, and I fear me we cannot make
it soft for thee, dear stranger. Yea, I must tell thee (and she reddened
therewith) that it is part of my charge to set thee in irons. Birdalone
smiled on her, and was over weary to ask what that meant, though she knew
not. But Atra went to the big coffer and opened it and thrust in her
hands, and there was a jangling therewith, and when she turned about to
Birdalone again she had iron chains in her hands, and she said: This
shameth me, dear friend; yet if thou wouldst wear them it might be well,
for she may have a mind to go visit her prison, and if she find thee
there unshackled she shall be wroth, and oftenest her wrath hath a whip
in its hand. And these are the lightest that I might find.
Birdalone smiled again, and spake not, for she was very weary, and Atra
did the irons on her wrists and her ankles; and said thereafter: Yet bear
in mind that it is a friend that hath the key of these things. And now I
will go away for a little, but I shall be on thine errands; for first I
shall tell the mistress that thou art lying here shackled and in all
wanhope; and next, by the will and command of her, I am to see that thou
be well fed and nourished to-day that thou mayst be the stronger for
to-morrow. Now if I may give thee rede, it is that thou forbear to open
the coffer yonder; for ugly things shalt thou find there, and that may
dishearten thee again.
Therewith she kissed her kindly on the cheek and went her ways, and the
great key turned in the lock behind her.
There then was Birdalone left to herself; and she was over weary even to
weep; true it is that she made a step or two towards the coffer, but
reframed her, and took two of the pillows from the great chair and turned
aside into the other corner, her chains jingling as she went. There she
laid herself down, and nestled into the very wall-nook, and presently
fell asleep, and slumbered dreamlessly and sweetly a long while.
CHAPTER V. THEY FEAST IN THE WITCH’S PRISON.
BIRDALONE was awakened by the sound of the key in the lock, and the door
opened, and there was Atra bearing dishes and platters, and behind her
Viridis with the like gear, and beakers and a flagon to boot, and both
they were smiling and merry.
Birdalone’s heart leapt up to meet them, and in especial was she
gladdened by the coming of Viridis, who had seemed to be the kindest of
them all.
Viridis spake: Now is come the meat for the dear sister, and it is time,
for surely thou art famished, and it is now long past high noon. Do off
her irons, Atra. Said Atra: Maybe it were well to let the fetters abide
on her ankles, lest the mistress should come; but for the wrists, reach
out thine hands, wayfarer. So did Birdalone, and Atra laid her things on
the ground, and unlocked the hand-shackles, and did them off: and
meanwhile Viridis spread forth the banquet, partly on the floor, and
partly on that ill-omened coffer. Then she went up to Birdalone and
kissed her, and said: Now shalt thou sit in our lady’s throne, and we
shall serve thee, and thou shalt deem thee a great one.
Nought else would they have, and Birdalone laid her nakedness on the
purple cushions, and then they fell all three to the feast. The victual
was both plenteous and dainty, of venison and fowl, and cream and fruits
and sweetmeats, and good wine they had withal: never had Birdalone
feasted in like manner, and the heart came back unto her, and her cheeks
grew rosy and her eyes glittered. But she said: How if your lady were to
come upon us here, and we so merry? Said Atra: Out of the chair must
thou when thou hearest the key in the lock, and then is all well, and she
would have nought against us; for she herself bade us, and me in special,
to keep thee company here, and talk with thee; and Aurea also would have
been here, but that she is serving the lady as now. Hath she then some
pity on me, said Birdalone, that she hath bidden thee do by me what is
most to my pleasure?
Laughed Viridis thereat, and Atra said: She hath no pity, nor ever shall
have; but so hard of heart is she, that she may not deem that we could
love thee, a stranger, and unhappy, who can serve us in nowise; so she
feareth not the abatement of thy grief from any compassion of us. Rather
she hath sent us, and me in especial, not to comfort thee, but to grieve
thee by words; for she biddeth me tell thee fair tales, forsooth, of what
to-morrow shall be to thee, and the day after; and of how she shall begin
on thee, and what shall follow the beginning, and what thou mayst look
for after that. For by all this she deemeth to lower thy pride and abate
thy valour, and to make every moment of to-day a terror to thy flesh and
thy soul, so that thereby thou mayest thole the bitterness twice over.
Such is her pity for thee! And yet belike this cruelty hath saved thee,
for but for that she had not refrained her from thee to-day, and
to-morrow thou shalt be far away from her.
Meanwhile, said Viridis, in her soft sweet voice, none of all these
things will we talk over with thee, but things comfortable and kind; and
we will tell each to each of our story. Will we not, Atra? Yea, verily,
said she.
Birdalone looked upon them and said: Wondrous is your compassion and
loving-kindness unto me, and scarce do I know how to bear the burden
thereof. But tell me one thing truly; will ye not suffer in my place
when this witch cometh to know that ye have stolen me away from her?
Nay, said Atra, I have told thee that by to-morrow she will have
altogether, or at least almost, forgotten thee and thy coming hither.
Moreover, she is foreseeing, and hath come to know that if she raise a
hand against any of us three, it will lead her to her bane, save it be
for heavy guilt clearly proven against us. Forsooth, in the earlier days
of our captivity such a guilt we fell into, and did not wholly escape, as
Viridis can bear me witness. But we are now grown wiser, and know our
mistress better, and will give her no such joy.
Viridis cast her eyes down at those words and Atra’s smile, and turned
red and then pale, and Birdalone looked on her wondering what ailed her;
then she said: Do ye sisters work in the field and the garden? I mean at
milking the kine and the goats, and digging the earth, and sowing and
reaping, and the like. Nay, said Atra; either our mistress or someone
else who is of marvellous might, hath so ordained, that here everything
waxeth of itself without tillage, or sowing or reaping, or any kind of
tending; and whatso we need of other matters the mistress taketh it for
us from out of her Wonder-coffer, or suffereth us to take it for
ourselves. For thou must know that this land is one of the Isles of the
Lake, and is called the Isle of Increase Unsought.
Meseemeth then, said Birdalone, were the mistress of you to gainsay you
the gifts of the Wonder-coffer, ye were undone. Yea, verily, said Atra;
then would be but the fruits of the earth and the wild creatures for our
avail, and these, we have not learned how to turn them into dinner and
supper. And they all laughed thereat; but Birdalone said: See ye then
how I was right to offer myself unto you as a servant, for in all matters
of the house and the byre and the field have I skill. But since ye would
not or could not have me, I wonder not that ye be ill at ease here, and
long to be gone, for as plenteous and lovely as the isle is, and though
ye live here without present mishandling or pining. For, sooth to say,
ye have over you a tyrant and a fool.
Viridis answered: Yet is there something else, dear friend, that whets
our longing to depart. Tell her thereof, Atra.
Atra smiled and said: Simple it is: there are they who long for us and
for whom we long, and we would be together. Said Birdalone: Be these
kinsfolk of yours, as fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, or the like?
Reddened Viridis again; but Atra spake, and she also blushed somewhat,
though she smiled: Those whom we love, and who love us, be not queans,
but carles; neither be they of our blood, but aliens, till love
overcometh them and causeth them to long to be of one flesh with us; and
their longing is beyond measure, and they desire our bodies, which they
deem far fairer than belike they be. And they would bed us, and beget
children on us. And all this we let them do with a good will, because we
love them for their might, and their truth, and the hotness of their love
toward us.
Looked up Viridis thereat, and her eyes gleamed amidst the flushing of
her cheeks, and she said: Sister, sister! even in such wise, and no
other, as they desire us do we desire them; it is no mere good will
toward them from us, but longing and hot love.
Now must Atra blush no less than Viridis; yet she but said: I have told
thee hereof, Birdalone, because I deem that thou hast lived simply and
without the sight of men; but it is what all know in the world of the
sons of Adam. Said Birdalone: Thou sayest sooth concerning me. Yet
about this love have I learned somewhat even ere to-day, and now, as ye
speak and I, meseems the lore of it comes pouring in on me and fills my
heart with its sweetness. And O, to have such love from any, and with
such love to be loved withal!
Dear sister, said little Viridis, fear not; such as thou shall not fail
of the love of some man whom thou must needs love. Is it not so, sister
Atra? Said Atra: Yea; such love shall come unto her as surely as death.
They were silent now a little, and it was as if some sweet incense had
been burned within the chamber. For Birdalone the colour came and went
in her cheeks, her flesh quaked, her heart beat quick, and she was
oppressed by the sweetness of longing. More daintily she moved her
limbs, and laid foot to foot and felt the sleekness of her sides; and
tender she was of her body as of that which should one day be so sorely
loved.
Now she spake timidly to the others, and said: Each one of you then has a
man who loves her, and longs for her and for none else? So it is, said
Viridis. How sweet that shall be! said Birdalone; and now all the more I
wonder that ye could trouble yourselves over me, or think of me once; and
the kinder I think it of you.
Said Atra smiling on her: Nay, now must the cat be out of the bag, and I
must tell thee that thou art to think of us as chapmen who with our
kindness would buy something of thee, to wit, that thou wouldst do an
errand for us to those three lovers of ours. Surely, said Birdalone, it
were a little payment to set against your saving of my life and my soul;
and had I to go barefoot over red gleeds I would do it. And yet, if I
may go hence to your lovers, why not all three of you along with me?
Said Atra: For this reason; thy ferry, the Sending Boat, wherein ye came
hither, is even somewhat akin to thy mistress and ours; and the mistress
here hath banned it against bearing us; and now, were we so much as to
touch it, such sore turmoil would arise, and such hideous noise as if
earth and heaven were falling together; and the lady would be on us
straightway, and we should be undone; and, as thou shalt hear presently,
this hath been proved. But thou, thou art free of the said ferry.
Forsooth I wot not why thy mistress banned it not against thee; maybe
because she deemed not that thou wouldst dare to use it or even go anigh
it.
Birdalone considered, and thought that even so it was; that the witch
deemed that she would not dare use the Sending Boat, nor know how to,
even if she came upon it, and that if she did so find it, she would
sicken her of the road thereto. So now she told her friends the whole
tale thereof more closely than she had afore, save again what pertained
to Habundia; withal she told every word of what her mistress had said to
her at that time when she changed her into a hind. And Viridis heard and
wondered, and pitied her. But Atra sat somewhat downcast a while. Then
she said: However this may be, we will send thee forth to-morrow in the
dawn, and take the risk of what may befall thereafter; and thou shalt
bear a token for each of those three that love us. For we deem that they
have not forgotten aught, but are still seeking us.
Birdalone said: Whatsoever ye bid me; that will I do, and deem me your
debtor still. But now I pray you, pleasure a poor captive somewhat more.
Wherein? said they both; we be all ready thereto. Said the maiden: Would
ye do so much as to tell me the tale of how ye came hither, and then how
it hath been with you from your first coming until now? With a good
will, said Atra; hearken!
CHAPTER VI. ATRA TELLS OF HOW THEY THREE CAME UNTO THE ISLE OF INCREASE
UNSOUGHT.
WE were born and bred in the land that lies south-west along this Great
Water, and we waxed happily, and became fellows when we were yet but
children, and thus grew up dear friends into maidenhood and womanhood.
We were wooed by many men, but our hearts turned to none of them save
unto three, who were goodly, kind, and valiant; and thou mayst call them
the Golden Knight, who is Aurea’s man; the Green Knight, who is man of
Viridis; and my man, the Black Squire. But in this was unhap, that
because of certain feuds which had endured from old time, this love was
perilous unto them and us; so that we lived in doubt and unrest.
Came a day, now three years ago, when the king of the whole land brought
his folk into our lakeside country, and there held a court and a mote in
a fair great meadow anigh to the water. But even as the mote was
hallowed, and the Peace of God proclaimed at the blast of the war-horn,
came we three woeful ladies clad in black and knelt before the lord king,
and prayed him hearken us. And he deemed that we were fair, so he had
compassion on us, and raised us up, and bade us speak.
So we told our tale, how that strife and wounds and death stood betwixt
us and love; and we wept, and bewailed it, that our love must be slain
because men were wroth with each other and not with us.
The king looked on us kindly, and said: Who be the swains for whom these
lovely damsels make such a piece of work? So we named them, and said
that they were there in the mote; and the king knew them for valiant men
who had done him good service; and he cried out their names, and bade
them stand forth out of the throng. So forth they stood, the Golden
Knight, the Green Knight, and the Black Squire (and he also was now a
knight); but now were they all three clad in black, and they were
unarmed, save for their swords girt to their sides, without which no man
amongst us may come to the mote, be he baron or earl or duke, or the very
lord king himself.
So the king looked upon us and them, and laughed and said: Fair ladies,
ye have got me by the nose, so needs must my body follow. Do ye three
knights, whom I know for valiant men and true, take each his love by the
hand, and let the weddings be to-morrow. Who then were joyful but us?
But even at the word the king spake arose great turmoil in the mote, for
they smote the feud and contention awake, and men thronged forward
against each other, and swords were drawn and brandished. But the king
arose in his place and spake long and deftly, and waxed exceeding wroth,
while none heeded him nor hearkened. And there stood our three men, who
laid no hand to hilt, but abode heart-whole by seeming amid the tumult.
And lovely they were to look on. At last the wise men and old barons
went between, and by fair words appeased the trouble, and the mote grew
hushed. Then spake the king: What is this, my thanes? I had deemed that
my foemen were far away, and that ye that here are were all friends unto
me and unto each other. But now must we try another rede. Therewith he
turned unto our men and said: Ye champions, are ye so much in love with
Love that ye will fight for him? They all yeasaid that, and then the
king said: Then do I declare that these three will hold the field against
all comers from matins till high noon, and that he who vanquisheth any
one of them shall have his lady and wed her if he will, and, if he will,
shall ransom her. And this field shall be foughten after two months’
frist in these fair meadows, when I return from the outermost marches of
the south, whereto I am now wending. But when the battle is done, then
let all men bow to the judgment of God, whether he be well content or
not, and this on peril of life and limb. And now let there be deep peace
between all men meanwhile; and if any break the peace, be he high or low,
rich or unrich, churl or earl, I swear it by the souls of my fathers that
he shall lose nought save his life therefor.
At these words was there a rumour of yeasay, and all men were content,
save we three poor maidens, into whose hearts had now entered fear of
loss and death.
But our kindreds on both sides were glad and proud, and they were not so
bitter against us as they had been; they put hand to pouch, and let rear
for us a fair pavilion of painted timber, all hung with silk and pictured
cloths and Saracen tapestry, by the very lake-side; and gay boats gaily
bedight lay off the said pavilion for our pleasure; and when all was
done, it yet lacked a half month of the day of battle, and thither were
we brought in triumph by the kindreds on a fair day of May, and there was
not a sword or a spear amongst the whole company, and peaceful and merry
was all by seeming. But we were not suffered to meet our lovers all this
while, from the time when the mote was.
Now on a day came a messenger on the spur, and did us to wit that the
king would be with us on the morrow, and that the day after, the fateful
field should be foughten. Then, though the coming of this day had been
so longed for by us, yet now it was at hand it cast us into all unrest
and trouble, so that we scarce knew whether to go, or stand, or sit, or
what to do with our bodies. Our folk, and all other men withal, were so
busy making ready for the morrow of to-morrow, that they left us alone to
wear through the day as we might.
Now it was afternoon, and the day hot and hazy, and we stood on the very
lip of the land wearied with hope and fear, and striving to keep good
countenance to each other; and there came a boat unto the shore gaily
painted and gilded, and bedight with silken cloths and cushions; and the
steerer thereof was a woman, not young, by seeming of fifty winters;
red-haired she was, thin-lipped and narrow-eyed, flat-breasted and
strait-hipped; an ungoodly woman, though her skin was white and smooth as
for her age. Hast thou ever seen such an one, guest? Said Birdalone,
smiling: Forsooth that have I; for such an one is my mistress to behold.
Well, said Atra, this dame stretched out her hands to us, and said: Will
not the pretty ladies, the dear ladies, who have nought on hand this
afternoon, come into my boat and look on the face of the water, so calm
and fair as it is, and let their lovely hands go over the gunwale and
play with the ripple, and so beguile this heavy time for a two hours; and
then give a little gift of a piece or two of silver to a poor carline,
who loveth all fair ladies and bright warriors, and who needeth a little
livelihood?
Now the woman seemed nought lovely unto us, and to me forsooth she seemed
hateful; but we looked on each other, and we found that we were utterly
weary of going up and down on the meadow, and lying about in the
pavilion, and it seemed as if this would give us a little rest; withal we
saw not that the woman could do us any hurt, whereas we were three, and
strong enough as women go; nor were we mariners so evil but that we might
sail or steer a boat at a pinch. So we stepped into the boat
straightway, and the woman sat aft and paddled deftly with the steering
oar, and we glided away from the land.
Soon we were come so far that we could but just see our pavilion through
the haze, which had somewhat thickened, and we said to the woman that she
should go about and make for the shore, and that then we would go to and
fro a while along by our stead. She nodded yeasay, and began by seeming
to dight the craft for return. But therewith the haze was grown suddenly
into a low cloud, which came down upon us from the south-west in the arms
of a cold breeze, that grew stronger every minute, so no wonder it was
though the steerer might not keep head to wind; and then who was afraid
and ashamed save ourselves?
But the woman said, and there seemed to be a mock in her voice: Ill luck,
pretty ladies! Now is there nought for it but to drive, if we would not
drown. But belike this duskiness will clear presently, and then at least
we shall know whither we be going; and we may either turn back, or seek
some other shelter, for I know the lake well; I know, I know.
We were too terror-stricken to speak, for we felt that still the wind
grew stronger, and the lake began to rise into waves, and the craft to
wallow; but well-nigh therewith was the dusk and the mist gone; the sky
was bright blue overhead, and the westering sun shone cloudless; but on
no land it shone, or on aught save the blue waters and the white
wave-crests.
Then wept Aurea, and this Viridis here, but as to me, I grew wroth and
cried out to the steerer: Accursed carline! thou hast betrayed us; never
now may we get back to our pavilion till the fight is foughten, and our
lovers will deem that we have forsaken them, and we are shamed for ever.
Well, well, said the carline, what remedy save patience for the winds and
waves? And she laughed mockingly. Quoth I: There is this remedy, that
we three arise and lay hands on thee, and cast thee outboard, save thou
straightway turn the boat’s head and back to the main. Forsooth I doubt
not but that as thou hast raised this foul wind against us, thou canst
raise a fair wind for us.
Hearken to the lovely lady! quoth the carline, how she deemeth me to be
none other than the great God himself, to hold the winds in the hollow of
my hand, and still the waves with a word! What! am I wrought somewhat
after his image, kind ladies? And she grinned horribly therewith. Then
she said again: As to thy remedy, sweetling, meseemeth it nought. For
how shall ye sail this stormy water when your captain is gone, and ye but
holiday sailors belike?
As she spake, a great wave came up from the windward, and brake over us,
and half filled the craft, and lifted her bows up towering, and then down
we went into the trough; and I sat cowed and quaking, and spake never
another word.
Now began the sun to sink, and the wind abated, and the sea went down,
but the boat sped on as swift as ever over the landless waters.
Now the sun was down, and dusk was at hand, and the carline spake, and
drew a bright-gleaming sax from under her raiment: Damsels, I warn you
that now it were best that ye obey me in all things; for though ye be
three and I one, yet whereas I have here an edge-friend, I may take the
life of any one of you, or of all three, as simply as I could cut a
lamb’s throat. Moreover it will serve you better in the house whereto ye
are wending, that I make a good tale of you rather than a bad. For the
mistress of that house is of all might; and I must say it of her, though
she is my very sister, yet she is not so sweet-tempered and kind of heart
as I am, but somewhat rough and unyielding of mood, so that it is best to
please her. Wherefore, maidens, I rede you be sage.
Our unhappy hearts were now so sunken in wan-hope, that we had no word
wherewith to answer her, and she spake: Now obey ye my bidding and eat
and drink, that ye may come hale and sound to your journey’s end, for I
would not give starvelings to my dear sister. Therewith she brought
forth victual for us, and that nought evil, of flesh and bread, and
cheese and cakes, and good wine withal; and we were hunger-weary as well
as sorrow-weary; and hunger did at that moment overcome sorrow, so we ate
and drank, and, would we, would we not, something of heart came back to
us thereby. Then again spake the carline: Now my will is that ye sleep;
and ye have cushions and cloths enough to dight you a fair bed; and this
bidding is easy for you to obey. Forsooth, so weary were we with sorrow,
and our hunger was now quenched, that we laid us down and slept at once,
and forgat our troubles.
When we awoke it was after the first dawn, and we were come aland even
where thou didst this morning, guest. And thou mayst deem it wondrous,
but so it was, that close to where our boat took land lay the ferry which
brought thee hither.
Now the carline bade us get ashore, and we did so, and found the land
wondrous fair, little as that solaced us then. But she said unto us:
Hearken! now are ye come home; and long shall ye dwell here, for never
shall ye depart hence save by the will of my sister and me, wherefore,
once more, I rede you be good, for it will be better for you. Go forth
now unto yonder house, and on the way ye shall meet the Queen of this
land, and ye have nought to do but to say to her that ye are the Gift;
and then shall she see to your matter.
Therewith she gat into her own craft, the Sending Boat, and therein did
the deed and spake the words ye wot of, and was gone north-away; and when
we turned to seek for our boat wherein we had come hither, it was gone.
We stood miserably for a while on the lip of the land, and then I said
that we might as well go meet our fate as die there of grief and hunger.
So we went, and came into those fair gardens, and as we went slowly up
toward the house came on us a woman clad in red scarlet and grandly
dight. A big woman she was, and like to her that beguiled us, but far
younger and fairer of favour, foolish and proud of visage. She stared on
us, and seemed half afeard of us at first, but asked us what we were, and
I answered that we were the Gift. The Gift? said she, what meaneth that?
Will ye obey me in all things? If ye gainsay it, ye will perish, unless
ye can eat grass; for on this isle everything cometh from my hand.
What might we do? We all knelt down before her, and swore to do her
will. Then she said, after she had stared on us a while: Now I know: ye
are they of whom my sister spake, that she would fetch me a gift of a
leash of damsels for my service. Now I take the Gift and thank her good
heart. But if ye would do my will, then . . . But she broke off here
and stared at us a long while, and then she said: Now I know; she bade me
treat you well, and hold my hand from you, or evil would come of it,
belike at last my bane. So go ye home to the house, and I will give you
meat and drink, and show you my stores and the Wonder-coffer, and ye
shall serve me in honour.
Even so did we; and we ate and drank and rested, and nought we lacked,
save leave to depart home to our lovers, and some mistress better than
this stupid and proud lump of flesh. But the next morning when we came
before the lady, she knew nought of what we were; and again we had to
tell her that we were the Gift, and again she glared at us balefully, and
again she called to mind her sister and her rede concerning us. And this
went on for many days, till at last she got to know what we were; and she
followed her sister’s rede in that she never mishandled us, though we
could see that it irked her to forbear, nor did she speak to us more
roughly than her fool’s wont was; and we had in our hands all that was
needed for our sustenance, and lived easily enough.
Now our coming hither betid three years ago, and a month thereafter comes
thy witch hither in her ferry, and she greeted us when we met, and asked
us, grinning, had she not been kind to win us such good days? Yea, and
over kind, said she, ye would deem me, knew ye what would have betid you
save for my good word. Forsooth we deemed it no kind deed to steal us
from our lovers; but we kept good tongues in our heads, for thralls must
needs kiss the rod.
She went away in two days, but came again many times thereafter, till we
won the secret of the Sending Boat, and her spell therewith; but we knew
not that was banned against us. Wherefore on a day in the grey of the
morning, when we had been on this isle somewhat less than a year, we went
down to it and stepped in, and reddened stem and stern and said the
spell-words. But straightway arose an hideous braying and clatter, and
thunder came therewith, and trembling of the earth, and the waters of the
lake arose in huge waves; nor might we move from our seats in the boat
till the two witches came running down to us, and haled us out ashore,
and had us up into the house, and into this very prison-chamber, wherein
we are now sitting so merry. And here we bore what was laid upon us,
whereof, dear guest, we shall tell thee nought. But this came of it,
that never thereafter durst we try the adventure of the Sending Boat, but
have lived on in lazy sorrow and shameful ease, till thou, dear guest and
sister, wert sent hither by heaven for our helping.
Now what became of the king’s court, and the hazelled field of our
champions, we wot not, or whether they be yet alive we cannot tell thee;
but if they be alive, it is to them that we would have thee do our
errand, and thereof will we tell thee closely to-morrow. And so,
sweetling, an end of my tale.
CHAPTER VII. THE THREE DAMSELS TAKE BIRDALONE OUT OF THE WITCH’S PRISON.
BIRDALONE thanked Atra much for her tale, and strange it was to her to
hear of such new things and the deeds of folk; but the dealing of the
witches with those three was familiar to her and was of her world.
Now they talked merrily, till there came a footstep to the door and one
without knocked. Viridis paled thereat, and a pang of fear smote
Birdalone, and she swiftly got from out the chair and sat down on a
stool; but when Atra opened, it was but Aurea come from her service to
bid Atra take her place. So she went, and again was there pleasant
converse betwixt Aurea and the other twain; and certain matters did Aurea
tell Birdalone which had been left untold by Atra. And chiefly, when
Birdalone asked if any other folk had come into the isle while they dwelt
there, she said yea; once had come a knight with a lady, his love,
fleeing from war and mishap, and these had the witch overcome by
wizardry, and destroyed them miserably: and that again another had
strayed thither, and him also the witch undid, because he would not do
her will and lie in her bed. Withal had come drifting there a young
damsel, a castaway of the winds and waves; her the witch kept as a
thrall, and after a while took to mishandling her so sorely, that at
last, what for shame and what for weariness of life, she cast herself
into the water and was drowned. None of these folk might the damsels
help so as to do them any good, though they tried it, and went nigh to
suffer therefor themselves.
Now the day wore, and in a while Atra came back, and Viridis must serve.
At last the dusk and the dark was come. Then said Atra: Now must we
twain begone to wait upon our lady, as the wont is: and that is now for
our good hap, for if we be with her all three, and especially, to say
sooth, if I be with her, we may well keep her from visiting thee here;
since belike she shall yet dimly remember that thou art in her prison.
Therefore thou must forgive it if I shackle thy wrists again. And now if
thou wilt follow my rede, thou shalt try to sleep some deal, and it were
well if thou might’st sleep till we come for thee in the grey dawn.
Therewith they left her there, and she nestled in the corner once more,
and there did verily fall asleep, and slept till the key in the lock and
the opening door awakened her, and Atra came stealing soft-footed into
the prison. Eager she was and panting, and she kneeled before Birdalone
and unlocked her leg-shackles, and then stood up and did the like by the
irons on her wrists. Then she said: Look up, dear friend, to thy prison
windows, and behold the dawn beginning to break on the day of thy
deliverance, and ours maybe. But come now at once: and again, wilt thou
pardon me, that we clothe thee not here for thy journey? For from our
own bodies must we clothe thee, and if by any hap our lady were to see
any one of us more or less unclad, it might draw her on to see what was
toward, and we might yet be found out, for our undoing.
Therewith she took her hand, and led her forth of the prison, and locked
the door behind her; and then downstairs they went, and out-a-doors by a
little wicket at the stair-end. The dawn drew on apace now, and
Birdalone saw at once the other twain lurking in the wall-nook hard by.
No word was spoken between them, and with noiseless feet they went forth
into the orchard, where the blackbirds and thrushes were beginning their
first morning song, and ere they came out on to the meadow the full choir
of them was a-singing.
CHAPTER VIII. IN WHAT WISE BIRDALONE WAS CLAD, AND HOW SHE WENT HER WAYS
FROM THE ISLE OF INCREASE UNSOUGHT.
WHEN they were all clear of the orchard trees the three damsels kept
Birdalone between them closely, so that her white body should not be seen
if the lady were awake and looking forth. Thus they brought her to where
a few thorn-bushes made a cover for them close to the water’s edge, some
twenty yards from the Sending Boat. There they stood together, and Atra
said:
Now, dear guest, and dearest messenger, it is our matter to clothe thee
from our very bodies; and do thou, Viridis, begin.
Viridis came forward blushing, as her wont was, and took off her green
gown and laid it on the grass; then she set her hand to her smock, and
did it off, and stood naked, knee set to knee, and swaying like the
willow branch; and then was seen all the dainty fashion of her body, and
how lovely of hue and sweet of flesh she was.
But she said: Dear sister Birdalone, here is my smock, which I lend thee,
but as to my love, I give it thee therewith; therefore grudge it not,
though thou give me back the linen, for happy will be the day to me when
I have it again; for now none may do it on me save the Green Knight, my
own love. Therewith she gave her the smock, and kissed her, and
Birdalone did it on, and felt the valianter and mightier when she had a
garment upon her.
Then Aurea did off her golden gown, and stood in smock alone, so that her
naked arms shone more precious than the golden sleeves that had covered
them. And she spake: Birdalone, dear messenger, take now my golden gown,
and send it back to me when thou hast found the man unto whom it is due;
and think meanwhile that, when thou wearest it, thou wearest my love, and
that when thou pullest it off, thou art clad with my love instead of it.
So Birdalone did on the gown, and became to look on as the daintiest of
the queens of the earth; and she turned her head about to look on her
gold-clad flanks, and wondered.
Thereafter Atra knit up her skirts into her girdle, and then did off her
shoon, so that her slim feet shone like pearls on the green grass; and
she said:
Birdalone, sweet friend! wilt thou be my messenger to bear these shoon to
my Black Squire, and meanwhile put my love for thee under thy feet, to
speed thee and to bear thee up? Wherefore be good to me.
Birdalone then shod herself, and though pity it were to hide her feet
from the eyes of Earth, yet felt she the stouter-hearted thereby, and her
cheeks flushed and her eyes brightened.
Thereafter Aurea gave her withal a golden collar for the neck, and
Viridis a girdle of silver well-wrought, and Atra a gold finger-ring set
with a sapphire stone; and all these she did on her; but yet she knew
that they were tokens to be delivered to the three lovers according as
was due.
Then spake Atra: Lo, sister, we pray thee to bear these lendings on thy
body in such wise that when thou comest to the mainland they may be seen
by knights seeking adventures, and that thou mayst answer to any who may
challenge thee thereof and say that thou bearest this raiment and these
jewels from Aurea and Viridis and Atra to Baudoin the Golden Knight, and
to Hugh the Green Knight, and to Arthur the Black Squire. And if thou
deem that thou hast found these, then shall they tell thee a token, such
as we shall tell thee, that they be truly these and none other; and
thereafter, when thou art made sure, they shall take of thee the raiment,
the gems, and the Sending Boat, and come hither if they may. And God
look to the rest! But as for the token to be told aforesaid, we have
determined that each of us shall tell thee privily what question thou
shalt ask for her, and what answer thou must look for.
When she had done speaking, each came up to Birdalone and spake something
into her ear amidst blushes enough forsooth. And what they said will be
seen hereafter. Then again said Atra: Now by this errand shall we be
well paid for the care we have had of thee. It may be, forsooth, that
thou shalt not find our speech-friends; for they may be dead, or they may
deem us untrue, and may have forsaken us and their land; and in any such
case thou art free of our errand; but whatsoever may betide us, God speed
thee!
Then Viridis drew forth a basket from under a bush, and said: We know not
how long thy voyage may be, but some little provision for the way we may
at least give thee: now wilt thou bear this aboard thyself; for we dare
not touch thy craft, nay, nor come nigh it, no one of us. And she set
down the basket and cast her arms about her, and kissed her and wept over
her; and the other twain, they also kissed her lovingly. Birdalone wept
even as Viridis, and said: May ye do well, who have been so kind to me;
but now am I both so glad and so sorry, that the voice of me will not
make due words for me. O farewell!
Therewith she took up her basket, and turned and went speedily to the
Sending Boat; and they beheld her how she stepped aboard and bared her
arm, and drew blood from it with the pin of her girdle-buckle, and
therewith reddened stem and stern; and a pang of fear smote into their
hearts lest their lady had banned it for Birdalone as for them. But
Birdalone sat down on the thwart, and turned her face south, and spake:
The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Awake then, awake!
And the southward way take:
The way of the Wender forth over the flood,
For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.
No cloud barred the gateway of the sun as she spoke; no wave rose upon
the bosom of the lake; no clatter nor tumult was there; but the Sending
Boat stirred, and then shot out swiftly into the wide water; and the sun
arose as they looked, and his path of light flashed on Birdalone’s golden
gown for a moment, and then it grew grey again, and presently she was
gone from before their eyes.
So they turned up into the orchard: and now was Viridis of good cheer,
and Aurea no less; but Atra lagged behind, and as she went, some passion
took her, she knew not wherefore; her bosom swelled, her shoulders heaved
therewith, and she wept.
CHAPTER IX. HOW BIRDALONE CAME TO THE ISLE OF THE YOUNG AND THE OLD.
ALL went well with Birdalone when she had left the Isle of Increase
Unsought, much as it had on her first voyage, save that now she was both
clad and victualled, and her heart, if yet it harboured fear, was also
full of new and strange hope; and oft, even as she sat there amidst the
waste of waters, she wondered what new longing this was which wrought so
sweet a pain in her, that it made her cheeks burn, and her eyes dim, and
her hands and her limbs restless. And then would she set her mind to her
friends and their errand, and would hope and pray for them; but again
would she fall to picture to herself what manner of men they were who
were so sore longed for by those three beauteous women; and she deemed
that since they were thus desired, they must be fairer even than her
friends of the isle; and again the nameless longing overtook her, and
held her till it wearied her into sleep.
When she awoke again the boat had stayed, and she was come aland; but the
dawn was not yet come, and the night was moonless, yet was there light
enough to see, from the water and the stars, that the bows of the boat
were lying safe on a little sandy beach. So she stepped out and looked
around, and deemed she could see great trees before her, and imagined
also dark masses of she knew not what. So she walked warily up the said
strand till she came on to soft grass, and smelled the scent of the
clover as her foot-soles crushed it. There she sat down, and presently
lay along and went to sleep.
After a while she awoke, and felt happy and well at ease, and had no will
to move: the sun was shining brightly, but had not been up long: the song
of birds was all about her, but amidst it she deemed she heard some
speech of man, though it were not like to what she had heard in her life
before. So she raised herself on her elbow, and looked up and saw a new
thing, and sat up now, and beheld and wondered.
For there stood before her, gazing wide-eyed on her, two little children,
some three winters of age, a man and a woman as it seemed. The man-child
with light and fine white-golden hair, falling straight down and square
over his brow, and blue-grey eyes which were both kind and merry, and
shyly seeking as it were. Plump and rosy he was, sturdy and
stout-limbed. No less fair was the woman; her hair golden-brown, as oft
it is with children who grow up dark-haired, and curling in fair little
rings all over her head; her eyes were big and dark grey; she was thinner
than the lad, and somewhat taller.
These two babes had between them a milk-white she-goat, and had been
playing with her, and now she turned her head to this and that one of
them, bleating, as if to crave more of the game; but they had no eyes for
her, but stood staring with might and main on the new-comer and her
shining golden gown.
Birdalone laughed with joy when she saw the little ones, and a dim memory
of the days of Utterhay passed before her: she stretched out a hand to
them, and spake softly and caressingly, and the little lad came forward
smiling, and took her hand, and made as if he would help her up for
courtesy’s sake. She laughed on him, and arose; and when she stood up,
tall and golden, he seemed somewhat afeard of so big a creature, but
stood his ground valiantly. Then she stooped down to him and kissed him,
and he naysaid her not, but seemed rather glad when it was over; but when
Birdalone went to the little maid, and kissed her, the child clung to her
as if she were her mother, and babbled to her.
Then comes the lad to her, and takes her hand, and would draw her away,
and speaks to her in his prattle, and she understood him to mean that she
should come with him to see the father. So she went, wondering what
should next betide; and the little maiden went on the other side of her,
holding by a fold of her skirt. Forsooth the goat followed bleating, not
well pleased to be forgotten.
Now had Birdalone time to look about her, though the two babes fell to
prattling with her in their way, and she thought it sweet to look down on
the two little faces that looked up to her so pleased and merry.
She was in a grassy plain, somewhat over rough and broken to be called a
meadow, and not enough be-timbered to be called a wood; it rose up a
little and slowly as they left the water, but scarce so much as one might
call it a hill. Straight before her on the way that they were going went
up into the air great masses of grey stone builded by man’s hand, but
looking, even from this way off, ragged and ruinous. It may well be
thought that Birdalone wondered what things might lie betwixt the trees
and the towers.
Now as they went they came on other goats, who seemed tame, and these
joined them to their fellow, and suffered the younglings to play with
them. Moreover there were rabbits great plenty scuttling in and out of
the brakes and the rough ground upon the way, and the younglings beheld
them, and the little lad said, after his fashion: Why do the rabbits run
away from us, and the goats follow us? Now, sooth to say, Birdalone
scarce knew why, and had no word ready for the child; but she said at
last: Mayhappen they will come to me; so it was once when I dwelt away
from here. Shall I go fetch thee one? The little ones yeasaid that,
though somewhat shyly and doubtfully. Then said Birdalone: Do ye,
sweetlings, abide me here, and go not away. They nodded their heads
thereat, and Birdalone kilted her skirts and went her ways to some broken
bushed ground, where was a many rabbits playing about; but she went not
out of eye-shot of the babes. Before she was well-nigh to the little
beasts, she fell to talking to them in a low sweet voice, as had been her
wont when she was little; and when they heard it, those who had not
scuttled away at first glance of her, fell to creeping little short
creeps one to the other, as their manner is when they be alone together
and merry; and they suffered her to come quite amongst them, and crept
about her feet while she stood, still talking unto them. Then she
stooped down and took up one in her arms and caressed it, and then laid
him down and took up another, and so with three or four of them; and she
fell to pushing them, and rolling them over with her foot; then she
turned a little away from them toward the children, and then a little
more, and the rabbits fell to following her, and she turned and took up
one in her arms, and went straight on toward the children, but turning
and talking to the rabbits now and again.
As to the babes, she saw the goats, of whom were now a dozen, or
thereabouts, standing together in a kind of ring, and the little ones
going from one to the other playing with them happily. But presently the
lad turned and saw her coming with her tail of little beasts, and he
cried out a great Oh and ran toward her straightway, and the maiden after
him; and he held out his arms to have the rabbit she bore, and she gave
it to him smiling, and said: Lo now! here be pretty playmates; but look
to it that ye be soft and kind with them, for they are but feeble people.
So the younglings fell to sporting with their new friends, and for a
little forgat both goats and golden lady; but the goats drew nigh, and
stood about them bleating, nor durst they run at the rabbits to butt
them, because of Birdalone and the little ones.
There then stood the slim maiden, tall and gleaming above her little
flock; and her heart was full of mirth and rest, and the fear was all
forgotten. But as she looked up toward the grey walls, lo, new tidings
to hand! For she saw an old man with a long white beard slowly coming
toward them: she started not, but abode his coming quietly, and as he
drew nigh she could see of him that he was big and stark, and, old as he
was, not yet bowed with his many years. He stood looking on this Queen
and her court silently a while, and then he spake: Such a sight I looked
not to see on this Isle of the Young and the Old. She said: But
meseemeth it is full meet that these younglings should sport with the
creatures. He smiled and said: Such a voice I looked not to hear on the
Isle of the Young and the Old.
Birdalone became somewhat troubled, and said: Am I welcome here? for if I
be not, I will pray thy leave to depart. He said: Thou art as welcome as
the very spring, my child; and if thou have a mind to abide here, who
shall naysay thee? For surely thou art young; nay, in regard to me thou
art scarce older than babes. All blessings be with thee. But though
thou art true and kind, as is clear to be seen by thy playing with these
children and the landward beasts in peace and love, yet it may be so that
thou hast brought hither somewhat less than peace. And he smiled upon
her strangely.
She looked somewhat scared at his last words, and said: But how so? If I
might I would bear nought but peace and happiness to any place. The old
carle laughed outright now, and said: How so, dear child? because ladies
so sweet and lovesome as thou be sent by love, and love rendeth apart
that which was joined together.
She wondered at his word, and was bewildered by it, but she held her
peace; and he said: Now we may talk hereof later on; but the matter to
hand now is the quenching of thine hunger; for I will not ask thee
whereby thou camest, since by water thou needs must have come. Wherefore
now I bid thee to our house, and these little ones shall go with us, and
the three of these horned folk whom we are wont to tether amidst the
wrack and ruin of what once was fair; the rest have our leave to depart,
and these nibblers also; for we have a potherb garden by our house, and
are fain to keep the increase of the same for ourselves. Birdalone
laughed, and shook her skirts at the coneys, and they all scuttled away
after the manner of their kind. Thereat the little lad looked downcast
and well-nigh tearful, but the maid stamped her foot, and roared
well-favouredly.
Birdalone did her best to solace her, and plucked a bough from a hawthorn
bush far above the little ones’ reach whereon was yet some belated
blossom, and gave it to her and stilled her. But the old man picked out
his milch-goats from the flock (whereof was the white), and drave them
before him, while the two babes went on still beside Birdalone, the
little carle holding her hand and playing with the fingers thereof; the
maiden sometimes hanging on to her gown, sometimes going loose and
sporting about beside her.
So came they to where the ground became smoother, and there was a fair
piece of greensward in a nook made by those great walls and towers, which
sheltered it from the north. The said walls seemed to be the remnant of
what had once been a great house and castle; and up aloft, where was now
no stair to come at them, were chimneys and hearths here and there, and
windows with fair seats in them, and arched doors and carven pillars, and
many things beautiful, but now was all ruined and broken, and the house
was roofless and floorless: withal it was overgrown with ash-trees and
quicken-beam, and other berry-trees and key-trees, which had many years
ago seeded in the rent walls, and now grew there great and flourishing.
But in the innermost nook of this mighty remnant, and using for its lowly
walls two sides of the ancient ashlar ones, stood a cot builded not over
trimly of small wood, and now much overgrown with roses and woodbine. In
front of it was a piece of garden ground, wherein waxed potherbs, and a
little deal of wheat; and therein was a goodly row of bee-skeps; and all
without it was the pleasant greensward aforesaid, wherein stood three
great ancient oaks, and divers thorns, which also were ancient after
their kind.
The elder led his guest into the cot, which had but simple plenishing of
stools and benches, and a table unartful, and then went to tether his
goats in the ruined hall of the house, and the children must needs with
him, though Birdalone had been glad of one of them at least; but there
was no nay, but that they must go see their dear white goat in her stall.
Howsoever all three came back again presently, the old carle with a
courteous word in his mouth, and he took Birdalone’s hand, and kissed it
and bade her welcome to his house, as though he had been a great lord at
home in his own castle. Therewith must the little ones also kiss her
hand and be courteous; and Birdalone suffered it, laughing, and then
caught them up in her arms, and clipped and kissed them well-favouredly;
wherewith belike they were not over-well pleased, though the boy endured
it kindly. Thereafter the elder set forth his banquet, which was simple
enough: upland cheer of cream and honey, and rough bread; but sweet it
was to Birdalone to eat it with good welcome, and the courtesy of the old
man.
When they were done, they went out-a-doors, and Birdalone and the old man
laid them down under an oak-tree, and the children sported about anigh
them. Then spake Birdalone: Old man, thou hast been kind unto me; but
now wouldest thou tell me about thee, what thou art, and what are these
walls about us here? Said he: I doubt if I may do so, this day at least.
But belike thou shalt abide with us, and then some day the word may come
into my mouth. She held her peace, and into her mind it came that it
would be sweet to dwell there, and watch those fair children waxing, and
the lad growing up and loving her; yea, even she fell to telling up the
years which would make him a man, and tried to see herself, how she would
look, when the years were worn thereto. Then she reddened at the untold
thought, and looked down and was silent. But the elder looked on her
anxiously, and said: It will be no such hard life for thee, for I have
still some work in me, and thou mayst do something in spite of thy
slender and delicate fashion. She laughed merrily, and said: Forsooth,
good sire, I might do somewhat more than something; for I am deft in all
such work as here ye need; so fear not but I should earn my livelihood,
and that with joy. Merry days shall we have then, said he.
But therewith her eye caught the gleam of her golden sleeve, and she
thought of Aurea, and her heart smote her for her errand; then she laid
her hand on her girdle and called to mind little Viridis, and the glitter
of the ring on her finger brought the image of Atra before her; then she
rose up and said: Thou art kind, father, but I may not; I have an errand;
this day must I depart from thee. He said: Thou hast broken my heart; if
I were not so old, I would weep. And he hung adown his head.
She stood before him abashed, as if she had done him a wrong. At last he
looked up and said: Must it be to-day? Wilt thou not abide with us
night-long, and go thy ways in the early morning?
Now she scarce knew how to gainsay him, so wretched as the old carle
looked; so it came to this, that she yeasaid the abiding till to-morrow.
Then suddenly he became gay and merry, and he kissed her hand, and fell
to much speaking, telling tales of little import concerning his earlier
days. But when she asked him again of how he came there, and what meant
the great ruined house, then he became foolish and wandering, and might
scarce answer her; whereas otherwise he was a well-spoken old carle of
many words, and those of the grandest.
Then changed his mood again, and he fell to bewailing her departure, and
how that henceforth he should have none to speak to him with
understanding. Then she smiled on him and said: But yonder babes will
grow up; month by month they will be better fellows unto thee. Fair
child, he said, thou dost not know. My days to come are but few, so that
I should see but little of their waxing in any case. But furthermore,
wax they will not; such as they be now, such shall they be till I at
least see the last of them and the earth.
Birdalone wondered at this word, and the place seemed changed to her,
yea, was grown somewhat dreary; but she said to the carle: And thou, dost
thou change in any wise, since these change not? He laughed somewhat
grimly, and said: The old that be here change from old to dead; how could
I change to better? Yea, the first thing I had to do here was to bury an
old man. Quoth she: And were there any children here then? Yea, said
he; these same, or I can see no difference in them. Said Birdalone: And
how long ago is that? And how camest thou hither? His face became
foolish, and he gibbered rather than spake: No, I wot not; no, no, no,
not a whit, a whit. But presently after was he himself again, and
telling her a tale of a great lady of the earl-folk, a baron’s dame, and
how dear he was unto her. He lay yet on the grass, and she stood before
him, and presently he put forth a hand to her gown-hem and drew her to
him thereby, and fell to caressing her feet; and Birdalone was ashamed
thereat, and a little angry. He was nought abashed, but sat up and said:
Well, since thou must needs depart to-morrow, be we merry to-day. And I
pray thee talk much with me, fair child, for sweet and sweet is thy voice
to hearken. Then he arose and said: Now will I fetch thee somewhat to
eke the joy of us both. And he turned therewith and went into the house.
Birdalone stood there, and was now perplexed and downhearted; for now the
look of the elder scarce liked her, and the children began to seem to her
as images, or at the best not more to her than the rabbits or the goats;
and she rued her word that she would abide there the night through. For
she said to herself: I fear some trap or guile; is the witch behind this
also? for the old man is yet stark, and though he be foolish at whiles,
yet may wizardry have learned him some guile.
With that cometh out the carle again, bearing a little keg and a mazer
roughly wrought; and he came to Birdalone, and sat down, and bade her sit
by him, and said to her: Maybe I shall hear more of thy sweet voice when
thy sweet lips have been in the cup. Therewith he poured forth into the
mazer, and handed it to Birdalone, and lo! it was clear and good mead.
She sipped thereof daintily, and, to say sooth, was well-pleased
therewith, and it stirred the heart in her. But then she gave back the
cup to the elder, and would no more of it. As for him, he drank what was
left in the cup, looking over the rim thereof meanwhile; and then filled
himself another, and another, and yet more. But whereas it might have
been looked for that his tongue should be loosened by the good mead into
foolishness and gibbering, he became rather few-spoken, and more
courteous and stately even than he had been at the first. But in the
end, forsooth, he was forgetting Birdalone, what she was, and he fell
a-talking, always with much pomp and state, as if to barons and earls,
and great ladies; till suddenly his head fell back, he turned over on his
face, and all wit was gone from him.
At first, then, Birdalone was afraid that he was dead, or nigh unto
death, and she knelt down and raised his head, and fetched water and cast
it over his face. But when she saw that he was breathing not so ill, and
that the colour was little changed in his lips and cheeks, she knew that
it was but the might of the mead that had overcome him. Wherefore she
laid him so that he was easy, and then stood up and looked about her, and
saw the children playing together a little way off; and nought else anigh
her, save the birds in the brake, or flying on their errands eagerly from
place to place. Then, as it were, without her will being told them, her
limbs and her feet turned her about to the shore where lay the Sending
Boat, and she went speedily but quietly thitherward, her heart beating
quick, for fear lest something should yet stay her, and her eyes glancing
from brake to bush, as if she looked to see some enemy, old or new, come
out thence.
So now her will was clear enough to her feet, and they brought her down
to the water-side and the long strand, past which the wide water lay
windless and gleaming in the hot afternoon. Then lightly she stepped
aboard, and awoke the Sending Boat with blood-offering, and it obeyed
her, and sped swiftly on the way to the southward.
CHAPTER X. BIRDALONE COMES TO THE ISLE OF THE QUEENS.
BIRDALONE awoke the next morning while the boat was yet speeding over the
water, and the sun was up: but she was hard on the land, which sat low
and green, like a meadow exceeding fair, on the bosom of the water, and
many goodly trees were sprinkled about the greenland. But from amidst
the trees, no great way from the water’s edge, rose a great house, white
and fair, as if it were new-builded, and all glorious with pinnacles, and
tabernacles set with imagery.
Presently the boat’s bows ran into the reed and rush at the brim of the
water, and Birdalone stepped ashore without more ado, and the scent of
the meadow-sweet amongst which she landed brought back unto her the image
of Green Eyot that while agone.
But now when she was ashore the dread took hold of her again, and her
knees trembled under her, so that she might scarce stand, so fearful was
she of walking into some trap; especially when she beheld that goodly
house, lest therein awaited her some proud and cruel lady, and no kind
damsels to deliver her.
She looked about her, and saw in all the fair meadow neither man nor
woman, nor draught-beast nor milch-beast, nought but the little creatures
of the brake and the bent-grass, which were but as the blossoms thereof;
and the birds running in the herbage or singing amidst the tree-boughs.
Then she thought that she must needs go forward, or belike her errand
would not speed; that the Sending Boat might not obey her, unless she saw
through the adventure to the end; so she went on toward the house
quaking.
Soon was she at the porch of the white palace, and had seen no man nor
heard any voice of men; much she marvelled, despite her dread, at the
beauty of the said house, and the newness thereof; for it was as one
flower arisen out of the earth, and every part of it made the beauty of
the other parts more excellent; and so new it was, that it would have
seemed as if the masons thereof had but struck their scaffold yesterday,
save that under the very feet of the walls the sweet garden flowers grew
all uncrushed.
Now comes Birdalone through the porch unto the screens of the great hall;
and she stopped a little to recover her breath, that she might be the
quieter and calmer amongst the great folk and mighty whom she looked to
find therein. So she gathered heart; but one thing daunted her, to wit,
that she heard no sound come from that great and goodly hall, so that she
doubted if it were perchance left desert by them who had been its lords.
She raised her hand to the door of the screen, and it opened easily
before her, and she entered, and there indeed she saw new tidings. For
the boards end-long and over-thwart were set, and thereat were sitting a
many folk, and their hands were reached out to knife and to dish, and to
platter and cup; but such a hush there was within, that the song of the
garden birds without sounded to her as loud as they were the voices of
the children of Adam.
Next she saw that all that company, from the great folk on the dais down
to those who stood about the hall to do the service, were women, one and
all; not one carle might she see from where she stood: lovely were they
many of them, and none less than comely; their cheeks were bright, and
their eyes gleamed, and their hair flowed down fair of fashion. And she
stood, and durst not move a long while, but expected when someone would
speak a word, and all should turn their heads toward the new-comer. But
none moved nor spake. And the fear increased in her amidst that hush,
and weighed so heavy on her heart, that at last she might endure it no
longer, but fell swooning to the floor.
When she came to herself; and the swoon-dreams had left her, she saw by
the changing of the sun through the hall-windows, that she had lain there
long, more nearly two hours than one; and at first she covered her face
with her hands as she crouched there, that she might not see the sight of
the silent hall, for yet was it as hushed as before. Then slowly she
arose, and the sound of her raiment and her stirring feet was loud in her
ears. But when she was upright on her feet, she hardened her heart, and
went forth into the hall, and no less was her wonder than erst. For when
she came close to those ladies as they sat at table, and her raiment
brushed the raiment of the serving-women as she passed by, then saw she
how no breath came from any of these, and that they neither spake nor
moved, because they were dead.
At first, then, she thought to flee away at once, but again she had mind
of her errand, and so went up the hall, and so forth on to the dais; and
there again, close by the high table, she saw new tidings. For there was
set a bier, covered with gold and pall, and on it was laid a tall man, a
king, belted and crowned; and beside the said bier, by the head of the
king, knelt a queen of exceeding goodly body, clad all in raiment of
pearl and bawdekin; and her hands were clasped together, and her mouth
was drawn, and her brow knit with the anguish of her grief. But athwart
the king’s breast lay a naked sword all bloody; and this Birdalone noted,
that whereas the lady was of skin and hue as if she were alive, the king
was yellow as wax, and his cheeks were shrunken, and his eyes had been
closed by the wakers of the dead.
Long Birdalone looked and wondered; and now if her fear were less, her
sorrow was more for all that folk sitting there dead in their ancient
state and pomp. And was not the thought clean out of her head, that yet
they might awake and challenge her, and that she might be made one of
that silent company. Withal she felt her head beginning to fail her, and
she feared that she might swoon again and never waken more, but lie for
ever beside that image of the dead king.
So then she refrained her both of fear and sorrow, and walked speedily
down the hall, looking neither to the right nor left: and she came forth
into the pleasance, but stayed there nought, so nigh it seemed to that
hushed company. Thence came she forth into the open meadow, and sweet
and dear seemed its hot sunshine and noisy birds and rustling leaves.
Nevertheless, so great was the tumult of her spirits, that once more she
grew faint, and felt that she might scarce go further. So she dragged
herself into the shade of a thorn-tree, and let her body sink unto the
ground, and lay there long unwitting.
CHAPTER XI. AND NOW SHE COMES TO THE ISLE OF THE KINGS.
WHEN Birdalone came to herself it was drawing toward the glooming, and
she rose up hastily, and went down to the Sending Boat, for she would not
for aught abide the night in that fearful isle, lest the flock of the
hall should come alive and walk in the dusk and the dark. She stepped
aboard lightly, and yielded her blood to the pride of that ferry, and it
awoke and bore her forth, and she went through the night till she fell
asleep.
When she awoke it was broad day and the sun just arising, and lo! before
her, some half mile off, an isle rugged and rocky, and going up steep
from the shore; and then, held as it were by the fangs of the rocks and
pikes of the higher land, was a castle, white, high, and hugely builded,
though, because of the rock-land belike, it spread not much abroad. Like
to the lovely house of yesterday, it seemed new-builded; and, little as
Birdalone knew of such matters, her heart told her that this new house
was fashioned for battle.
She was downcast when she saw the isle so rugged and forbidding, but when
the boat came aland in a stony bight, whence the ground went up somewhat
steeply toward the heights, she went ashore straightway, and toiled up
toward the white battlement. Presently she found herself in a strait and
rugged path betwixt two walls of rock, so that she lost sight of the
castle a while, till she came out on to a level place which looked down
from aloft on to the blue water, but all over against her close at hand
were the great towers and walls. She was worn by the rough road, and
over helpless she felt her, and all too little to deal with that huge
morsel of the world; and her valiancy gave way, and her trust in her
errand. She sat down on a stone and wept abundantly.
After a while she was amended, and she looked up and saw the huge hold,
and said: Yea, but if it were less by the half than it is, it would still
be big enough to cow me. Yet she stood not up. Then she put forth a
foot of her, and said aloud: Sorely hath this rough road tried Atra’s
shoon and their goodly window-work; if they are to be known I must be
speedy on my journey or go barefoot.
As she spoke she stood up, and the sound of her own voice frighted her,
though nought noiseless was the place; for the wind was there, and beat
to and fro the castle and the rock, and ran baffled into every corner of
that market-place of nothing. For in that garth was neither knight nor
squire nor sergeant; no spear-head glittered from the wall, no gleam of
helm showed from the war-swales; no porter was at the gate; the
drawbridge over the deep ghyll was down, the portcullis was up, and the
great door cast wide open.
Birdalone steeled her heart and went forward swiftly, and over the
bridge, and entered the basecourt, and came without more ado to the door
of the great hall, and opened it easily, as with the door of yesterday,
looking to find another show like unto that one; and even so it fell out.
Forsooth the hall was nought light and lovely, and gay with gold and
bright colours, as that other, but beset with huge round pillars that
bore aloft a wide vault of stone, and of stone were the tables; and the
hallings that hung on the wall were terrible pictures of battle and
death, and the fall of cities, and towers a-tumbling and houses
a-flaming.
None the less there also were the shapes of folk that moved not nor
spake, though not so thronged was that hall as the other one; and it
seemed as if men were sitting there at a council rather than a feast.
Close by Birdalone’s right hand as she entered were standing in a row
along the screen big men-at-arms all weaponed, and their faces hidden by
their sallets; and down below the dais on either side of the high table
was again a throng of all-armed men; and at the high-table itself; and
looking down the hall, sat three crowned kings, each with his drawn sword
lying across his knees, and three long-hoary wise men stood before them
at the nether side of the board.
Birdalone looked on it all, striving with her fear: but yet more there
was, for she deemed that needs must she go through the hall up to the
dais, lest the Sending Boat deny its obedience. Up toward the dais she
went then, passing by weaponed men who sat as if abiding the council’s
end at the end-long tables. And now, though no shape of man there spake
or breathed, yet sound lacked not; for within the hall went the wind as
without, and beat about from wall to wall, and drave clang and clash from
the weapons hung up, and waved the arras, and fared moaning in the nooks,
and hummed in the vault above.
Came she up to the dais then, and stood beside one of the wise men, and
looked on the kings, and saw the mightiness which had been in them, and
quaked before them. Then she turned from them and looked down to the
floor, and lo! there, just below the dais, lay a woman on a golden bier;
exceeding fair had she been, with long yellow hair streaming down from
her head; but now waxen white she was, with ashen lips and sunken cheeks.
Clad was she in raiment of purple and pall, but the bosom of her was
bared on one side, and therein was the road whereby the steel had fared
which had been her bane.
Now when Birdalone had gazed thereon a while, she deemed that if she
tarried there long amidst those fierce men by the dead woman, she should
lose her wit full soon, so sore the fear, held back, beset her now.
Wherefore she turned and went hastily down the hall, and out-a-doors, and
over the bridge, and ran fleet-foot down the rocky way whereby she had
come, till she could run no further, and lay down under a great stone
breathless and fordone; yet her heart upheld her and suffered her not to
swoon, belike because she had given her limbs such hard work to do.
There she lay awake and troubled for an hour or more, and then she fell
asleep, and slept till the day was worn toward sunset, and nought meddled
with her. She arose and went to her ship somewhat downhearted, wondering
how many such terrors should befall her; nay, whether the Sending Boat
would so lead her that henceforth she should happen on no children of
Adam but such as were dead images of the living. Had all the world died
since she left the Isle of the Young and the Old?
Howsoever, she had nought to do save to board her ferry, and content its
greedy soul with her blood, and drive it with the spell-words. And
thereafter, when it was speeding on, and the twilight dusking apace, she
looked aback, and seemed to see the far-off woodland in the northern ort,
and the oak-clad ridge, where she had met her wood-mother; and then it
was as if Habundia were saying to her: Meet again we shall. And
therewith straightway became life sweeter unto her.
Deepened then the dusk, and became night, and she floated on through it,
and was asleep alone on the bosom of the water.
CHAPTER XII. OF BIRDALONE, HOW SHE CAME UNTO THE ISLE OF NOTHING.
LONG before sunrise, in the very morn-dusk, she awoke and found that her
ferry had taken land again. Little might she see what the said land was
like; so she sat patiently and abode the day in the boat; but when day
was come, little more was to see than erst. For flat was the isle, and
scarce raised above the wash of the leeward ripple on a fair day; nor was
it either timbered or bushed or grassed, and, so far as Birdalone might
see, no one foot of it differed in aught from another. Natheless she
deemed that she was bound to go ashore and seek out the adventure, or
spoil her errand else.
Out of the boat she stepped then, and found the earth all paved of a
middling gravel, and nought at all growing there, not even the smallest
of herbs; and she stooped down and searched the gravel, and found neither
worm nor beetle therein, nay nor any one of the sharp and slimy creatures
which are wont in such ground.
A little further she went, and yet a little further, and no change there
was in the land; and yet she went on and found nothing; and she wended
her ways southward by the sun, and the day was windless.
At last she had gone a long way and had no sight of water south of the
isle, nor had she seen any hill, nay, not so much as an ant-heap, whence
she might look further around; and it seemed to her that she might go on
for ever, and reach the heart of Nowhither at last. Wherefore she
thought she would turn back and depart this ugly isle, and that no other
adventure abided her therein. And by now it was high noon; and she
turned about and took a few steps on the backward road.
But even therewith it seemed as if the sun, which heretofore had been
shining brightly in the heavens, went out as a burnt-down candle, and all
was become dull grey over head, as all under foot was a dull dun. But
Birdalone deemed she could follow a straight course back again, and so
walked on sturdily. Hour after hour she went and stayed not, but saw
before her no glimpse of the northern shore, and no change in the aspect
of the ground about her.
It had so happened that a little before she had turned to go back, she
had eaten her dinner of a piece of bread and a morsel of cheese, and now
as she stooped and peered on the ground, looking for some sign of the
way, as her foot-prints going south, and had her eyes low anigh the
earth, she saw something white at her feet in the gathering dusk (for the
day was wearing), and she put her hand to it and lifted it, and found it
a crumb of bread, and knew that it must have come from her dinner of’
seven hours ago, whereas till that time her bread had lain unbroken in
her scrip. Fear and anguish smote her therewith, for she saw that in
that dull land, every piece whereof was like every other piece, she must
have gone about in a ring, and come back again to where she first turned
to make for the northern shore.
Yet would she not cast aside all hope, but clad herself in her valiancy.
Forsooth she knew it availed nought to try to move on in the twilight; so
she laid herself down on that waste, and made up her mind to sleep if she
might, and abide the new day there, and then to strive with the way once
more, for belike, she thought, it may be fair to-morrow, and the sun
shining. And as she was very weary with tramping the waste all day, she
fell asleep at once, and slept the short night through.
But when she awoke, and saw what the new day was, her heart fell indeed,
for now was she encompassed and shut in with a thick dark mist (though it
seemed to be broad day), so that had there been aught to see she would
not have seen it her own length away from her. So there she stood,
hanging her head, and striving to think; but the master-thought of death
drawing nigh scattered all other thoughts, or made them dim and feeble.
Long she stood there; but suddenly something came into her mind. She set
her hand to the fair-broidered pouch which hung from Viridis’
loin-girdle, and drew out thence flint and steel and tinder, which
matters, forsooth, had served her before in the boat to make fire withal.
Then she set her hand to her head, and drew forth the tress of hair which
Habundia had given her, and which was coiled up in the crown of her own
abundant locks which decked her so gloriously; she drew two hairs from
the said tress, and held them between her lips while she did up the tress
in its place again, and then, pale and trembling, fell to striking a
light, and when she had the tinder burning, she cried out:
O wood-mother, wood-mother! How then may we meet again as thou didst
promise me, if I die here in this empty waste? O wood-mother, if thou
mightest but come hither for my deliverance!
Then she burned the hairs one after another, and stood waiting, but
nought befell a great while, and her heart sickened, and there she stood
like a stone.
But in awhile, lo! there came as it were a shadow amidst the mist, or
rather lying thereon, faint and colourless, and it was of the shape of
the wood-mother, with girt-up gown and bow in hand. Birdalone cried
aloud with joy, and hastened toward the semblance, but came to it no
nigher, and still she went, and the semblance still escaped her, and she
followed on and on; and this lasted long, and faster and faster must she
follow lest it vanish, and she gathered her skirts into her girdle, and
fell to running fleet-foot after the fleeing shadow, which she loved
dearly even amidst the jaws of death; and all her fleetness of foot had
Birdalone to put forth in following up the chase; but even to die in the
pain would she not miss that dear shadow.
But suddenly, as she ran, the mist was all gone from before her, the sun
shone hot and cloudless; there was no shadow or shape of Habundia there,
nought but the blue lake and the ugly lip of that hideous desert, with
the Sending Boat lying a half score yards from her feet; and behind her
stood up, as it were a wall, the mist from out of which she had come.
Forsooth Birdalone was too breathless to cry out her joy, but her heart
went nigh to breaking therewith, and lovely indeed to her was the rippled
water and the blue sky; and she knew that her wood-mother had sped a
sending to her help, and she fell a-weeping where she stood, for love of
her wise mother, and for longing to behold her: she stretched out her
arms to the north quarter, and said blessings on her in a voice faint for
weariness. Then she laid her down on the desert, and rested her with
sleep, despite the hot sun, and when she awoke, some three hours
thereafter, all was as before, save that the sky had now some
light-flying clouds, and still was the wall of mist behind her.
Wherefore she deemed she had yet time, and the blue rippling water wooed
her much-besweated limbs; so she did off her raiment and took the water,
and became happy and unweary therein. Then she landed and stood in the
sun to dry her, and so, strengthened with that refreshing, clad her, and
went aboard and did the due rites, and sped over the waters, and had soon
lost sight of that ugly blotch on the fair face of the Great Water.
* * * * *
Here ends the Second Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called Of the Wondrous Isles, and begins the Third Part of the said tale,
which is called Of the Castle of the Quest.
THE THIRD PART: OF THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
CHAPTER I. BIRDALONE COMES TO THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
EMPTY was the day to Birdalone save for her thoughts, and she slept not a
good while of the night. When she awoke in the morning there was no land
before her, and she began to fear somewhat that so it might be many days,
and that she might have to fare the water landless, and perchance till
she starved for hunger; for now was there but little victual left of that
which the kind Viridis had given her. So she wore the day somewhat
uneasily, and by then night fell had eaten but little; yet was that
little the last crumb and gobbet of her store. Wherefore it is no wonder
though she were dismayed when she awoke early on the morrow, and beheld
nought before her save the landless water.
But about noon she deemed she saw a little cloud in the offing that moved
not as the other clouds, and she watched it closely at first, and it
changed not any the more, and she grew weary of watching it and strove to
sleep, turning her head to the after part of her ferry; and thus betwixt
sleeping and waking she wore away three hours: then she stood up and
looked ahead, and lo, the white cloud had taken shape, and was a white
castle far away (for the day was exceeding clear), sitting, as it seemed,
on the very face of the water. The boat sped on swiftly thitherward, so
that it was not right long ere Birdalone beheld the green shore on either
side of the said castle, and at last, three hours before sunset, she was
drawing nigh thereto, and beheld it all clearly, what it was.
It was brand-new, and was fair enough, builded part of stone and lime,
part of framed work, but was but middling big. As she drew nigher yet,
she saw that there were folk on the walls of it, and they seemed to see
her, for a horn was winded from the battlement, and folk were running
together to somewhither. And now was Birdalone come so near, that she
saw the water-gate of the castle, and folk coming out thereby on to the
landing-place; and she saw presently, that a very tall man with grizzled
hair stood foremost of them, and he waved his hand to her, and spake
something, but the wind bore the words away from her; yet she seemed to
know that this folk would do her to wit that they would have none of her;
and her heart died within her, so faint and hungry as she was.
Howsoever the ferry sped on its way swiftly, and in a minute or two had
stayed itself at the landing-stair, whereabout were gathered a score of
men, some armed some unarmed, and they seemed for the more part to be
grey-headed and past middle-age.
Birdalone stood up in her craft, and the aforesaid tall grey man, who was
unarmed, but clad in knightly raiment, stood on the stair and spake unto
her, and said: Lady, this is an house where women enter never since first
the roof was done thereon, which forsooth was but a year ago. We will
pray thee therefore to turn thy boat’s head away, and seek some other
lodging by the water, either eastward or westward.
Little knew Birdalone of worldly courtesy, or she had made him a sharp
answer belike; but she only looked on him ruefully, and said: Good
warrior, I am come a long way, and may not turn back from mine errand;
and I am now lacking victual and hungry, and if ye help me not, it is
like that I shall die. Much lieth on mine errand, if ye knew it. She
was weeping-ripe, but refrained her tears, though her lip quivered. She
stretched out her hands to the greybeard, and he looked on her and found
her exceeding fair; and he deemed her to be guileless, both because of
her simple speech and sweet voice, and the goodliness of her face and
eyes. But he said: Lady, thine errand hath nought to do with it, it is
thy womanhood that bars our door. For all we are bound by oath not to
suffer a woman to abide in this castle till our lords take the bann off,
and bid us open to women. She smiled faintly, and said: If I might but
see thy lords then, since thou art not master here. He said: They are
away, and will not be back till to-morrow morning; and I wot not the hour
of their return. And yet, said he, I would we might help thee somewhat.
O I pray thee, I pray thee! she said, or mine errand will come to nought
after all.
Therewith came another man down the stair, and stood by the old knight
and plucked his sleeve, and fell to talk with him softly. This man was
by his habit a religious, and was a younger man than the others, it might
be of five and thirty winters, and he was fair of favour. While they
spake together Birdalone sat her down again, and was well-nigh spent.
At last the old man spake: Damsel, he said, we deem we may suffer thee to
enter the castle since thy need is so great, and have a meal’s meat at
our hands, and yet save our oath, if thou depart thence by the landward
gate before sunset. Will this serve thee? Fair sir, said Birdalone, it
will save my life and mine errand; I may say no more words for my
faintness, else would I thank thee.
She stood up on her feet, and the old man-at-arms reached out his hand to
her, and she took it and came her ways up the stair, but found herself
but feeble. But the priest (forsooth he was chaplain of the castle)
helped her on the other side. But when she stood on the level stones by
the water-gate, she turned to the old man and said: One thing I will ask
of thee, Is this place one of the Wondrous Isles? The elder shook his
head. We know not the Wondrous Isles, said he; this castle is builded on
the mainland. Her face flushed for joy at the word, and she said: One
thing I will crave of thee, to wit, that thou wilt leave my barge lying
here untouched till thy masters come back, and wilt give command that
none meddle therewith.
He would have answered, but the priest brake in, and said: This will he
do, lady, and he is the castellan, and moreover he will swear to obey
thee herein. And therewith he drew forth a cross with God nailed
thereon, and the castellan swore on it with a good will.
Then the priest drew Birdalone on, and between them they brought her into
the great hall, and set her down in a chair and propped her with
cushions. And when she was thus at rest, she began to weep somewhat, and
the castellan and the priest stood by and comforted her; for themseemed,
despite her grief, that she had brought the sun into their house.
Next were victual brought unto her of broth and venison, and good wine
and cates and strawberries; and she was not so famished but she might eat
and drink with a good will. But when she was done, and had rested a
little, the castellan stood up and said: Lady, the sun is gone off the
western windows now, and I must save mine oath; but ere thou depart, I
were fain to hear thy voice giving me pardon for my evil cheer and the
thrusting of thee forth. And therewith he put one knee to the ground,
and took her hand and kissed it. But Birdalone was grown merry again,
and she laughed and said: What pardon thou canst have of me, kind knight,
thou hast; but now methinks thou makest overmuch of me, because I am the
only woman who hath come into thy castle. I am but a simple maiden,
though mine errand be not little.
Forsooth she wondered that the stark and gruff old man was so changed to
her in little space; for nought she knew as yet how the sight of her cast
a hot gleed of love into the hearts of them who beheld her.
Now Birdalone arose; but the castellan knelt at her feet, and kissed her
hand again, and again, and yet again. Then he said: Thou art gracious
indeed. But methinks the father here will lead thee out-a-gates; for he
may show thee a lair, wherein thou shalt be safe enough to-night; and
to-morrow may bring new tidings.
So the priest made obeisance to her and led her down the hall, and the
castellan’s eyes were following them till the screen hid them. The
priest left her in the hall-porch a while, and went into the buttery, and
came back with a basket of meat and drink, and they went forth at the
great gate together, and there was the last of the sun before them.
CHAPTER II. OF BIRDALONE, AND HOW SHE RESTED THE NIGHT THROUGH IN A
BOWER WITHOUT THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
ON a fair smooth road went they amidst of a goodly meadow-land, wherein
were little copses here and there. When they were fairly out of the
gate, the priest reached for Birdalone’s hand, and she let him take it
and lead her along thereby, thinking no evil; but he might scarce speak
for a while, so great was the stir in his heart at the touch of her bare
flesh. But Birdalone spake and said: Thou art kind, father, to lead me
on my way thus.
He answered in a husky voice with his eyes cast down, and forsooth set on
the feet of her: It is not far that I am leading thee; there is a broken
cot by the copse at the turn of the road yonder, where thou mayst abide
to-night; it is better lodging than none, evil as it is for such an one
as thou. Birdalone laughed: Worse have I had, said she, than would be
the copse without the cot. And she thought withal of the prison in the
Isle of Increase Unsought.
Her voice seemed so cheery and friendly to the priest, that he shook off
somewhat the moodiness of his desire, and looked up and said: I shall
tell thee, lady, that I suppose thou hast more errand with my lords than
to crave lodging of them despite the custom of the castle. Nay, I have
an inkling of what thine errand may be, whereof more anon; but now shall
I tell thee what is best for thee to do so as to have speech of them the
soonest. They have gone forth with some of our lads to gather venison,
or it may be beeves and muttons for our victualling, and somewhat of
battle may they have had on the way, for ill neighbours have we. But if
they come back unfoughten they will be wending this road, and must needs
pass by thy copse-side; and if thou be sleeping the noise of them will
full surely awaken thee. Then all thou hast to do is to come forth and
stand in the way before them, that they may see thee; and when once they
have seen thee, how may they pass thee by unspoken with?
I thank thee heartily for thy rede, said Birdalone; but I would ask thee
two things: first, what is the name of the castle behind us? and second,
why have ye the custom of shutting the door upon women? Said the priest:
The castle is called in this country-side, the White Ward by the Water;
but within there we call it the Castle of the Quest; and thus is it
called because my lords are seeking their loves whom they have lost; and
they have sworn an oath that no woman shall enter therein till their own
loves have trodden its floors.
Rose the heart of Birdalone at that word, and she deemed indeed that she
was come thither whereas her she-friends would have had her. The priest
beheld her and saw how her beauty was eked by that gladness, and he
scarce knew how to contain himself; and might speak no word awhile; then
he said: Hearken further concerning thy matter; if my lords be tarried,
and come not by matin-song, then I doubt not but the castellan will send
folk to see to thee. He looked down therewith and said: I will come to
thee myself; and will bring thee men-at-arms, if need be. But sometime
to-morrow morning my lords will come, save mischief hath betid, which God
forbid. And he crossed himself; then he looked up and full in her face,
and said: But keep thine heart up; for whatsoever may betide, thou shalt
not be left uncared for.
Said Birdalone: I see of thee that thou art become my good friend, and it
rejoiceth my heart; I shall be well at ease to-night in thy cot, and
to-morrow morn I shall be valiant to do thy bidding.
The sweetness of her speech so overcame him, that he but looked
confusedly on her, as if he scarce heard her; and they went on together
without more words, till he said: Here are we at the cot, and I will show
thee thy chamber. So he led her to a little thatched bower, built with
walls of wattle-work daubed with clay, which stood without the remnant of
the cot: it was clean and dry, for the roof was weather-tight; but there
was nought in it at all save a heap of bracken in a corner.
There stood the priest, still holding Birdalone’s hand, and spake not,
but looked about, yet always covertly on Birdalone; but in a while he let
go her hand, and seemed to wake up, and said: This it is; a sorry place
enough, were it even for a gangrel body. Even so am I, quoth she
laughing; and thou mayest look to it, that herein I shall rest full
happily. Then he gave her a horn, drawing it from out of the basket of
victual, which he now set down on the ground; and he said: If thou
shouldst deem thee hard bestead, then wind this horn, and we shall know
its voice up there and come to help thee. Now I give thee good-night.
She thanked him sweetly, and he went slowly out of the bower, but was
scarce gone ere he came back again, and said: One thing I may perchance
tell thee without drawing thine anger on my head; to wit, that I it was
who said to the castellan that he should take thee in. Wilt thou say
aught to this? She said: I will thank thee again and again; for it was
the saving of my life and mine errand. And clearer is it now than ever
that thou art a good friend unto me.
As she looked on him and caressed him with kind eyes, she saw that his
brow was knit, and his face troubled, and she said to him: What ails
thee? art thou wroth with me in any wise? O no, said he; how should I be
wroth with thee! But there is a thing I would ask of thee. Yea, and
what? said she. He said: Nay, I may not, I may not. It shall be for
to-morrow, or another day. He spake it looking down, and in a broken
voice; and she wondered somewhat at him, but not much, deeming that he
was troubled by something which had nought to do with her, and which he
might refrain from thinking of, even before a stranger.
But presently he caught her hand and kissed it, and bade her good-night
again, and then went hastily out of the bower; and when he was well
without, he muttered, but not so as she might hear him: Durst I have
asked her, she would have suffered me to kiss her cheek. Alas! fool that
I was! Birdalone turned then to her bracken bed, and found it sweet and
clean; and she was at rest and peace in her mind, albeit her body was
exceeding weary. She felt happy in the little lonely cot, and her heart
had gone out to the sweet meadow-land, and she loved it after all the
trouble of the water; and herseemed that even now, in the dusk a-growing
into dark, it loved and caressed her. So she laid her down, nor unclad
herself at all, lest she should have to arise on a sudden, and show those
tokens of the three damsels on her body.
A little while she lay there happily, hearkening the voices of the
nightingales in the brake, and then she fell into a dreamless sleep,
unbroken till the short night passed into day.
CHAPTER III. HOW BIRDALONE DIGHT HER FOR MEETING THE CHAMPIONS OF THE
QUEST.
IT was the birds beginning their first song once more that awakened
Birdalone before the sun was up; but she had no will to stir a while,
whereas she felt so happy and restful; and that all the more when she
remembered where she was, and told herself that her errand was now like
to be accomplished; and she thought of her friends whom she had left on
the Isle of Increase Unsought, and blessed them for their kindness, and
the love of them was sweet to her heart, and amidst such thoughts she
fell asleep again.
When she awoke thereafter there was a flood of sunshine lying on the
meadows, and she sprang up in haste lest she had overslept herself, but
when she was come out of the bower, she soon saw that the sunbeams lay
low on the land, and that it was yet the first hour of the sun; so she
turned about, and went through the copse to the other side, and lo! a
little clear stream running before her. So she spake to herself softly
and said: Fie on it! I was weary with the boat and my hunger last night,
and I went to bed unwashen; and this morn I am weary for the foulness of
my unwashen body. Unseemly it were to me to show myself sluttish before
these lords; let me find time for a bath at least.
Therewith she went swiftly down to the water, undoing her girdle and
laces by the way. She came to the stream and found it running between
blue-flowering mouse-ear and rushes, into a pool which deepened from a
sandy shallow: so anon her borrowed raiment was lying on the grassy lip
of the water, and she was swimming and disporting her in the pool, with
her hair loose and wavering over her white back like some tress of the
water-weed. Therein she durst not tarry long, but came hurrying out on
to the grass, and clad herself in haste. But she covered not her
shoulders with the golden gown, nor laced it over her bosom, so that
Viridis’ smock might be the plainer to see: which smock was noteworthy,
for the breast thereof was broidered with green boughs, whence brake
forth little flames of fire, and all so dainty-wrought as if the faery
had done it.
Withal she gathered up the gown into her girdle, and let the skirt-hem
clear her ankles, so that Atra’s shoon might be seen at once; and they
were daintily dight with window-work and broidery of gold and green
stones, and blue. And forsooth it was little likely that any man should
stand before her a minute ere his eyes would seek to her feet and ankles,
so clean and kindly as they were fashioned.
Therewith she set her hands to her head, and trussed up her hair, and
bound it closely to her head, so that it might hide no whit of her
borrowed attire.
There she stood, with Aurea’s collar lying on her dear neck, and Viridis’
girdle about her shapen loins, and Atra’s ring on her lovesome finger.
And she hearkened a while and heard no sound of coming men; and there
came into her heart a gentle fear, which grieved her not. Over the water
before her hung an eglantine bush, with its many roses either budding or
but just out. Birdalone stole thither softly, and said, smiling: Nay, if
I have nothing that is mine on my body, I will take this of the maiden’s
bath and make it mine. And therewith she plucked a spray of the bush and
turned it into a garland for her head; and then when she had stood shyly
a while in that same place, she turned and went swiftly to her place
beside her night-harbour, and stood there hearkening with that sweet fear
growing upon her, her colour coming and going, and her heart beating
fast.
Now the thought of that kind priest who had led her to the bower last
night came into her mind, and she wondered why he had been so troubled.
And she thought, would those others be so kind to her, or would they deem
her an impudent wench or a foolish, or pass her by?
Forsooth if any had passed her by it had been not that he should miss
seeing her beauty, but that he should fear it, and deem her some goddess
of the Gentiles of old time come before him for his ensnaring.
CHAPTER IV. AND NOW SHE MEETS THE CHAMPIONS.
NOW, as she stood hearkening, she deemed she heard something that was not
so loud as the song of the blackbird in the brake, but further off and
longer voiced: and again she hearkened heedfully, and the sound came
again, and she deemed now that it was the voice of an horn. But the
third time of her hearing it she knew that it was nought less; and at
last it grew nigher, and there was mingled with it the sound of men
shouting and the lowing of neat.
Then she stepped down to the very edge of the way, and now she saw the
riding-reek go up into the clear air, and she said: Now are they coming
without fail, and I must pluck up a heart; for surely these dear friends
of my friends shall neither harm a poor maiden nor scorn her.
Soon came the leading beasts from out of the dust-cloud, and behind them
was the glitter of spear-heads; and then presently was a herd of neat
shambling and jostling along the road, and after them a score or so of
spearmen in jack and sallet, who, forsooth, turned to look on Birdalone
as they passed by, and spake here and there a word or two, laughing and
pointing to her, but stayed not; and all went on straight to the castle.
Thereafter was a void, and then came riding leisurely another score of
weaponed men, whereof some in white armour; and amongst them were five
sumpter horses laden with carcasses of venison. And all these also went
by and stayed not, though the most of them gazed on Birdalone hard
enough.
Last of all came three knights riding, one with a gold surcoat over his
armour, and thereon a cleft heart of red; the second with a green
surcoat, and on the same a chief of silver with green boughs thereon,
their ends a-flaming; but the third bore a black surcoat besprinkled with
silver tears. And all these three rode bare-headed, save that the Black
Knight bore an oak-wreath on the head.
Now did Birdalone take to her valiancy, and she stepped out into the road
till she was but a ten paces from those men, who reined up when they
beheld her; and she said in a clear voice: Abide, warriors! for if ye be
what I deem you, I have an errand unto you.
Scarce were the words out of her mouth, ere all three had leapt off their
horses, and the Golden Knight came up to her, and laid his hand upon her
side, and spake eagerly and said: Where is she, whence thou gattest this
gown of good web? And thou, said she, art thou Baudoin the Golden
Knight? But he set his hand to the collar on her neck, and touched her
skin withal, and said: This, was she alive when thou camest by it? She
said: If thou be Baudoin the Golden Knight, I have an errand to thee. I
am he, said the knight; O tell me, tell me, is she dead? Said Birdalone:
Aurea was alive when last I saw her, and mine errand is from her to thee,
if thou be verily her lover. Now with this word I pray thee to be
content a while, said she, smiling kindly upon him, for needs must I do
mine errand in such wise as I was bidden. And thou seest also that thy
friends would have a word of me.
Forsooth, they were thrusting in on her, and the Green Knight gat a hold
of her left wrist in his left hand, and his right was on her shoulder,
and his bright face close to her bosom whereon lay Viridis’ smock; and
thereat she shrank aback somewhat, but said: Sir, it is sooth that the
smock is for thee when thou hast answered me a question or two.
Meanwhile I pray thee forbear a little; for, as I trow, all is well, and
thou shalt see my dear friend Viridis again.
He withdrew him a little, flushed and shamefaced. He was a young man
exceeding beauteous, clear-skinned and grey-eyed, with curly golden hair,
and he bore his armour as though it were silken cloth. Birdalone looked
upon him kindly though shyly, and was glad to the heart’s root that
Viridis had so lovely a man to her darling. As for the Golden Knight, as
Birdalone might see now, he stood a little aloof; he was a very goodly
man of some five and thirty winters; tall he was, broad-shouldered and
thin-flanked, black-haired, with somewhat heavy eyebrows, and fierce
hawk-eyes; a man terrible of aspect, when one first beheld him.
Now when the Black Squire had hearkened Birdalone’s word concerning
Viridis, he threw himself down on the ground before her, and fell to
kissing her feet; or, if you will, Atra’s shoon which covered them. When
she drew back a little, he rose on one knee and looked up at her with an
eager face, and she said: To thee also I have an errand from Atra, thy
speech-friend, if thou be Arthur the Black Squire. He spake not, but
still gazed on her till she reddened. She knew not whether to deem him
less goodly than the other twain. He also was a young man of not over
five and twenty years, slim and lithe, with much brown hair; his face
tanned so dark that his eyes gleamed light from amidst it; his chin was
round and cloven, his mouth and nose excellently fashioned; little hair
he had upon his face, his cheeks were somewhat more hollow than round.
Birdalone noted of his bare hands, which were as brown as his face, that
they were very trim and shapely.
Now he rose to his feet, and the three stood together and gazed on her;
as how might they do otherwise? Birdalone hung her head, and knew not
what next to do or say. But she thought within herself, would these
three men have been as kind to her as her three friends of the Isle, had
she happened on them in like case as she was that time? And she settled
with herself that they would have been no less kind.
Now spake the Golden Knight, and said: Will the kind maiden do her errand
to us here and now? for we be eager and worn with trouble. Birdalone
looked adown and was somewhat confused. Fair sirs, said she, I will do
your will herein.
But the Black Squire looked on her and saw that she was troubled, and he
said: Your pardon, fair fellows, but is it not so that we have an house
somewhat anigh, not ill purveyed of many things? By your leave I would
entreat this kind and dear lady to honour us so much as to enter the
Castle of the Quest with us, and abide there so long as she will; and
therein may she tell us all her errand at her leisure; and already we may
see and know, that it may not be aught save a joyous one.
Then spake the Golden Knight, and said: I will ask the lady to pardon me,
and will now join my prayer to thine, brother, that she come home with
us. Lady, he said, wilt thou not pardon me, that in the eager desire to
hear tidings of my speech-friend I forgat all else.
And therewithal he knelt before her, and took her hand and kissed it; and
for all his fierce eyes and his warrior’s mien, she deemed him kind and
friendly. Then needs must the Green Knight kneel and kiss also, though
he had no pardon to crave; but a fair sweet lad she thought him, and
again her heart swelled with joy to think that her friend Viridis had so
dear a speech-friend to long for her.
Then came the turn of the Black Squire, and by then were the two others
turned away a little toward their horses; and he knelt down on both knees
before Birdalone and took her right arm above the wrist, and looked at
the hand and kissed it as if it were a relic, but stood not up; and she
stood bending over him, and a new sweetness entered into her, the like of
which she had never felt. But as for the Black Squire, it seemed that
one hand would not suffice him, and he took her left hand and fell to
kissing it, and then both the hands together all over the backs of them,
and then the palms thereof, and he buried his face in the two palms, and
held them to his cheeks; and the dear hands suffered it all, and
consented to the embracing of his cheeks. But Birdalone deemed that this
was the kindest and sweetest of the three kind warriors, and sorry she
was when he let go her hands and stood up.
His face was flushed, but his speech calm, as he spake so that the other
knights might hear him: Now will we straight to the castle, lady, and we
will ask thee which of us three thou wilt honour by riding his horse
there; shall it be Baudoin’s bright bay, or Hugh’s dapple-grey, or my red
roan? And therewith he took her by the hand and led her toward the
horses. But she laughed, and turning a little, pointed to the castle,
and said: Nay, sweet lords, but I will fare afoot, such a little way as
it is, and I all unwont to the saddle.
Spake the Green Knight: If that be so, lady, then shall we three walk
afoot with thee. Nay, nay, she said; I have nought to carry but myself;
but ye have your byrnies and your other armour, which were heavy for you
to drag on afoot, even a little way. Moreover, I were fain to see you
mount your horses, and ride and run about the meadow with tossing manes
and flashing swords, while I trudge quietly toward the gate; for such
things, and so beauteous, are all new unto me, as ye shall learn
presently when I tell you my story. Do so much to pleasure me, kind
knights.
The tall Baudoin nodded to her, smiling kindly, as much as to say that he
thought well of her desire. But the Green Knight ran to his horse with a
glad shout, and anon was in the saddle with his bright sword in his fist;
then he spurred, and went a-gallop hither and thither over the mead,
making his horse turn short and bound, and playing many tricks of the
tilt-yard, and crying, A Hugh, A Hugh, for the Green Gown! The Golden
Knight was slower and more staid, but in manywise he showed his
war-deftness, riding after Hugh as if he would fall on him, and staying
his way just as it became perilous; and he cried, Baudoin, Baudoin, for
Gold-sleeves! And all this seemed to Birdalone both terrible and lovely.
But for the Black Squire, he was slow to let loose Birdalone’s hand; but
thereafter he was speedy to vault into his saddle, and he made courses
over the meadow, but ever came back to Birdalone as she went her ways,
riding round and round her, and tossing his sword into the air the while
and catching it as it fell. And no less lovely did this seem to
Birdalone, and she smiled on him and waved her hand to him.
Going slowly in this wise, she came at last to the castle gate; and now
had all those three out-gone her and stood afoot in the wicket to welcome
her, and the Golden Knight, who was the oldest of the three, was the
speaker of the welcome.
Over the threshold of the Castle of the Quest went Birdalone’s feet then,
and she was grown so happy as she had never deemed she should be all her
life long.
CHAPTER V. BIRDALONE HAS TRUE TOKENS FROM THE CHAMPIONS OF THE QUEST.
NOW they brought Birdalone into a very fair chamber, where was presently
everything she might need, save a tiring woman, which, forsooth, was no
lack unto her, since never had she had any to help her array her body.
So she did what she might to make herself the trimmer; and in a while
came two fair swains of service, who brought her in all honour into the
great hall, where were the three lords abiding her. There were they
served well and plenteously, and fair was the converse between them; and
in especial was the talk of Arthur the Black Squire goodly and wise and
cheery, and well-measured; and the Green Knight’s speech merry and kind,
as of an happy child; and the Golden Knight spake ever free and kindly,
though not of many words was he. And who was happy if Birdalone were
not?
But when they had eaten and washed their hands, then spake the Golden
Knight: Dear maiden, now are we ready to hear the innermost of thine
errand, all we together, if thou wilt.
Birdalone smiled and reddened withal, as she said: Fair lords, I doubt
not but ye are even they unto whom I was sent, but they who sent me, and
who saved me from death and worse, bade me do mine errand in such a way,
that I should speak with each one of you privily, and that for a token
each should tell me a thing known but to him and his love, and to me unto
whom she hath told it. Now am I all ready to do mine errand thus, and no
other wise.
Laughed they now, and were merry, and the Green Knight blushed like a
maiden; forsooth like to his very speech-friend Viridis. But the Black
Squire said: Fair fellows, get we all into the pleasance this fair morn,
and sit there on the grass, and our sweet lady shall take us one after
other into the plashed alley, and have the tokens of us.
Even so they did, and went into the pleasance, which was a goodly little
garth south of the castle, grassed, and set thick with roses and lilies
and gillyflowers, and other fragrant flowers. There then they sat on the
daisied greensward, the three lords together, and Birdalone over against
them, and they three watched her beauty and loveliness and wondered
thereat.
But she said: Now it comes to the very point of mine errand; wherefore I
bid thee, Baudoin the Golden Knight, to come apart with me and answer to
my questions, so that I may know surely that I am doing mine errand
aright.
Therewith she arose to her feet, and he also, and he led her into the
plashed alley, out of earshot of the other twain, who lay upon the grass
biding their turn with but little patience.
But when those two were in the deep shade of the alley, Birdalone said:
Thou must know, Sir Golden Knight, that the three lovers of you three
were good to me in my need, and clad my nakedness from their very bodies,
but this raiment they lent me, and gave it not; for they bade me give it
up piece by piece each unto the one who had given it to his love, whom I
should know by the token that he should tell truly the tale of its
giving. Now, fair sir, I know well, for I have been told, what was the
tale of thy giving this golden gown to Aurea, and that same tale shalt
thou now tell me, and if thou tell it aright, then is the gown thine.
Begin, then, without more tarrying.
Lady, said the knight, thus it was: Aurea, my sweetling, abode with an
ancient dame, a kinswoman of hers, who was but scantly kind to her; and
on a day when we had met privily, and were talking together, my love
lamented the niggard ways of her said kinswoman, and told how she had no
goodly gown to make her fair when feasts were toward; but I laughed at
her, and told her that so clad as she was (and her attire was verily but
simple) she was fairer than any other; and then, as ye may wot, there was
kissing and clipping between us; but at last, as from the first I meant
it, I promised her I would purvey her such a gown as no lady should go
with a better in all the country-side; but I said that in return I must
have the gown she went in then, which had so long embraced her body and
been strained so close to her body and her sides, and was as it were a
part of her. That she promised me with kisses, and I went away as merry
as a bird. Straightway thereafter I did do make this very gown, which
thou bearest, dear maiden, and on the appointed day she came out to me
unto the same place clad as she was before; but the new gown I had with
me. Hard by our trysting-place was a hazel-copse thick enow, for it was
midsummer, and she said she would go thereinto and shift gowns, and bear
me out thence the gift of the old clout (so she called it, laughing
merrily). But I said: Nay, I would go into the copse with her to guard
her from evil things, beasts or men; and withal to see her do off the old
gown, that I might know before I wedded her whatlike stuffing and padding
went to make the grace of her flanks and her hips. And again was she
merry, and she said: Come, then, thou Thomas unbelieving, and see the
side of me. So we went into that cover together, and she did off her
gown before mine eyes, and stood there in her white coat with her arms
bare, and her shoulders and bosom little covered, and she was as lovely
as a woman of the faery. Then I made no prayer unto her for leave, but
took my arms about her, and kissed her arms and shoulders and bosom all
she would suffer me, for I was mad with love of her naked flesh. Then
she did on this golden gown, and departed when she had given me the old
clout aforesaid, and I went away with it, scarce feeling the ground
beneath my feet; and I set the dear gown in a fair little coffer, and
here in this castle I have it now, and many times I take it forth and
kiss it and lay my head upon it. Now this is a simple tale, lady, and I
am ashamed that I have made it so long for thee. And yet I know not; for
thou seemest to me so kind and loving and true, that I am fain that thou
shouldest know how sorely I love thy friend and mine.
Birdalone deemed Baudoin a good man indeed, and the tears came into her
eyes as she answered and said: True is thy tale, dear friend, and I have
deemed it rather short than long. I see well that thou art Aurea’s very
lover; and it joys me to think that thou, O terrible champion, art yet so
tender and true. Now is the golden gown thine, but I will pray thee to
lend it me a little longer. But this jewel shalt thou have from my neck
here and now; and thou knowest whence it came, thine Aurea’s neck
forsooth.
Therewith she betook it him, and he held it in his hand doubtfully a
while, and then he said: Dear maiden, I thank thee, but I will take this
collar, and lay it in my casket, and be glad thereof; and that the more,
as, now I look on thee, I see nought missing from the loveliness of thine
own neck.
Go to thy fellows now, said Birdalone, and send me the Green Knight, the
goodly lad. So went he, and presently came Hugh thither merry and
smiling, and said: Thou hast been long about the first token, sweet
mistress; I fear me I shall make no such goodly story as hath Baudoin.
And yet, said she, Viridis’ tale was the longest of all. I doubt thou
mayst fail in the token. And she laughed; and he no less, and took her
by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek frankly, and in such wise that she
feared him nought, and said: Now that is to pay thee for thy gibe; what
wouldst thou have of me? Said Birdalone: I would have thee tell me how
it was that Viridis came by the smock with the green boughs aflame, which
now I bear upon me.
Hearken, darling lady, said he: On a day Viridis and I were alone in the
meadow, and so happy, that we might find nought to do save to fall into
strife together; and I said it to her, that she loved me not as well as I
loved her; which, by the way, was no less than a lie, for of all things
living she is the most loving, and when we be together she knoweth not
how to make enough of me. Well, we fell to wrangling after the manner of
lovers, till I, having nothing else to say, bade her remember that since
we had first come to love each other, I had given her many things, and
she had given me nothing. Lo, then! my dear, what an ill-conditioned lad
was I. But, little as I meant it, she took it all amiss, and leapt up,
and fell to running back home over the meadow; thou mayst think how
easily I caught up with her, and how little loth she was to be dragged
back by the shoulders. So when we were sitting again under the
thorn-bush, we had well-nigh done our wrangle; but she unlaced her gown
and drew down a corner thereof, to show me her shoulder, how I had hurt
it e’en now; and forsooth some little mark there was on the rose-leaf
skin; and that made good time for kissing again, as ye may well wot.
Then she said unto me: And how may I, a poor damsel, give thee gifts, and
my kindred all greedy about me? Yet would I give thee a gift, such as I
may, if I but knew what thou wouldst take. Now my heart was afire with
that kissing of her shoulder, and I said that I would have that very same
smock from her body, which then she bore, and that thereof I should deem
that I had a rich gift indeed. What! said she, and wouldst thou have it
here and now? And indeed I think she would have done it off her that
minute had I pressed her, but I lacked the boldness thereto; and I said:
Nay, but would she bring it unto me the next time we met; and forsooth
she brought it folded in a piece of green silk, and dearly have I loved
it and kissed it sithence. But as for thy smock, I had it fairly wrought
and embroidered with the flaming green branches, as thou seest it, and I
gave it to her; but not on the day when she gave me the gift; for the new
one was long about doing. Now this is all the tale, and how Viridis
might eke it into a long one, I wot not. But let it be, and tell me,
have I won thy smock, or lost it?
Birdalone laughed on him and said: Well, at least thou shalt have it as a
gift; and thou mayst call it given either by Viridis or me, which thou
wilt. But with it goes another gift; which thou mayst have at once since
thou must lend me the smock a little longer. And therewith she betook
him her girdle, and he kissed it, but said: Nay, fair lady, this
befitteth well the loveliness of thy body that thou shouldst wear it; and
well it befitteth the truth and love of thy soul toward it for me; I pray
thee to keep it. Nevertheless, she said, I will not have it, for it
goeth with mine errand that thou take it of me. Now I bid thee depart,
and send hither thy fellow, the Black Squire.
Went he then, and anon comes the Black Squire, and now that he was alone
with Birdalone this first time, he seemed moody and downcast, all unlike
the two others. He stood a little aloof from Birdalone, and said: What
wouldst thou ask of me? Her heart was somewhat chilled by his moodiness,
for erst had she deemed him the kindest of the three; but she said: It is
of mine errand to ask of thee concerning this foot-gear which Atra lent
me until I give it unto thee, if thou be verily her lover. Said he: I
was verily her lover. Birdalone said: Then canst thou tell me the manner
of thy giving these fair shoon unto Atra?
He said: Even so; we were walking together in this country-side and came
to a ford of the river, and it was somewhat deep and took me to over the
knee, so I bore her over in my arms; then we went on a little further
till we must cross the river back again in another place, and there the
ford was shallower, and, the day being hot, Atra must needs wade it on
her own feet. So she did off hosen and shoon, and I led her by the hand,
and it took her but up to mid-leg. But when we came up out of the water
and were on the grass again, I craved the gift of her foot-gear for the
love of her, and she gave it straightway, and fared home barefoot, for it
was over the meads we were wending in early summer, and the grass was
thick and soft. But thereafter I did do make the fair shoon which thou
hast on thy feet, and gave them to her. And, for a further token that my
tale is true, I shall tell thee that the name of the first ford we waded
that day is the Grey-nag’s Wade, and the second is called Goat Ford.
This is all my tale, lady; is the token true?
True it is, squire, said Birdalone, and was silent awhile, and he also.
Then she looked on him friendly, and said: Thou art out of heart as now,
my friend. Fear not, for thou shalt without doubt see thy speech-friend
again. Moreover here is a ring which she set upon my finger, bidding me
give it thee. And she held it out unto him.
He took the ring, and said: Yea, it is best that I have it of thee, lest
unluck come thereof. She saw trouble in his face, but knew not what to
say to cheer him, and they stood silently facing one another for awhile.
Then he said: Let us back to our fellows, and talk it over, what is now
to be done.
So they went their ways to where lay the other two upon the green grass,
and the Black Squire lay down beside them; but Birdalone stood before
them and spake unto the three.
CHAPTER VI. HOW THE CHAMPIONS WOULD DO BIRDALONE TO BE CLAD ANEW IN THE
CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
LORDS, she said, now is it clear by the tokens that mine errand is to you
and none other; now therefore am I to tell you what to do to come unto
your speech-friends and deliver them and bring them back hither. For
this is their case, that they are in captivity in a wonder-isle of this
great water, and it is called the Isle of Increase Unsought.
Spake the Golden Knight: Fair lady, we have heard before that our friends
fared hence, or rather were taken hence over the water. And that is the
cause why we builded this castle on the water’s edge, on the very stead
where was raised the pavilion, the house made for the ladies to abide
therein the battle of the Champions. Since that time, moreover, many a
barge and keel have we thrust out into the water, that we might
accomplish the Quest whereunto we were vowed; but ever one way went our
seafaring, that when we were come so far out into the water as to lose
sight of land, came upon us mist, rose against us dusk and darkness; and
then a fierce driving wind that drave us back to this shore. It is but
six days ago since we tried this adventure for the last time, and belike
the same shall befall us the next time we try it. Wherefore I must ask
thee, lady, dost thou know any way whereby we may come to the said isle?
For if thou dost, full surely we will try it, whatsoever may be the risk
thereby to our bodies or our souls.
Full surely I do, said Birdalone; else how had I come from thence hither
mine own self? And therewith she told them of the Sending Boat, what it
was, and how she had come all the way by means thereof from the Isle of
Increase Unsought; and they all hearkened her heedfully, and wondered
both at the sorcery, and the valiant heart of her who had driven it as
she would in despite of the evil. But in the end she spake and said:
Lords, ye have now heard some deal of my story, even that which concerns
you thereof; and which must needs be told at once: wherefore doubtless ye
shall fare unto your speech-friends by this ferry in the very wise that I
shall show you; unless perchance ye deem that I have been lying and
making light tales to you, as, sooth to say, I deem ye think it not.
Spake the Golden Knight: Damsel, in all wise we trow in thee and thy
tale. And God forbid that we should tarry! Go we hence this very day.
Yea, but hearken, said the Black Squire: Is it not a part of this
damsel’s errand that she should deliver to us the raiment of our friends,
which now she beareth on her own body, that we may bear it back unto
them?
Sooth is that, said Birdalone, and ye may well wot that this may be
nought but needful, whereas the said ladies be all beset by sorceries.
See ye then, fellows, said the Black Squire, it may not be to-day nor yet
to-morrow that we may take the road. For ye wot that there is no woman’s
gear in all the castle, and we must needs send otherwhere to seek it.
Look thou, maiden, said the Golden Knight, laughing, how duly this young
knight thinketh of thee; whereas I, who am his elder, and should be wiser
than he, am but heedless of thee. I pray thy pardon.
Moreover, said the Black Squire, there may well be wisdom in abiding; for
it is to be thought that our dear loves considered this, and knew what
the time of tarrying should be, and have so dight their matter as to fit
in therewith; and I may not deem it of them that they would have us array
this our dear sister and theirs in unseemly wise. Nay, for that would be
an ill beginning of this deal of the Quest.
Now all yeasaid this gladly; and the Green Knight said: It were not so
ill done that we should see more of our sister here ere we depart, and
hear more of her tale; for meseemeth she began it erewhile but half-way.
And he turned to Birdalone, and took her hand and caressed it.
Birdalone smiled on them somewhat shyly, and thanked them; but bade them
spend as little time as might be on her arrayal. For, said she, though
those ladies may well have reckoned on the time of the arrayal of my
body, yet surely also they shall have reckoned with the eager fire of
love in the hearts of you, and the haste it shall breed therein.
Well pleased were they with that word of hers, but none the less sent two
sergeants and a squire with led horses unto the cheaping-town, a goodly
and great town hight Greenford, which was some twenty miles thence, with
the errand to bring back with them a good shaper and embroideress, and
sewing-women, and cloth and silk and linen, and all things needful.
As for jewels, each one of them was fain to give her something which he
prized, and fair and rich were the gifts, though they had not been made
for women. As a fair SS collar of gold, which the Golden Knight gave
her, and a girdle of broad golden plates, wrought beauteously, which was
the gift of the Black Squire. Albeit he did not offer to clasp it round
her loins, as she deemed he would; for when the Green Knight brought his
gift, a great gold ring, very ancient of fashion, he would have her turn
back the sleeve from her fore-arm, that he might set his dwarf-wrought
gold upon the bare flesh; neither did he refrain him from kissing it
withal.
But the messengers came back with their work-women and stuffs early on
the morrow; and now was changed all the manner of the womanless castle,
and men were full merry therein.
CHAPTER VII. OF BIRDALONE, HOW SHE TOLD THE CHAMPIONS ALL HER TALE.
IT was a matter of eight days, the making of all Birdalone’s raiment, and
meanwhile she was ever with the three Champions, either all three
together, or one or other of them. And as to their manners with her,
ever was the Golden Knight of somewhat sober demeanour, as if he were an
older man than he verily was. The Green Knight was for ever praising
Birdalone’s beauty to her face, and seemed to find it no easy matter to
keep his eyes off her, and somewhat he wearied her with kisses and
caresses; but a gay and sportive lad he was; and when she rebuked him for
his overmuch fondness, as now and again she did, he would laugh at
himself along with her; and in sooth she deemed him heart-whole, and of
all truth to Viridis, and oft he would talk of her to Birdalone, and
praise her darling beauty to her, and tell of his longing for his love
aloof. Only, quoth he, here art thou, my sister, dwelling amongst us,
and shedding thy fragrance on us, and showing to us, wilt thou, wilt thou
not, as do the flowers, all the grace and loveliness of thee; and thou so
tender of heart withal, that thou must not blame me overmuch if whiles I
forget that thou art my sister, and that my love is, woe’s me! far away.
So thou wilt pardon me, wilt thou not? Yea, verily, said she, with a
whole heart. Yet thou needest not reach out for my hand; thou hast had
enough of it this morning. And she hid it, laughing, in the folds of her
gown; and he laughed also, and said: Of a truth thou art good in all
wise, and a young fool am I; but Viridis shall make me wiser, when we
come together again. Sawest thou ever so fair a damsel? Never, she
said, and surely there is none fairer in all the world. So hold thee
aloof now for a while, and think of her.
As for the Black Squire, hight Arthur, Birdalone was troubled for him,
and he made her somewhat sad. True it is that he came not before her
again so moody and downcast as when he was giving her the token; yet she
deemed that he enforced himself to seem of good cheer. Furthermore,
though he sought her company ever, and that lonely with him, and would
talk with her almost as one man with another, though with a certain
tenderness in his voice, and looking earnestly on her the while, yet
never would he take her hand, or touch her in any wise. And true it is
that she longed for the touch of his hand.
On the third day of her sojourn in the Castle of the Quest, Birdalone
took heart at the much egging of her friends, as they sat all together in
the meadow without the castle, to tell them all the story of her; she hid
none, save concerning the wood-mother, for she deemed that her sweet
friend would love her the better if she babbled not of her.
So the Champions hearkened her telling the tale in her clear lovely
voice, and great was their love and pity for the poor lonely maiden. And
in especial clear it was to see that they were sore moved when she told
how she first came on the Sending Boat, and how the witch-wife tormented
her innocent body for that guilt. Then Baudoin laid his hand upon her
head, and spake: Poor child, much indeed hast thou suffered! and now I
will say it, that it was for us and our loves that thou hast borne all
this anguish of captivity and toil and stripes.
But Hugh leaned over to her, as she sat with her head hanging down, and
kissed her cheek, and said: Yea! and I was not there to smite the head
off that accursed one; and I knew nought of thee and thine anguish, as I
took my light pleasure about these free meadows. And he turned very red,
and went nigh to weep.
Arthur sat still with his eyes bent down on the ground, and he said
nothing; and Birdalone glanced on him wistfully ere she went on with her
tale. And she went on and told closely all that had happened unto her in
the crossing of the water and on the Isle of Increase Unsought, and the
other Wonder Isles; and she deemed it not too much that she should tell
it twice over, nor they that twice over they should hearken it.
That same evening as Birdalone walked by herself in the castle pleasance,
she saw Arthur peering about as if he were seeking someone; so she stood
forth, and asked him was he seeking aught; and he said: Thee was I
seeking. But she durst not ask him what he would, but stood silent and
trembling before him, till he took her hand, and spake not loud but
eagerly.
After what thou hast told us to-day, I seem to know thee what thou art;
and I tell thee that it is a pain and grief to me to leave thee, yea to
leave thee were it but for a minute. O I pray thee pity me for the
sundering. And therewith he turned about and hastened into the castle.
But Birdalone stood there with her heart beating fast and her flesh
quivering, and a strange sweetness of joy took hold of her. But she said
to herself that it was no wonder though she felt so happy, seeing that
she had found out that, despite her fears, this one of her friends loved
her no less well than the others. And then she spake it in a soft voice
that she would indeed pity him for the sundering, yea, and herself also.
Nevertheless, when they met thereafter, his demeanour to her was none
otherwise than it had been; but she no longer heeded this since now she
trowed in him.
CHAPTER VIII. IN THE MEANWHILE OF THE DEPARTING OF THE CHAMPIONS, THEY
WOULD PLEASURE BIRDALONE WITH FEATS OF ARMS AND GAMES OF PROWESS.
PASSED the days now speedily, and the three Champions did what they might
for the solace of Birdalone. For they and their household showed her of
arms, and they tilted together courteously; and the sergeants stood
forth, and shot in the bow before her, till she herself by their bidding
took the bow in hand, and shot straighter and well-nigh as hard as the
best man there, whereat they marvelled, and praised her much.
Then the young men ran afoot before her for the prize of a belt and
knife, and forsooth she wotted well that were she to run against them
with trussed-up skirts she would bear off the prize; but she had no heart
thereto, for amidst them all, and her new friendships, she had grown
shamefast, and might play the wood-maiden no longer. Yet twice the
Champions fared further afield with her to show her some woodcraft; yet
were not very free to go far, because of the ill neighbours whereof the
chaplain had told her that first night of her coming.
And in all these pastimes, whatso they were, Birdalone bore herself well
and merrily, and put from her the sorrow of the sundering, and the peril
of her dear friends which grew now so near at hand.
The chaplain aforesaid, who hight Leonard, she fell in with not seldom;
and he was ever meek and humble before her; and ever withal was sorrow
easy to be seen in his countenance, and trouble withal; and she knew not
how to help him, save by being courteous and kind with him whenso they
met; but none the more might he pluck up cheerful countenance in answer
to her kindness.
With Sir Aymeris, the grizzle-haired castellan, she foregathered also oft
enough, and could not forbear some merry gibes with him concerning their
first meeting, and how that she had been a burden and a terror to him;
and these mocks she made him because she saw it liked him not ill to be
mocked in friendly fashion; though forsooth betwixt the laughter he
looked on her somewhat ruefully. And ever, ere he parted from her, he
made occasion to kiss her hands; and she suffered it smiling, and was
debonair to him; whereas she saw that he was of good will to her. In
such wise then wore the hours and the days.
CHAPTER IX. BIRDALONE COMETH BEFORE THE CHAMPIONS IN HER NEW ARRAY.
NOW the time was come when Birdalone had all her gear ready, and the
women were to abide in the castle as her serving-damsels while the
Champions were away.
So now in the summer eve, an hour before sunset, Birdalone did on the
richest of her new raiment, and came into the hall where sat the Three
together, and Sir Aymeris with them. She was so clad, that she had on a
green gown with broidered sleeves, and thereover a white cote-hardie
welted with gold, and gold-embroidered; on her feet were gold shoon of
window-work, pearled and gemmed; and on her head a rose garland; on her
neck she bore the Golden Knight’s collar; her loins were girt with the
Black Squire’s girdle; and on her wrist was the Green Knight’s ancient
gold ring; and she carried in her arms Aurea’s gown and Viridis’ shift
and Atra’s shoon.
Rather sunrise than sunset it seemed, as verily Birdalone she came into
the hall with bright eager eyes, and flushed cheeks, and countenance
smiling with love. The men stood up all, and would come down from the
dais to meet her; but she bade them go back, and sit each in his place
till she stood before them.
Up the hall then she walked, and every step of hers seemed lovelier than
the last, till she came to them and gave unto each his keepsake, and
said: Champions, now is mine errand all done, save that to-morrow I must
show you the manner of the Sending Boat. Now there is nought save the
darkness of the coming night to hinder you from this last deal of your
Quest; and it is I that have brought you to this, and have done this good
unto you, if no more good I do in the world. Wherefore I pray you to
love me ever, and bear me ever in your minds.
They gazed on her, and were overcome by her loveliness and grace, and by
the kindness and valiancy of her heart. Next arose the Golden Knight,
Baudoin to wit, and took a cross from his breast, and held it up, and
spake: Maiden, thou sayest well, and never shall we forget thee, or cease
to love thee; and here I swear by God upon the Tree, that it shall be a
light thing for me to die for thee, if in any need I find thee.
Brethren, will ye not swear the same? And this is but thy due, maiden,
for I declare unto thee, that when thou didst enter the hall e’en now, it
was as if the very sun of heaven was coming in unto us.
Thereon the other two took the Rood and swore upon it: and Hugh was
hushed and meek and sad-faced after he had sworn; but Arthur the Black
Squire bowed down his head and wept, and his fellows marvelled nought
thereat, neither did Birdalone; and all her body yearned toward him to
solace him.
Now turned Sir Baudoin to the castellan and said: Sir Aymeris, I will now
swear thee to guard this lady as the apple of thine eye whiles we three
be away, and therein to spare neither thyself nor others. For thou seest
well what grief it would be to us if she came to any harm.
And to me also, said the castellan. And therewith he swore upon the
Rood, and then came round the table, and knelt before Birdalone, and
kissed her hands.
Thereafter were they all silent a space; and then came Birdalone to the
inner side of the table and sat betwixt Baudoin and Hugh. But the Black
Squire took up the word and spake: Birdalone, sweet child, one thing is
to be said, to wit, that it were well that thou keep within walls while
we be away; or at least that thou go but a little beyond the castle, and
never but within a half bowshot, save thou be well accompanied. For
there be men of violence dwelling no great way off, reivers and rovers,
who would be well pleased to take from us anything which we deem dear;
besides others who would think the lifting of such a jewel good hap
indeed. Sir Aymeris, have a care of the Red Knight; and if thou mightest
come by a few more stout lads, to wage them, it were well.
Birdalone heeded not what the castellan answered, such a shaft of joy
went to her heart when she heard that friend speak her own name in such
wise as he had never done erst, and that before them all. She but
murmured some yeasay to that which Arthur had spoken unto her, and then
she held her peace for the sweetness of that moment.
So there they sat and talked a while in dear and pleasant converse; and
Hugh fell to asking her of her life in the House under the Wood, and she
answered all frankly and simply, and the more she told the dearer she
seemed to them.
Thus drew night in, till folk came flockmeal into the hall; for needs
must be feast and banquet for triumph of the furtherance of the Quest;
and the most of men were merry; but somewhat sober were all the three
Champions, so that whoso ran might read it in their faces. As for
Birdalone, she showed cheerful to all that folk which loved her and
praised her; but inwardly sorrow had come home to her heart.
CHAPTER X. THE CHAMPIONS GO THEIR WAYS IN THE SENDING BOAT.
WHEN the sun was arisen on the morrow the three Champions went down to
the landing-place, and there was none with them; for they had given
command that no man should pry into their doings. Thither to them cometh
Birdalone, clad no more in her gay attire, but in a strait black coat and
with unshod feet; and she looked no sorrier than she was.
By Birdalone’s rede the Champions bore down in their own hands the
victual and weapons and armour that they needed for the voyage; for she
knew not but that the Sending Boat might take it amiss that any should
touch her save the senders. And when they had done lading her, then all
four stood together by the water’s edge, and Birdalone spake to her
friends, and again bade them beware of the wiles of the Isle of Nothing;
and again she told them of the woful images of the Isle of Kings and the
Isle of Queens, and the strange folk of the Isle of the Young and the
Old. Then she said: Now when ye come to the Isle of Increase Unsought,
what think ye to do? Said the Green Knight: If I might rule, we should
go straight up to the witch sitting in her hall, as thou toldest us, my
dear, and then and there smite the head from off her. His eyes flashed
and his brow knitted, and so fierce he looked that Birdalone shrank back
from him; but the Black Squire smiled and said: It may come to the
smiting off of heads in the end; yet must we so fashion our carving, that
it avail us for the freeing of our friends; else may the witch die, and
the secret of the prison-house die with her. How sayest thou, dear
Birdalone?
She reddened at the caress of his voice, and answered: By my rede ye
shall seek and find your speech-friends ere ye make open war upon the
witch; else may her malice destroy them ere ye undo her. Her face
flushed yet more as she spake again: But concerning all things, I deem
that Atra may give you the best rede, when ye have met the loves; for
that she knoweth more of the isle and its guiles than the others.
Quoth Baudoin: Herein is wisdom, sweet maiden, for as guileless as thou
mayst be; and so far as we may we shall follow thy rede; but all lieth in
the fathom of the coming time. And now this moment is the moment of
sundering and farewell.
Came he then to Birdalone and took his two hands about her head, and
lifted her face unto him, and kissed it kindly, as a father might kiss a
daughter, and said: Farewell, dear child, and take heed to the word that
Arthur spake yesterday, and go not from the castle even a little way save
with good and sure company.
Then came Hugh to her, and took her hand somewhat timidly; but she put up
her face to him in simple wise, and he kissed either cheek of her, and
said no more than: Farewell, Birdalone!
Lastly came Arthur, and stood before her a little; and then he knelt down
on the stones before her and kissed her feet many times, and she
shuddered and caught her breath as they felt his kisses; but neither he
nor she spake a word, and he stood up and turned away at once toward the
Sending Boat, and boarded her first of the three; and the others followed
straightway.
Thereafter the Champions bared each an arm, and let blood flow thence
into a bowl, and reddened stem and stern of their barge, and then all
three spake the spell together thus, as Birdalone had taught them:
The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow:
Wake then, and awake,
And the northern way take!
The way of the Wenders forth over the flood,
For the will of the Senders is blent with the blood.
Went all as before thereafter, that the Sending Boat stirred under them,
and then turned about and pointed her bows to the northward, and sped
swiftly over the waters. It was a fair sunny day, with no cloud, nought
save the summer haze lying on the lake far away. Birdalone stood
watching the speeding of the boat, till she could see it no longer, not
even as a fleck on the face of the waters. Then she turned away and went
toward her chamber, saying to herself that the sundering was easier to
bear than she had deemed it would be, and that she had a many things to
do that day. But when she came into her chamber, and shut the door, she
looked about her on the things which had grown so familiar to her in
these few latter days, and she stood watching the bright sunshine that
streamed across the floor and lay warm upon her feet; then she took three
steps toward the window, and saw the lake lying all a-glitter under the
sun, and her heart failed her withal, and she had no might so much as to
think about her sorrow and caress it, but fell down where she was
swooning on to the floor, and lay there, while all the house began to
stir about her.
* * * * *
Here ends the Third Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called Of the Castle of the Quest, and begins the fourth Part of the said
tale, which is called Of the Days of Abiding.
THE FOURTH PART: OF THE DAYS OF ABIDING.
CHAPTER I. OF BIRDALONE’S GRIEF; AND OF LEONARD THE CHAPLAIN.
NOW came Birdalone to herself, and that was but little joy unto her, and
she yet lay still on the floor for a while, for she loathed the hour that
was to come. Then the life stirred in her, and whereas she would not
that her women should find her there, she stood up, and clad herself
somewhat more seemly; yet she did on her black raiment; and determined in
her mind that nought would she wear save black unadorned while her
friends were away.
She betook her now to the chamber where her women were gathered together,
and watched them working a while, but spake nought. Then she went her
ways into the pleasance, and paced the plashed alley up and down, letting
the tears run down from her as they would. Then she turned back into the
castle, and went out-a-gates and walked over the meadow a little, and
might well have gone further than wisdom would. But the castellan espied
her from a window, and came hurrying out after her, and with many prayers
for pardon, brought her back again, babbling to her by the way; but not a
word might he get from her; and when he came into the hall with her, and,
after his wont, knelt down to kiss her hands, she caught them away from
him peevishly, and was sorry for it thereafter.
Long she sat in the hall, scarce moving, till she heard one entering from
the screen, and lo it was Leonard the chaplain. He came her way, and
showed her rueful countenance; and pity of him smote her, and she
remembered therewith how they first went out of gates together; and at
the thought thereof her tears brake forth again, but she made him a sign
with her hand to sit down beside her, and he did so; and when she might
for her weeping, she looked kindly on him, and he fell to talk, making as
if he noted not her tears and sorrow; but she answered him little, for
she had shame to begin the talk concerning the Champions and their Quest,
and their departure; yet might she not bring her tongue to make any
speech else. But presently he took up the word, and asked her how long a
while she deemed they would be away, and she answered, smiling on him for
thanks, and having reckoned the days on her fingers: If all go better
than well, they may be back in ten days’ time. Said the chaplain: There
be longer whiles of waiting in most men’s lives. Yea, she said, but this
is the delay at the best; it may be far longer; for how may we tell what
haps may be?
Yea, said Leonard, shall we then call it twenty days, or thirty?
Forsooth, that may be long for thee; though there be some who must needs
endure hope deferred a deal longer. But it may run out longer than even
thirty days, thy waiting-tide.
She answered not, and he said: Whenso the time hangs heavy on hand with
thee, if thou hast will to fare abroad out of the castle, I shall be ever
at hand to guide thee. Indeed, I wot that the castellan will be loth to
let thee go; but he is old and straitlaced: and yet withal he wotteth, as
do we all, that there is now little peril or none were we to fare a five
miles or more, whereas we are as good as at peace for the last five days
with all save the Red Knight, and of him we wot that he is gone into
another land with as many of his folk as be not needed for the warding of
his hold.
I thank thee, said Birdalone, but it is like to be my will not to fare
out-a-gates till the Champions come back home. I was glad e’en now when
the castellan fetched me in again: to say sooth, fear of peril had just
entered my heart when he came up with me.
The priest seemed somewhat chapfallen at her answer. He spake little
more, and presently he stood up, made his obeisance, and departed.
CHAPTER II. BIRDALONE LEARNETH LORE OF THE PRIEST. TEN DAYS OF WAITING
WEAR.
WORE that day and the next, and Birdalone fell to talking with her women,
whereof were five now left; and four of them were young, the eldest
scarce of thirty summers, and the fifth was a woman of sixty, both wise
and kind. All these told her somewhat of their own lives when she asked
them; and some withal told of folk whom they had known or heard tell of.
And well pleased was Birdalone to hear thereof, and learn more of the
ways of the world, and quick-witted she was at the lesson, so that she
needed not to ask many questions.
Furthermore, she took to her broidering again, and fell to doing a goodly
pair of shoon for Atra, since she had worn those borrowed ones somewhat
hardly. And the women wondered at her needlework, so marvellous fine as
it was, and how that in little space of time were come flowers and trees,
and birds and beasts, all lovely; and they said that the faery must have
learned her that craft. But she laughed and reddened, and thought of the
wood-mother; and, sitting there within the four walls, she longed for the
oak-glades, and the wood-lawns, and for the sight of the beasts that
dwelt therein.
Again she fell in with Leonard the priest, and he asked her could she
read in a book, and when she said nay, he offered to teach her that lore,
and she yeasaid that joyously; and thenceforth would she have him with
her every day a good while; and an apt scholar she was, and he no ill
master, and she learned her A B C speedily.
Now it was the ninth day since the Champions were gone, and all that time
she had not been out-a-gates; and after the first two days, had enforced
herself to fill up her time with her work as aforesaid: but this last day
she might do but little, for she could not but take it for sure that the
morrow would be the day of return; nay, even she deemed that they might
come in the night-tide; so that when she went to bed, though she was
weary, she would wake if she might, so that it was nigh dawn ere she fell
asleep.
Some three hours after she woke up, and heard a sound of folk stirring in
the house, and the clashing of weapons; and the heart leapt in her, and
she said: They are come, they are come! Nevertheless she durst not get
out of bed, lest her hope had beguiled her; and she lay awake another
hour, and no tidings came to her; and then she wept herself to sleep; and
when she awoke once more, she found that she must have wept sleeping, for
the pillow beside her face was all wet with the tears.
The sun was high now, and his beams were cast back from the ripple of the
lake, and shone wavering on the wall of the chamber, the window whereof
gave on to the water. Then came a hand on the latch of the door, and she
started, and her heart grieved her; but it was one of the women who
opened, and came in, and Birdalone rose up sitting in her bed, and said
faintly, for she could scarce speak: Is any tiding toward, Catherine?
The maid said: Yes, my lady; for early after sunrise came weaponed men to
the gate, and would sell us beeves; and my lord, Sir Aymeris, must needs
go forth and chaffer with them, though belike they had been lifting what
was neither ours, nor theirs, nor the neighbours’. Maybe Sir Aymeris
looked to buy tidings from them as well as beef. Anyhow they departed
when they had gotten their money and drunk a cup. And now it is said
that the Red Knight hath been hurt in some fray, and keepeth his bed;
wherefore the land shall have peace of him awhile. Said Birdalone: I
thank thee, good Catherine; I shall lie a little longer; depart now.
The woman went her ways; and when she was gone, Birdalone wept and
sobbed, and writhed upon her bed, and found no solace to her grief. But
she arose and paced the chamber, and sithence looked out of the window
over the empty water, and wept again. Then she said: Yet they may come
ere noon, or it may be ere evening, or perchance to-morrow morning. And
she stayed her weeping, and was calmer. But still she walked the floor,
and whiles looked out of window, and whiles she looked on her limbs, and
felt the sleekness of her sides, and she said: O my body! how thou
longest!
But at last she clad herself in haste, and went stealthily from the
chamber, as if she feared to meet anyone; and she stole up to the
tower-top that was nighest, and looked through the door on to the leads,
and saw no one there; so she went out, and stood by the battlement, and
gazed long over the water, but saw neither boat nor burning mountain
coming towards her.
CHAPTER III. NOW WOULD BIRDALONE RIDE ABROAD.
AFTER a while she came down again, and went to the women, and sat working
with them a while, and so wore away two hours. Then she sent for the
priest and had her lesson of him; and when she had been at it another two
hours, she bade him begin and learn her writing; and nought loth he was
thereto; forsooth he had been longing to pray her to suffer him learn
her, but durst not. For in such teaching needs must he sit full nigh to
her, and watch her hands, and her fingers striving to shape the letters;
nay, whiles must he touch her hand with his, and hold it. Wherefore now
he promised himself a taste of Paradise. Withal he was full meet to
learn her, whereas he was one of the best of scribes, and a fair-writer
full handy.
So they fell to the lesson, and she became eager thereover, and learned
fast, and clave to the work, while his soul was tormented with longing
for her. And thus wore a three hours, and then suddenly she looked up
wearily from her work, and her trouble was awake, and the longing for her
speech-friend, and she gave the priest leave for that day, but suffered
him to kiss her hand for wages.
Then she hurried up to the tower-top, when the afternoon was wearing into
evening; and abode there a long while looking over the waters, till it
began to dusk, and then came down miserably and went to her women.
The next day was like unto this; nought betid, and she wore the hours
whiles going up to the tower-top and looking over the lake, whiles
broidering amidst her maids, whiles learning her clerk’s work with Sir
Leonard, but ever eating her heart out with her longing.
On the third of these days she called the castellan to her for a talk,
and asked him what he thought of it, this delay of his lords’ return.
Quoth the greyhead: My lady, we may not wonder if they be tarried for a
few days; for this is an adventure on which they have gone, and many haps
betide in such tales. Now I beseech thee torment not thyself; for the
time is not yet come for thee even to doubt that they have miscarried.
His words solaced her much for that time, whereas she saw that he spake
but the sooth; so she thanked him, and smiled upon him kindly; and he was
ravished thereat, and was for kneeling before her at once and kissing her
hands after his wont; but she smiled again and refrained him, and said:
Nay, not yet, fair friend; that is for the departure, and I have yet a
word to say unto thee: to wit, that I long to go out-a-gates, and it will
solace me and give me patience to abide the coming of my friends. For
thou must know, Sir Aymeris, that I was reared amidst the woods and the
meadows, with the burning of the sun, and the buffets of the wind; and
now for lack of some deal of that am I waxing white and faint. And thou
wouldst not have me falling sick on thine hands now, wouldst thou?
Nay, surely, lady, said Sir Aymeris; this very day I will ride out with
thee; and two score or more of weaponed men shall ride with us for fear
of mishaps. Said Birdalone, knitting her brows: Nay, knight, I need not
thy men-at-arms; I would fain go free and alone. For hast thou not heard
how that the Red Knight is hurt and keepeth his bed? So what peril is
there? Said Sir Aymeris: Yea, lady; but the Red Knight is not the only
foe, though he be the worst: but it may well be that the story is but
feigned, for the said enemy hath many wiles. And look you, kind lady, it
is most like that by now he hath heard how in my poor castle is kept a
jewel, a pearl of great price, that hath not its like in the world, and
will encompass the stealing of it if he may.
Laughed Birdalone, and said: But how if the said jewel hath a will, and
legs and feet thereto, and is ready to take the peril on her, and will
wend out-a-gates if she will? What wilt thou do then, lord? Then, said
the castellan, I shall fetch thee back, and, though it be a grief to me,
shall have thee borne back perforce if nought else may do. For so the
oath sworn to my lords compelleth me.
Again laughed Birdalone, and said: Hearken, whereto cometh all this
kneeling and hand-kissing! But bear in mind, fair lord, how once on a
time thou wouldst have me out-a-gates, would I, would I not, and now,
will I, will I not, thou wouldst keep me within; so have times changed,
and mayhappen they may change yet again. But tell me, am I mistress over
my women to bid them what I will? Certes, said he, and over all of us.
Said she: If then I bade them, some two or three, come with me into the
meadows and woods a half day’s journey for our disport, how then? For
that once, said Sir Aymeris, I should bid them disobey their lady. Said
Birdalone: And how if they disobeyed thee, and obeyed me? Quoth Sir
Aymeris: If they bring thee back safe, they may chance to sing to the
twiggen fiddle-bow, that they may be warned from such folly; but if they
come back without thee, by All-hallows the wind of wrath shall sweep
their heads off them!
Birdalone flushed red at his word, and was silent a while; then she said,
making cheerful countenance again: Thou art a hard master, lord
castellan; but I must needs obey thee. Therefore I will take thy
bidding, and ride abroad in such wise that I shall scare the land with an
army, since no otherwise may I look on the summer land. But to-day I
will not go, nor to-morrow belike; but some day soon. And in good sooth
I thank thee for thy heedful care of me, and wish I were better worth it.
Nay, nay, thou shalt not kneel to me, but I to thee: for thou art verily
the master.
Therewith she rose from beside him, and knelt down before him and took
his hand and kissed it, and went her ways, leaving him ravished with love
of her. But now she had no scorn of him, but deemed, as was true, that
he was both valiant and trusty and kind, and she thanked him in her heart
as well as in words.
CHAPTER IV. OF BIRDALONE’S FARING ABROAD.
INDEED Birdalone longed on any terms to be out-a-gates and to have some
joy of the summer; for now she began to see that she might have to abide
some while ere her friends should come to her in the Castle of the Quest;
and she was angry with herself that her longing was thus wasting her, and
she rebuked herself and said: Where is now that Birdalone who let but few
days go by without some joyance of the earth and its creatures? she who
bore lightly the toil of a thrall, and gibes and mocking and stripes?
Surely this is grievous folly, that I should be worsened since I have
come to be the friend of gentle ladies, and noble champions, and mighty
warriors. Had it not been better to have abided under the witch-wife’s
hand? For not every day nor most days did she torment me. But now for
many days there has been pain and grief and heart-sickness hour by hour;
and every hour have I dreaded the coming of the next hour, till I know
not how to bear it.
So she strove with herself, and became of better heart, and set herself
strongly to the learning of the clerkly lore; she gathered her wits
together, and no longer looked for every day and every hour to bring
about the return of the Champions, nor blamed the day and the hour
because they failed therein, and in all wise she strove to get through
the day unworn by vain longing.
Wherefore, on a day when three whole weeks were gone since the day of
departure, she was glad when the castellan came to her and said: Lady,
these two days I have had men out to spy the land, and their word goes
that nought is stirring which a score of us well-armed might have cause
to fear; wherefore to-morrow, if it be thy will, we shall bring thee
out-a-gates, and so please thee, shall be in no haste to come back, but
may lie out in the wildwood one night, and come back at our leisure on
the morrow of to-morrow. How sayest thou of thy pleasure herein?
She thanked him, and yeasaid it eagerly, and next morning they set forth;
and Birdalone had with her three of the women, and they had
sumpter-beasts with them, and tents for Birdalone and her maids.
So they rode by pleasant ways and fair meadows, and the weather was good,
for it was now the first days of July, and all was as lovely as might be;
and for that while Birdalone cast off all her cares, and was merry, and
of many words and sweet; and all the folk rejoiced thereat, for all loved
her in the Castle of the Quest, besides those one or two that loved her
overmuch.
Rode they thus a twelve miles or more, and then they came, as their
purpose was, to the beginning of a woodland plenteous of venison, and
they hunted here, and Birdalone took her part therein, and all praised
her woodcraft; albeit because of her went a head or two free that had
fallen else, whereas of the carle hunters were some who deemed the body
of her better worth looking on than the quarry.
Howsoever, they slew of hind and roe and other wood-cattle what they
would, some deal for their supper in the wilderness, some to bear home to
the castle. But when night was nigh at hand they made stay in a fair
wood-lawn about which ran a clear stream, whereby they pitched the
ladies’ tent; and Birdalone and hers went down into the water and washed
the weariness off them; and her ladies wondered at the deftness of
Birdalone’s swimming; for they bathed in a pool somewhat great into which
the stream widened, so that there was space enough for her therein.
By then they were washen and clad goodly in raiment which they had
brought on the sumpters, the men had lighted fires and were cooking the
venison, and anon there was supper and banquet in the wildwood, with
drinking of wine and pleasant talk and the telling of tales and singing
of minstrelsy; and so at last, when night was well worn, and out in the
open meadows the eastern sky was waxing grey, then Birdalone and her
ladies went to bed in their fair tents, and the men-at-arms lay down on
the greensward under the bare heaven.
CHAPTER V. SIR AYMERIS SHOWETH BIRDALONE THE MOUNTAINS AFAR OFF.
WHEN it was morning and they arose, the day was as fair as yesterday, and
folk were even as joyous as they had been then, all but Birdalone, and
she was silent and downcast, even when she came forth from the fresh
water into the sweetness of the midsummer wood. She had dreamed in the
night that she was all alone in the Castle of the Quest, and that her old
mistress came to her from out of the Sending Boat to fetch her away, and
brought her aboard, and stripped her of her rich garments and sat facing
her, drawing ugsome grimaces at her; and she thought she knew that her
friends were all dead and gone, and she had none to pity or defend her.
Then somehow were they two, the witch and she, amidmost of the Isle of
Nothing, and the witch drew close anigh her, and was just going to
whisper into her ear something of measureless horror, when she awoke; and
the sun was bright outside the shaded whiteness of her tent; the shadows
of the leaves were dancing on the ground of it; the morning wind was
rustling the tree-boughs, and the ripple of the stream was tinkling hard
by. At first was Birdalone joyous that what she had awakened from was
but a dream; but presently she felt the burden of her longing, and she
said to herself that when they came back to the castle they should find
tidings, and that she should know either that her friends were indeed
dead, or that they were come back again alive and well. And then she
thought within herself, suppose the three Champions and their loves were
dead and gone, how would she do with those that were left her, as Sir
Aymeris, and Leonard the priest, and her women? and her soul turned with
loathing from a life so empty as that would be; and yet she blamed
herself that she was so little friendly to these lesser friends, whom
forsooth she loved because of her love for the greater ones. So, as
abovesaid, she was troubled and silent amongst the joy of the others.
That saw Sir Aymeris the castellan; and when they had broken fast and
were getting to horse, he came to her and said: Lady, the day is yet
young, and if we fetch a compass by a way that I wot of we shall see
places new to thee, and mayhappen somewhat wonderful, and yet come home
timely to the castle. Wilt thou?
Birdalone was still somewhat distraught, but she knew not how to naysay
him, though at heart she would liefer have gone back to the castle by the
shortest way. So folk brought her her palfrey, and they rode their ways,
the castellan ever by her side. And by fair ways indeed they went, and
so joyous was all about them, that little by little Birdalone’s gladness
came back to her, and she made the most of it to be as merry of seeming
as she might be.
Now they rode fair and softly by thicket and copse and glade of the
woodland, following up the stream aforesaid for the more part, till at
last the trees failed them suddenly, and they came forth on to a wide
green plain, all unbuilded, so far as their eyes could see, and beyond it
the ridges of the hills and blue mountains rising high beyond them.
When Birdalone’s eyes beheld this new thing, of a sudden all care left
her, and she dropped her rein, and smote her palms together, and cried
out: Oh! but thou art beautiful, O earth, thou art beautiful! Then she
sat gazing on it, while the greyhead turned and smiled on her, well
pleased of her pleasure.
After a while she said: And might we go nigher? Yea, certes, said he,
yet I doubt if thou wilt like it the better, the nigher thou art. Ah!
she said, but if I were only amidst it, and a part of it, as once I was
of the woodland!
So thitherward they rode over the unharvested mead, and saw hart and hind
thereon, and wild kine, and of smaller deer great plenty, but of tame
beasts none; and the hills were before them like a wall. But as they
drew nigher, they saw where the said wall of the hills was cloven by a
valley narrow and steep-sided, that went right athwart the lie of the
hills; the said valley was but little grassed, and the bare rocks were
crow-black. When they had gone a little further, they could see that the
ground near the foot of the hills rose in little knolls and ridges, but
these were lower and fewer about the entry into that valley. Also
presently they came upon a stream which ran out of the said valley, and
Sir Aymeris said that this was the water whereby they had lain last
night; albeit here it was little indeed.
Now when they had ridden some five miles over the plain, they came
amongst those knolls at the mouth of the valley, and Sir Aymeris led
Birdalone up to the top of one of the highest of them, and thence they
could look into that dale and see how it winded away up toward the
mountains, like to a dismal street; for not only was it but little
grassed, but withal there was neither tree nor bush therein. Moreover,
scattered all about the bottom of the dale were great stones, which
looked as if they had once been set in some kind of order; and that the
more whereas they were not black like the rocks of the dale-side, but
pale grey of hue, so that they looked even as huge sheep of the giants
feeding down the dale.
Then spake Birdalone: Verily, sir knight, thou saidst but sooth that I
should see things new and strange. But shall we go a little way into
this valley to-day? Nay, lady, said Sir Aymeris, nor to-morrow, nor any
day uncompelled; neither shall we go nigher unto it than now we be.
Wherefore not? said Birdalone, for meseemeth it is as the gate of the
mountains; and fain were I in the mountains.
Lady, said the castellan, overmuch perilous it were to ride the valley,
which, as thou sayest, is the very gate of the mountains. For the said
dale, which hight the Black Valley of the Greywethers, hath a bad name
for the haunting of unmanlike wights, against which even our men-at-arms
might make no defence. And if any might escape them, and win through the
gates and up into the mountains, I wot not if suchlike devils and things
unkent be there in the mountain-land, but of a sooth there be fierce and
wild men, like enough to devils, who know no peace, and slay whatsoever
cometh unto them, but if they themselves be slain of them.
Well, said Birdalone, then to-day, at least, we go not into the dale; but
knowest thou any tales of these wild places? Many have I heard, said he,
but I am an ill minstrel and should spoil them in the telling. Ask them
of Sir Leonard our priest, he knoweth of them better than others, and
hath a tongue duly shapen for telling them.
Birdalone answered nought thereto; she but turned her horse’s head and
rode down the knoll; and so they came unto their company, and all went
their ways toward the Castle of the Quest.
Nought befell them on their way home; but the nigher they came to the
castle the more pensive waxed Birdalone, and, though she hid it, when
they were come to the gate she scarce had her wit; for it was as if she
thought to have one rushing out and crying: Tidings, tidings! they are
come.
Nowise it so befell; they were no more come than was the Day of Doom.
And a little after they were within gates; it was night, and Birdalone
crept wearily up to her chamber, and gat to bed, and so tired was she
that she fell asleep at once and dreamed not.
CHAPTER VI. BIRDALONE HEARETH TELL TALES OF THE BLACK VALLEY OF THE
GREYWETHERS.
ON the morrow was Birdalone heavier of heart than ever yet, and wearier
for tidings; and she wondered how she could have been so joyous that day
in the wildwood. Yet she thought much of the Valley of the Greywethers,
and that solaced her somewhat after a while, so sore she longed to go
thither; and, as ’tis said, one nail knocks out the other. So that
morning, when she had had her lesson of priest Leonard, she spake thereof
to him, and told him what Sir Aymeris had said concerning his knowledge
thereof; and she asked him what he knew.
I have been there, said he. She started at that word and said: Did aught
of evil befall thee?
Nay, said he, but a great fear and dread hung about me; and ’tis said
that they try their luck overmuch who go thither twice.
Birdalone said: Tell me now of the tales that be told of that valley.
Quoth Leonard: They be many; but the main of them is this: that those
Greywethers be giants of yore agone, or landwights, carles, and queans,
who have been turned into stone by I wot not what deed; but that whiles
they come alive again, and can walk and talk as erst they did; and that
if any man may be so bold as to abide the time of their awakening, and in
the first moment of their change may frame words that crave the
fulfilment of his desire, and if therewith he be both wise and constant,
then shall he have his desire fulfilled of these wights, and bear his
life back again from out the dale. And thus must he speak and no
otherwise: O Earth, thou and thy first children, I crave of you such and
such a thing, whatsoever it may be. And if he speak more than this, then
is he undone. He shall answer no question of them; and if they threaten
him he shall not pray them mercy, nor quail before their uplifted
weapons; nor, to be short, shall he heed them more than if they still
were stones unchanged. Moreover, when he hath said his say, then shall
these wights throng about him and offer him gold and gems, and all the
wealth of the earth; and if that be not enough, they shall bring him the
goodliest of women, with nought lacking in her shape, but lacking all
raiment, so that he shall see her as she is verily shapen. But whoso
shall take any one of all these gifts is lost for ever, and shall become
one of that Stony People; and whoso naysayeth them all until the cock
crow, and abideth steady by his one craving, shall win fulfilment
thereof, and, as some say, all those gifts aforesaid; for that the Stony
People may not abide the day to take them back again.
He was silent therewith, and nought spake Birdalone, but looked down on
the ground, and longing encompassed her soul. Then the priest spake
again: This were a fair adventure, lady, for a hapless one, but for the
happy it were a fool’s errand. She answered not, and they parted for
that time.
But the next week, there being yet no tidings come to hand, Birdalone
prayed the castellan to take her out-a-gates again, that she might once
more behold the mountains, and the gates thereof; and he yeasaid her
asking, and went with her, well accompanied, as before; but this time, by
Birdalone’s will, they rode straight to the plain aforesaid, and again
she looked into that dale of the Greywethers from the knoll. Somewhat
belated they were, so that they might not get back to the castle before
dusk, wherefore again they lay out in the wildwood, but there lacked
somewhat of the triumph and joyance which they had had that other day.
They came back to the castle on the morrow somewhat after noon, and found
no news there; nor, to say sooth, did Birdalone look for any; and her
heart was heavy.
CHAPTER VII. BIRDALONE BEGUILETH THE PRIEST TO HELP HER TO OUTGOING.
NOW had the time so worn that the season was in the first days of August,
and weariness and heartsickness increased on Birdalone again, and she
began to look pined and pale. Yet when she spake of the tarrying of the
Champions both to the castellan and Sir Leonard the priest (who was the
wiser man of the two), each said the same thing, to wit, that it was no
marvel if they were not yet come, seeing whatlike the adventure was; and
neither of those two seemed in anywise to have lost hope.
Thrice in these last days did Birdalone go out-a-gates with Sir Aymeris
and his company; and the last of the three times the journey was to the
knoll that looked into the Black Valley; but now was Birdalone’s pleasure
of the sight of it afar off marred by her longing to be amidst thereof;
yet she did not show that she was irked by the refraining of her desire
to enter therein, and they turned, and came home safely to the castle.
On the morrow she sat with Sir Leonard the priest over the writing
lesson, and she let it be long, and oft he touched her hand, so that the
sweetness of unfulfilled desire went deep to his heart.
At last Birdalone looked up and said: Friend, I would ask thee if thou
seest any peril in my entering the Black Valley of the Greywethers by
daylight if I leave it by daylight? Alone? quoth he. Yea, she said,
alone. He pondered a little, and then said: Sooth to say I deem the
peril little in the valley itself, if thou be not overcome by terror
there. Yea, for my part I am not all so sure that thou shalt see the
wonder of the Stony Folk coming alive; for ’tis not said that they
quicken save on certain nights, and chiefly on Midsummer Night; unless it
be that the trier of the adventure is some one fated above others
thereto; as forsooth thou mayst be. And as for peril of evil men, there
are few who be like to be as venturesome as thou or I. They durst not
enter that black street, save sore need compel them. But forsooth, going
thither, and coming back again, some peril there may be therein. And yet
for weeks past there has been no word of any unpeace; and the Red Knight
it is said for certain is not riding.
Birdalone was silent a while; then she said: Fair and kind friend, I am
eating my heart out in longing for the coming back of my friends, and it
is like, that unless I take to some remedy, I shall fall sick thereby,
and then when they come back there shall be in me but sorry cheer for
them. Now the remedy I know, and it is that I betake me alone to this
adventure of the Black Valley; for meseemeth that I shall gain health and
strength by my going thither. Wherefore, to be short, if thou wilt help
me, I will go to-morrow. What sayest thou, wilt thou help me?
He turned very red and spake: Lady, why shouldest thou go, as thy name
is, birdalone? Thou hast called me just now thy kind friend, so kind as
it was of thee; now therefore why should not thy friend go with thee?
Kindly indeed she smiled on him, but shook her head: I call thee trusty
and dear friend again, said she; but what I would do I must do myself.
Moreover to what end shouldst thou go? If I fall in with ghosts, a score
of men would help me nought; and if I happen on weaponed men who would do
me scathe, of what avail were one man against them? And look thou, Sir
Leonard, there is this avail in thine abiding behind; if I come not back
in two days’ space, or three at the most, thou wilt wot that I have fared
amiss, and then mayst thou let it be known whither I went, and men will
seek me and deliver me maybe.
Therewith she stayed her words suddenly, and turned very pale, and laid
her hand on her bosom, and said faintly: But O my heart, my heart! If
they should come while I am away! And she seemed like to swoon.
Leonard was afraid thereat, and knew not what to do; but presently the
colour came into her face again, and in a little while she smiled, and
said: Seest thou not, friend, how weak I am gotten to be, and that I must
now beyond doubt have the remedy? Wilt thou not help me do it?
Yea verily, said he; but in what wise wilt thou have it? He spake as a
man distraught and redeless; but she smiled on him pleasantly, and said:
Now by this time shouldst thou have devised what was to do, and spared me
the pain thereof. Two things I need of thee: the first and most, to be
put out of the castle privily betimes in the morning when nought is
stirring; the second, to have my palfrey awaiting me somewhat anigh the
gate, so that I may not have to go afoot: for I am become soft and feeble
with all this house-life.
Leonard seemed to wake up with that word, and said: I have the key of the
priest’s door of the chapel, and the postern beyond it; that shall be
thine out-gate, lady. I will come and scratch at thy chamber-door much
betimes, and I will see to it that thy palfrey is bestowed in the bower
wherein thou didst rest the first night thou camest amongst us. She
said: I trust thee, friend. And she thanked him sweetly, and then rose
up and fell to pacing the hall up and down. Leonard hung about watching
her a while, she nought forbidding him, for her thoughts were elsewhere,
and she had forgotten him; and at last he went his ways to set about
doing what she would.
CHAPTER VIII. BIRDALONE FARES ON HER ADVENTURE.
DAWN was but just beginning when Birdalone awoke, and though she had not
heard Leonard at the door, she sprang out of bed and clad herself, doing
on her black gown; and she had a scrip with some bread therein, and a
sharp knife at her girdle. Then even as she had done she heard the
priest’s nail on the door, and she turned thereto; but as she went, her
eye caught her bow and quiver of arrows where they hung on the wall, so
she took the bow in her hand and slung the quiver over her shoulder ere
she opened the door and found Leonard standing there. Neither of them
spake aught, but they stole downstairs, and so to the chapel and out by
the priest’s door and the postern in the wall-nook, and were presently
out in the fresh morning air; and Birdalone was joyous and lightfoot, and
scarce felt the earth beneath her soles for pleasure of her hope, whereas
she deemed she had a thing to crave of the Stony Folk, if they should
come alive before her. Fain were she, if she might withal, to give a joy
to some other; so that when they were gone but a little way from the
castle she reached out her hand to Leonard and took his, and said: Hand
in hand we walked when first I went this way, and I deemed thee kind and
friendly then, and even so hast thou been sithence.
He was dumbfoundered at first for joy of the touch of her hand and the
sweetness of her words; but presently he spake to her confused and
stammering, and praised her that she had thought to take her bow and
arrows; for, said he, that they might stand her in stead for defence or
for getting of food, or for an excuse for wending the woods. She nodded
yeasay unto him, and bade him again to bide three days for her, and if
she came not again in that time, to make a clean breast of it to Sir
Aymeris.
Yea, said the priest, and then . . . Why, what then? He can but shove
me out by the shoulders, and then I can seek to the little house of
canons that is at Gate Cross on the road to Greenford.
Ah, my friend! said Birdalone, how we women think of nothing at all but
ourselves! And wilt thou be thrust out of thine home for helping me
herein? Why did I not look to my palfrey myself? And the keys I might
have stolen from thee, always with thy good will. But now I see that I
have done thee a hurt.
Said Sir Leonard: Lady, a priest hath a home wheresoever is an house of
religion. There is no harm done, save Sir Aymeris bethink him of hanging
me over the battlements; as I doubt he will not with a priest. Moreover,
I pray thee believe, that wert thou gone from the castle, house and home
were none for me there. And he looked upon her piteously, as if he were
beseeching.
But she knew not what to say, and hung her head adown; and presently they
were come to the bower in the copse, which this time was a stable for
Birdalone’s palfrey instead of a chamber for herself. So Leonard went in
and fetched out the comely beast; and Birdalone stood with him just in
the cover of the copse waiting to put her foot in the stirrup; but she
might not but abide to look upon the priest, who stood there as if he
were striving with his words.
So she said: Now is need of haste to be gone. Yet one word, my friend:
Is there aught betwixt us wherein I have done thee wrong? If so it be, I
pray thee to say out what it is; for it may be (though I think it not)
thou shalt not see me again from henceforth.
He caught his breath, as if he had much ado to refrain the sobbing; but
he mastered it, and said: Lady and dear friend, if I see thee not again,
I heed not what shall befall me. Thou hast done me no wrong. There is
this only betwixt us, that I love thee, and thou lovest not me.
She looked on him sweetly and pitifully, and said: I may not choose but
understand thy word, to wit, that thy love for me is the desire of a man
toward a woman; and that is unhappy; for I love thee indeed, but not as a
woman loveth a man. It is best to say thus much to thee downright. But
I feel in my heart that when I have said it, it is as much as to say that
I cannot help thee, and therefore am I sorry indeed.
He stood before her abashed, but he said at last: Now art thou so sweet,
and so kind, and so true, that I must perforce love thee yet more; and
this maketh me bold to say that thou mayst help me a little, or so
meseemeth. How so? said Birdalone. Quoth he: If thou wouldst suffer me
to kiss thy face this once. She shook her head, and spake: How may it
avail thee, when it is for once, and once only, as forsooth it must be?
Yet it is thy choice, not mine, and I will not naysay thee.
And therewith she put up her face to him, and he kissed her cheek without
touching her otherwise, and then he kissed her mouth; and she knew that
he was both timorous and sad, and she was ashamed to look on him, or to
speak to him any more, lest she should behold him ashamed; so she but
said: Farewell, friend, till to-morrow at least.
And therewith her foot was in the stirrup, and anon she sat in the
saddle, and her palfrey was ambling briskly on the way she would.
CHAPTER IX. BIRDALONE COMES TO THE BLACK VALLEY.
LITTLE is to tell of Birdalone’s journey unto the knoll above the Black
Valley of the Greywethers. It was about noon when she came there, and
had met but few folk on the way, and those few were husbandmen, or
carlines, or maidens wending afield betimes not far from the Castle of
the Quest.
Now she sat on her horse and looked down into the dale and its stony
people once more, and saw nought stirring save three ravens who, not far
off, were flapping about from stone to stone of the Greywethers, and
croaking loud to each other as if some tidings were toward. She watched
their play for a little, and then gat off her horse, and sat down on the
grass of the knoll, and drew forth her victual, and ate and drank; for
she deemed it happier to eat and drink there than in the very jaws of the
Black Valley.
Soon was her dinner done, and then she got to her saddle again, and rode
slowly down to the little stream, and along it toward the valley and the
gates of the mountains, which she had been fain to pass through; but now,
as had happed with her that morning when she was boun for the Sending
Boat, somewhat she hung back from the adventure, and when she lacked but
some five score yards from the very dale itself, she lighted down again,
and let her way-beast bite the grass, while she sat down and watched the
rippling water.
In a while she drew off shoon and hosen, and stood in the shallow ripple,
and bathed her hands and face withal, and stooped up-stream and drank
from the hollow of her hands, and so stepped ashore and was waxen
hardier; then she strung her bow and looked to the shafts in her quiver,
and did on her foot-gear, and mounted once more, and so rode a brisk
amble right on into the dale, and was soon come amongst the Greywethers;
and she saw that they were a many, and that all the bottom of the dale
was besprinkled with them on either side of the stream, and some stood in
the very stream itself, the ground whereof was black even as the rest of
the valley, although the water ran over it as clear as glass.
As for the dale, now she was fairly within it, she could see but a little
way up it, for it winded much, and at first away from her left hand, and
the sides of it went up in somewhat steep screes on either side, which
were topped with mere upright staves and burgs of black rock; and these
were specially big and outthrusting on the right hand of her; and but a
furlong ahead of where she was, one of these burgs thrust out past the
scree and came down sheer into the dale, and straitened it so much that
there was but little way save by the stream itself, which ran swift
indeed, but not deep, even there where it was straitened by the sheer
rocks.
But up the dale would she go, whatever was before her; and now she told
herself her very purpose, as forsooth she scarce had heretofore; to wit,
that she would abide in the dale the night over and see what should
betide, and if those wights should chance to come alive, then she looked
to have valiance enough to face them and crave the fulfilment of her
desire.
So she took the water and rode the stream till she was past the said
sheer rock, and then the valley widened again, and presently was wider
than it was in the beginning; and here again were the Greywethers grown
many more and closer together, and, as she deemed, were set in rings
round about one very big one, which, forsooth, was somewhat in the shape
of a man sitting down with his hands laid on his knees.
Birdalone reined up for a minute, and looked about her, and then went up
on to the grass, and rode straight to the said big stone, and there
lighted down from off her horse again, and stood by the stone and
pondered. Presently she deemed that she saw something dark moving just
beyond the stone, but if it were so, it was gone in a twinkling;
nevertheless she stood affrighted, and stared before her long, and saw no
more, but yet for a while durst not move hand nor foot.
At last her courage came again, and she thought: Yet how if this great
chieftain be inwardly stirring and will come awake? Shall I say the word
now, lest hereafter it be of no avail? Therewith she stretched out her
right hand and laid it on the stone, and spake aloud: O Earth, thou and
thy first children, I crave of you that he may come back now at once and
loving me. And her voice sounded strange and unkent to her in that
solitude, and she rued it that she had spoken.
CHAPTER X. HOW BIRDALONE FELL IN WITH A MAN IN THE BLACK VALLEY OF THE
GREYWETHERS.
CAME new tidings therewithal; for the moment after she had spoken, a tall
man drew out from behind the big stone, and stood before her; and at
first it was in her mind that this was the very chieftain come alive for
her, and for terror she was like to swoon this time; but he spake nought
a while, but looked on her eagerly and curiously.
She came to herself presently, so much that she could see him clearly,
and was now growing more shamefast than afraid, when she saw beyond doubt
that the man was of the sons of Adam; but what with her shame that was
now, and her fear that had been, she yet had no might to move, but stood
there pale and trembling like a leaf, and might scarce keep her feet.
Now the new-comer bowed before her smiling, and said: I ask thy pardon,
fair damsel (or indeed I should say fairest damsel), that I have scared
thee. But sooth to say I beheld thee coming riding, and even from a
little aloof I could see that nought which might befall could ever make
it up to me for not seeing thee close at hand and hearing thee speak.
Wherefore I hid myself behind the king’s stone here; and no harm is done
thereby I trow; for now I see that the colour is coming into thy cheeks
again, and thy fear is gone. And as for me, thou hast not fled away from
me, as thou wouldst have done had I not hidden and come on thee suddenly;
and then thou being horsed and I unhorsed, thou wouldst have escaped me,
whereas now thou art within reach of my hand. Then he smiled, and said:
Furthermore, thou hast told so little of thy secret to this stony king
here, that I am little the wiser for thy word, and thou the little more
betrayed. Only this I will say, that if He loveth thee not, He is more
of a fool than I be.
He reached out his hand to hers, but she drew it aback, and grew yet more
ashamed, and could find no word for him. His voice was soft and full,
and he spake deftly, but she was not content with it for its kindness, as
she had been with all the other men whom she had met since she left the
House under the Wood, and she durst not trust her hand to him.
As for his aspect, she saw that he was tall and well-knit, and goodly of
fashion; dark-haired, with long hazel eyes, smooth-cheeked and
bright-skinned; his nose long, and a little bent over at the end, and
coming down close to his lips, which were full and red; his face was
hairless save for a little lip-beard. He was so clad, that he had no
helm on his head, but a little hat with a broad gold piece in the front
thereof; he was girt to a long sword, and had an anlace also in his belt,
and Birdalone saw the rings of a fine hauberk at his collar and knees;
otherwise he was not armed. Over his hauberk he wore a black surcoat,
without device of any kind, and his foot and leg gear were of the same
hue; wherefore may we call him the Black Knight. Sooth to say, for all
his soft speech, she feared him and rued the meeting of him.
Now he spake to her again: I see that thou art wroth with me, lady; but
mayhappen it is not so ill that I have happened on thee; for this dale
hath a bad name for more than one thing, and is scarce meet for damsels
to wander in. But now since thou hast a weaponed man with thee, and
thou, by All-hallows! not utterly unarmed, thou mayst well go up the
valley and see something more thereof. So come now, mount thine horse
again, and I will lead him for thee.
Now Birdalone found speech and said: Knight, for such thou seemest to me,
I deem now that I have no need to fare further in this dale, but I will
get me into the saddle and turn my horse’s head outward again, giving
thee good day first and thanking thee for thy courtesy. And therewith
she turned to get to her palfrey, but sore trembling the while; but he
followed her and said, with brow somewhat knitted: Nay, lady, I have left
my horse somewhat further up, and I must go back to fetch him, that we
may wend out of the dale together. For I will not suffer thee to flee
from me and fall into the hands of evil wights, be they ghosts or living
men, and that the less since I have heard the speech in thy mouth, as of
honey and cream and roses. Therefore if thou go out of the dale, I shall
go with thee afoot, leading thine horse. And look to it if it be
courteous to unhorse a knight, who is ready to be thy servant. Moreover,
since thou hast come to this dale of wonder, and mayst leave it safely,
pity it were that thou shouldst see nought thereof, for strange is it
forsooth, and belike thou shalt never seek thither again. Wherefore I
crave of thee, once more, to mount thine horse and let me lead thee up
the dale.
He spake these last words rather as one giving a command than making a
prayer, and Birdalone feared him now sorely. Forsooth she had her bended
bow in hand; but let alone that the knight was over-near to her that she
might get a shaft out of her quiver and nock it, ere he should run in on
her, and let alone also that he was byrnied, she scarce deemed that it
behoved her to slay or wound the man because she would be quit of him.
Wherefore angrily, and with a flushed face, she answered him: So shall it
be then, Sir Knight; or rather so must it be, since thou compellest me.
He laughed and said: Nay, now thou art angry. I compel thee not, I but
say that it will not do for thee to compel me to leave thee. Go which
way thou wilt, up the dale, or down it and out of it; it is all one unto
me, so long as I am with thee. Forsooth, damsel, I have said harder
words to ladies who have done my pleasure and not deemed themselves
compelled.
She paled but answered nought; then she mounted her palfrey, and the
knight went to her bridle-rein without more words, and so led her on up
the valley by the easiest way amongst the Greywethers.
CHAPTER XI. BIRDALONE IS LED UP THE BLACK VALLEY.
AS they went, the knight fell a-talking to Birdalone, and that without
any of the covert jeering which he had used erewhile; and he showed her
places in the dale, as caverns under the burgs, and little eyots in the
stream, and certain stones amongst the Greywethers whereof stories ran;
and how this and the other one had fared in dealings with the
land-wights, and how one had perished, and another had been made happy,
and so forth. Withal he told of the mountain-folk, and in especial how
they of the plains, when he was scarce more than a boy, had met them in
battle in that same dale, and how fierce the fight was; whereas the
mountain-men were fighting for a life of desires accomplished, which
hitherto had been but a dream unto them; and the men of the plain fought
for dear life itself, and for all that made it aught save death in life.
Wherefore up and down the dale they fought, at first in ordered ranks and
then in knots, and lastly sword to sword and man to man, till there was
no foot of grass or black sand there which had not its shower of blood;
and the stream was choked with the dead, and ran red out of the dale;
till at last well-nigh all the host of the mountain-men was fallen, and
scarce less of the folk of the plains, but these men held the field and
had the victory.
All this he told her deftly and well, and though he said not so right
out, yet let her wot that, youth as he was, he was of the battle; and his
voice was clear and good, and Birdalone’s wrath ran off her, and she
hearkened his tale, and even asked him a question here and there; and so
courteous was this Black Knight now become, that Birdalone began to think
that she had fallen short of courtesy to him, because of her fear and the
weariness of the waiting which so oppressed her; and that shamed and
irked her, for she would fain be of all courtesy. Wherefore now she
deemed that perchance she had erred in deeming him an evil man; and she
looked on him from time to time, and deemed him goodly of fashion; she
thought his eyes were deep, and his face sober and fair of aspect, but
that his nose turned down at the end, and was over thin at the bridge,
and moreover his lips looked over-sweet and licorous.
Now when the knight was silent of his tales, Birdalone fell to asking him
questions sweetly concerning this Stony People which was all about them;
and he told her all he knew, soberly enough at first, yet indeed ended by
mocking them somewhat, but mocked not at her any more. At last he said:
Fair lady, that thou hast not come here all for nought I partly know by
those words which I heard come from thy mouth at the King’s Stone;
wherefore I marvelled indeed when I heard thee say that thou wouldst go
straight out of the dale; for I had deemed thee desirous of trying the
adventure of waking this Stony People a-night-tide. Forsooth was this
thy mind when thou soughtest hither to the dale?
She reddened at his word, and yeasaid him shortly. Then said he: Is it
not thy mind still? Sir, said she, as now I have got to fear it. Yea?
and that is strange, said he, for thou wouldst have waked the dale alone;
and now thou art no longer alone, but hast me to watch and ward thy
waking, thou art more afeard.
She looked on his face steadily, to wot if there were no half-hidden
smile therein; but herseemed that he spake in all soberness; and she had
nought to say to him save this: Sir, I am now become afraid of the
waking. And he said no more thereof.
Now they went thus, and Birdalone not without pleasure, since her fear of
the knight was minished, some three hours up the dale, and still were the
Greywethers everywhere about them, so that there were well-nigh as many
hours as miles in their wending.
At last they seemed to be drawing nigh to the head of the dale, and the
burgs and the rocks were before them all round it as a wall, though yet
about a mile aloof at the further end; and this end it was wider than
elsewhere.
Came they then to a level space of greensward clear of the grey stones,
which were drawn all around it in ordered rings, so that it was as some
doom-ring of an ancient people; and within the said space Birdalone
beheld a great black horse tethered and cropping the grass. The knight
led her into the ring, and said: Now are we come home for the present, my
lady, and if it please thee to light down we shall presently eat and
drink, and sithence talk a little. And he drew nigh to help her off her
horse, but she suffered him not, and lighted down of herself; but if she
suffered not his hand, his eyes she must needs suffer, as he gazed
greedily on the trimness of her feet and legs in her sliding from her
horse.
Howsoever, he took her hand, and led her to a little mound on the other
side of the ring, and bade her sit down there, and so did she, and from
under the nighest of the stones he drew forth a pair of saddle-bags, and
took victual and wine thence, and they ate and drank together like old
companions. And now Birdalone told herself that the knight was frank and
friendly; yet forsooth she wotted that her heart scarce trowed what it
feigned, and that she yet feared him.
CHAPTER XII. HOW THOSE TWAIN GET THEM FROM OUT OF THE BLACK VALLEY OF
THE GREYWETHERS.
WHEN they had dined, and had sat a while talking, the knight said: I will
ask thee once more wherefore thou must needs depart from this dale
leaving the Greywethers unwaked? Yet this must I tell thee first, that
this ring at the dale’s end is the only one due place where the
Greywethers can be rightly waked, and that there be few who wot this.
Wilt thou not tell me then what is in thy mind?
Birdalone gazed down on the ground a while; then she lifted up her head
and looked on the Black Knight, and said: Sir Knight, we have been
brought so close together to-day, and as meseemeth I am so wholly in thy
power, that I will tell thee the very truth as it is. My mind it was to
wake the dale here to-night, and take what might befall me. And well
indeed might I fear the adventure, which few, meseemeth, would not fear.
But so strong is my longing for that which I would crave of these wights,
that it overmastered my fear, and my purpose held when I entered the
dale. Then I met thee; and here again is the truth, take it how thou
wilt, that presently I feared thee, and yet I fear thee; for I have noted
thee closely all this while, and have seen of thee, that thou art over
heedful of my poor body, and wouldst have it for thine own if thou
mightest. And there is this in thee also, as I deem, though thou thyself
mayst not know it, that thou wouldst have thy pleasure of me whether it
pleasure me or grieve me; and this thy pleasure must I needs gainsay; for
though thou mayest hereafter become my friend, yet are there other
friends of mine, who be such, that my grief would mar any pleasure they
might have. Hast thou heard and understood?
She looked on his face steadily as she spake, and saw that it flushed,
and darkened, and scowled, and that his hands were clenched, and his
teeth set hard together. And again she spake: Sir, thou shalt know that
beside these shot-weapons, I have a thing here in my girdle that may
serve either against thee or against me, if need drive me thereto;
wherefore I will pray thee to forbear. Forsooth, thou shalt presently
happen on other women, who shall be better unto thee than I can be.
By then Birdalone had spoken the word, the knight’s face had cleared, and
he laughed aloud and said: As to thy last words, therein at least thou
liest, my lady. But for the rest, I see that it must all be as thou
wiliest. Yea, if such be thy will, we shall presently to horse and ride
down the dale again, and at the end thereof I shall leave thee to go home
alone at thy will. She said: For that I can thee thanks with all my
heart. But why hast thou not asked me of whence I am, and whither I
would go home?
Again he laughed and said: Because I know already. I have had more than
two or three tales from them who have seen thee, or spoken unto others
who have seen thee, how the gay Champions of the Castle of the Quest had
fished up a wondrous pearl of price from out of the Great Water; and when
I set eyes on thy beauty, I knew that the said pearl could be nowhere
else than under mine eyes.
Let that pass, she said, and blushed not; but now tell me the truth as I
have told thee, why thou art so instant with me to wake the Greywethers
to-night? He kept silence a while, and, as she looked on him, she
thought she saw confusion in his face; but at last he said: Thou wert
wrong in saying that I heeded not thy pleasure, and solace, and welfare.
Meseemed, and yet doth, that it might be to thine avail to wake the
Greywethers to-night; and never again mayst thou have a chance of the
waking, as erst I said. I say I wish thee to have fulfilment of thy
craving. Nor hast thou aught to fear of them, seeing that it is but
dastards and fools that they undo.
He broke off his speech, and Birdalone yet looked on him, and after a
little he said: Thou drawest the truth out of me; for moreover I would
have thee with me longer than thou wouldst be if we but rode together
down the water and out of the dale, and thou to fare away alone.
Birdalone spake in a while, and that while he gazed upon her eagerly; she
said: I shall now tell thee that I shall abide the adventure of the
waking to-night, whatever befall. And I, said he, will so do that thou
mayst fear me the less; for I will unarm me when the night cometh, and
thou thyself shalt keep mine hauberk and sword and anlace.
She said: It is well; I will take that, lest desire overmaster thee.
They spake no more of it at that time, and it was now five hours after
noon. Birdalone arose, for she found it hard to sit still and abide
nightfall: she went without the two first rings of the Greywethers, which
were set in more open order beyond that, and she looked all about her, to
the black rocks on either side, and to the great black wall at the dale’s
ending, and the blue mountains aloof beyond it; then down toward the
plain of the dale came her eyes, and she looked through the tangle of the
grey stones. Now she seemed to be looking more intently upon some one
thing; with that she called to her the Black Knight, who was hanging
about watching her, and she said to him: Fair sir, art thou clear-seeing
and far-seeing? I am not thought to be purblind, quoth he. Then
Birdalone reached out her hand and pointed and said: Canst thou see aught
which thou didst not look to see, there, up the dale as I point? Said
he: All too clear I see the hand and the wrist of thee, and that blinds
me to aught else. I pray thee fool not, she said, but look heedfully,
and thou mayst see what I see, and then tell me what it means. Though
forsooth I am exceeding in far sight.
He looked under the sharp of his hand heedfully, then he turned unto her
and said: By All-hallows! there is in thee every excellency! Thou art
right; I see a bay horse up there feeding on the bites of grass amongst
the Greywethers. Look again! she said; what else canst thou see? Is
there aught anigh to the bay horse which is like to the gleam and glitter
of metal. Christ! said he, once more thou art right. There be weaponed
men in the dale. Tarry not, I beseech thee, but get to horse forthright,
and I will do no less.
There goeth the waking of the dale for this time, said Birdalone,
laughing. But art thou not in haste, fair sir? may not these be friends?
The knight laid his hand upon her shoulder, and thrust her on toward her
palfrey, and spake fiercely, but not loud: Thee I pray not to fool now!
There is not a minute to spare. If thou deemest me evil, as I think thou
dost, there are worser than I, I tell thee, there are worser. But we
will talk of it when we be in the saddle, and clear of this accursed
dale.
Birdalone knew not what to do save obey him, so she lightly gat into her
saddle, and followed him, for he was mounted in a twinkling, and riding
on. He led out of the ring, and fell to threading the maze of the
Greywethers, keeping ever toward the steep side of the dale, which was on
that hand that looked toward the Castle of the Quest, that is to say, the
eastern bent. Birdalone wondered at this leading, and when she was come
up with the knight she spake to him breathlessly, and said: But, fair
sir, why wend we not down the dale? He answered: First, lady, because we
must hide us from them straightway; and next because they be more than
we, many more, and their horses be fresh, while thine at least is
somewhat spent; and if they were to spur down the dale in chase, they
would soon be upon us; for think not that I would escape and leave thee
behind.
Said Birdalone: But thou knowest them, then, what they be? since thou
wottest of their numbers and their riding. Hearken now! Upon thy soul
and thy salvation, be they more friends unto thee than unto me?
He said, as be rode on a little slower than erst: Upon my soul and my
salvation I swear it, that the men yonder be of the worst unfriends to
thee that may be in the world. And now, lady, I promise thee that I will
unravel thee the riddle, and tell thee the whole truth of these haps,
whatsoever may come of my words, when we be in a safer place than this;
and meantime I beseech thee to trust in me thus far, as to believe that I
am leading thee out of the very worst peril that might befall thee. Nay,
thou must needs trust me; for I tell thee, that though I now love thee
better than all the world and all that is in it, I would slay thee here
in this dale rather than suffer thee to fall into the hands of these men.
Birdalone heard him with a sick heart; but such passion went with his
words that she believed what he said; and she spake softly: Sir, I will
trust thee thus far; but I beseech thee to have pity upon a poor maiden
who hath had but little pity shown unto her until these latter days; and
then: O woe’s me, to have fallen out of the kindness and love once more!
The Black Knight spake to her in a little while, and said: What pity I
can to thee, that I will. Once more I tell thee, that if thou but knew
it thou wouldst thank me indeed for what I have done for thee in this
hour; and henceforth I will do and forbear with thee to the uttermost
that love will suffer me. But lo thou! here are we safe for this
present; but we must nowise tarry.
Birdalone looked and saw that they were come to the wall of the dale, and
that there it went down sheer to the plain thereof, and that before them
was a cleft that narrowed speedily, and over which the rocks well-nigh
met, so that it was indeed almost a cave. They rode into it straightway,
and when that they had gone but a little, and because it had winded
somewhat, they could but see the main valley as a star of light behind
them, then it narrowed no more, but was as a dismal street of the
straitest, whiles lighter and whiles darker, according as the rocks
roofed it in overhead or drew away from it. Long they rode, and whiles
came trickles of water from out the rocks on one hand or the other; and
now and again they met a stream which covered all the ground of the pass
from side to side for the depth of a foot or more. Great rocks also were
strewn over their path every here and there, so that whiles must they
needs dismount and toil afoot over the rugged stones; and in most places
the way was toilsome and difficult. The knight spake little to
Birdalone, save to tell her of the way, and warn her where it was
perilous; and she, for her part, was silent, partly for fear of the
strange man, or, it might be, even for hatred of him, who had thus
brought her into such sore trouble, and partly for grief. For, with all
torment of sorrow, she kept turning over and over in her mind whether her
friends had yet come home to the Castle of the Quest, and whether they
would go seek her to deliver her. And such shame took hold of her when
she thought of their grief and confusion of soul when they should come
home and find her gone, that she set her mind to asking if it had not
been better had she never met them. Yet in good sooth her mind would not
shape the thought, howsoever she bade it.
CHAPTER XIII. NOW THEY REST FOR THE NIGHT IN THE STRAIT PASS.
AT last, when they had been going a long while, it might be some six
hours, and it had long been night in the world without, but moon-lit, and
they had rested but seldom, and then but for short whiles, the knight
drew rein and spake to Birdalone, and asked her was she not weary. O
yea, she said; I was at point to pray thee suffer me to get off and lie
down on the bare rock. To say sooth, I am now too weary to think of any
peril, or what thou art, or whither we be going. He said: By my deeming
we be now half through this mountain highway, and belike there is little
peril in our resting; for I think not that any one of them knoweth of
this pass, or would dare it if he did; and they doubtless came into the
dale by the upper pass, which is strait enough, but light and open.
As he spoke, Birdalone bowed forward on her horse’s neck, and would have
fallen but that he stayed her. Then he lifted her off her horse, and
laid her down in the seemliest place he might find; and the pass there
was much widened, and such light as there was in the outer world came
down freely into it, though it were but of the moon and the stars; and
the ground was rather sandy than rocky. So he dight Birdalone’s bed as
well as he might, and did off his surcoat and laid it over her; and then
stood aloof, and gazed on her; and he muttered: It is an evil chance; yet
the pleasure of it, the pleasure of it! Yea, said he again, she might
well be wearied; I myself am ready to drop, and I am not the least tough
of the band. And therewith he laid him down on the further side of the
pass, and fell asleep straightway.
CHAPTER XIV. THE BLACK KNIGHT TELLS THE TRUTH OF HIMSELF.
WHEN the morning was come down into the straitness of their secret road,
Birdalone opened her eyes and saw the Black Knight busy over dighting
their horses: so she arose and thrust her grief back into her heart, and
gave her fellow-farer the sele of the day, and he brought her victual,
and they ate a morsel, and gat to horse thereafter and departed; and the
way became smoother, and it was lighter overhead everywhere now, and the
rocks never again met overhead athwart the way; and it seemed to
Birdalone that now they were wending somewhat downward.
The knight was courteous unto Birdalone, and no longer for the present
thrust his love upon her, so that now she had some solace of his
fellowship, though he was but few-spoken to her.
It was betimes when they arose, and they rode all the morning till it was
noon, which they might well wot of, because the way was much wider, and
the cliff-walls of the pass much lower, so that the sun shone in upon
them and cheered them.
Now the Black Knight drew rein and said: Shall we rest, lady, and eat?
And thereafter, if thou wilt, I shall tell thee my tale. Or rather, if
thou wilt suffer me, I shall speak first and eat afterwards, or else the
morsel might stick in my throat. Knight, said Birdalone, smiling, I hope
thou hast no lie to swallow down before the meat. Nay, lady, said he; no
lie that is of moment at least.
So they lighted down, and Birdalone sat on the wayside under a birch-bush
that came thrusting out from the rock, and the knight stood before her,
hanging his head, as though he were one accused who would plead his
cause; and he began:
Lady, I must tell thee first of all, that to-day I have done as an
unfaithful servant and a traitor to my lord. Said Birdalone simply:
Shall I tell thee the truth, and say that from the first I seemed to see
in thee that thou wert scarce trusty? He said: Well, that mind I saw in
thee, and it went to my heart that thou shouldest think it, and that it
should be no less than true. But now I must tell thee, that it is for
thy sake that I have been untrusty to my lord. How so? said she. Quoth
he: Heardest thou ever of the Red Knight? Yea, said Birdalone, I have
heard of him ever as a tyrant and oppressor. Then she grew pale, and
said: Art thou he? Nay, said the knight, I am but a kinsman of his, and
his best-trusted man; nor have I failed him ever till yesterday.
He kept silence a while, and then said: This is the true tale: that we
have had tidings of thee and of thy ridings abroad with that old fool,
Sir Aymeris, and how thou hadst been twice to look into the Black Valley.
This I say hath the Red One heard, and the heart of him was touched by
the mere hearsay of thee; and moreover ’tis blessed bread to him the
doing of any grief to the knights of Quest Castle; wherefore he hath sent
me to hang about the dale, to lay hands on thee if I might for; he knew
being wise, that thou wouldst hanker after it; and moreover he let one of
his wise women sit out in spells on thee. So I espied, and happened on
thee all alone; and mine errand it was, since I came upon thee thus, to
draw thee till I had thee safe at home in the Red Hold. Forsooth I began
mine errand duly, and fell to beguiling thee, so that thou mayst well
have seen the traitor in me. But then, and then my heart failed me,
because I fell, not to desiring thee as coveting my master’s chattel, but
to loving thee and longing for thee as my fellow and speech-friend. And
I said to myself: Into the Red Hold she shall not go if I may hinder it.
Birdalone was very pale, but she refrained her from grief and fear, and
said: But those horsed and weaponed men up the dale, who were they? He
said: I will not lie now, not even a little; they came into the dale by
that upper pass whereof I told thee; they were of our men; I brought
them. I was never all alone in the dale; I was to have fetched thee to
them, so that thou mightest not see a rout of folk and flee away; and
then would we all have gone home together by the upper pass. But we two
must have gone on unto them in the dale’s head, whereas for all that I
could say I might not bring them down into that doom-ring where we ate
and talked yesterday. We two have been valianter than thou mayst have
deemed, to have done the deed of dining there; for all men fear it. But
as for me, I have been there more than twice or thrice, and thence have I
wandered, and found this pass wherein now we be; concerning which I have
held my tongue, deeming that it might one day serve my turn; as it hath
done now abundantly, since it hath been a refuge unto thee.
Yea, but whither are we going now? said Birdalone; is it perchance to the
Red Hold? Nay, never, said the knight, so help me God and All-hallows!
Whither then? said Birdalone; tell me, that I may at least trust thee,
even though I owe thee for all the pain and grief which thou hast wrought
me. He reddened and said: Wait a while; I bring thee to no ill place;
there shall no harm befall thee. And he fretted and fumed, and was
confused of speech and look, and then he said: When we come there I shall
belike crave a boon of thee.
O, but I crave a boon of thee here and now, said Birdalone. Wipe away
thine offence to me and take me back to my friends and the Castle of the
Quest! So mayst thou yet be dear unto me, though maybe not wholly as
thou wouldst have it. And she reached out her two hands toward him.
His breast heaved, and he seemed nigh to weeping; but he said: Nay, lady,
ask me not here and now, but there and to-morrow. But again I swear to
thee by thine hands that to the Red Hold I will not bring thee, nor
suffer thee to be brought, if I may hinder it; nay, not though I give my
life therefor.
Birdalone was silent awhile; then she said: And what shall befall me if I
come to the Red Hold? What is the Red Knight, and what would he do with
me? Said he: The Red Knight is terrible and fierce and wise; and I fear
him, I. He held his peace, and said: I must needs say it, that to thee
he would have been as Death and the Devil. He would have bedded thee
first. She broke in: Nay, never! and flushed very red. But the knight
went on: And after, I wot not; that were according to his mood. And as
to thy never, lady, thou wottest not the like of him or of the folk he
hath about him. Such as thou? she said angrily. Nay, he said, far worse
than me; men who fare little afield, and are not sweetened by adventures
and war-perils; and women worser yet; and far worser were they dealing
with a woman. She was silent again awhile, and paled once more; then her
colour came back to her, and she held out her hand to him and said
kindly: Thou being what thou art, I thank thee for thy dealings with me;
and now until to-morrow, when I shall ask thee of that again, I am
friends with thee; so come now, and let us eat and drink together.
He took her hand and kissed it, and then came and sat down meekly beside
her, and they ate and drank in that wild place as though they had been
friends of long acquaintance.
CHAPTER XV. THE BLACK KNIGHT BRINGS BIRDALONE TO THE BOWER IN THE DALE.
WHEN they had made an end of their meal, they gat to horse again and rode
on their ways; and every mile now was their road the easier, the pass
wider, and its walls lower and now also more broken; till at last they
began to go down hill swiftly, and after a little their road seemed to be
swallowed in a great thicket of hornbeam and holly; but the knight rode
on and entered the said thicket, and ever found some way amidst the
branches, though they were presently in the very thick of the trees, and
saw no daylight between the trunks for well-nigh an hour, whereas the
wood was thick and tangled, and they had to thread their way betwixt its
mazes.
At last the wood began to grow thinner before them, and the white light
to show between the trunks; and Birdalone deemed that she heard the sound
of falling water, and presently was sure thereof; and the knight spake to
her: Patience, my lady; now are we near home for to-day. She nodded
kindly to him, and therewith they rode on to open ground, and were on the
side of a steep bent, broken on their right hands into a sheer cliff as
Birdalone saw when the knight led her to the edge and bade her look over.
Then she saw down into a fair dale lying far below them, through the
which ran a little river, clear and swift, but not riotous, after it had
fallen over a force at the upper end of the dale, and made the sound of
water which she had heard. The said dale was so, that whatsoever was on
the other side thereof was hidden by tall and great trees, that stood
close together some twenty yards aloof from the stream, and betwixt them
and it was fair greensward with a few bushes and thorn-trees thereon.
Quoth the knight: Down there shall we rest till to-morrow, if it please
thee, lady; and since the sun will set in an hour, we were best on our
way at once. It pleases me well, said Birdalone, and I long to tread the
turf by the river-side, for I am weary as weary may be of the saddle and
the pass.
So down the bent they rode, and it was but a little ere they had ridden
it to an end, and had met the river as it swept round the cliff-wall of
the valley; and they rode through it, and came on to the pleasant
greensward aforesaid under the trees; and in a bight of the wood was a
bower builded of turf and thatched with reed; and there, by the bidding
of the knight, they alighted; and the knight said: This is thine house
for to-night, my lady; and thou mayest lie there in all safety after thou
hast supped, and mayst have my weapons by thy side if thou wilt, while I
lie under the trees yonder. And if thou wilt bathe thee in the cool
water, to comfort thee after the long ride and the weariness, I swear by
thy hand that I will take myself out of eye-shot and abide aloof till
thou call me.
Said Birdalone, smiling somewhat: Fair sir, I will not have my watch and
ward unarmed; keep thou thy weapons; and thou wilt not forget, perchance,
that I am not wholly unarmed, whereas I have my bow and arrows and my
knife here. And as to my bathing, I will take thee at thy word, and bid
thee go aloof a while now at once; for I will go down to the water; and
if thou spy upon me, then will it be thy shame and not mine.
The knight went his ways therewith, and Birdalone went down to the water
and unclad her; but ere she stepped into the river, she laid her bow and
three shafts on the lip thereof. Then she took the water, and disported
her merrily therein; and now, forsooth, she was nowise downcast, for she
said to herself, this man is not all evil and he lovest me well, and I
look for it that to-morrow he will bring me on my way toward the Castle
of the Quest, for mere love of me; and then shall he be a dear friend to
me, and I will comfort him what I can for as long as we both live.
So she came out of the water and clad her, and then called aloud for the
knight, and he came speedily unto her, as if he had been not exceeding
far away, though he swore with a great oath that he had nowise espied
her. She answered him nought, and they went side by side to the bower;
and there the knight dight the victual, and they sat together and ate
their meat like old friends; and Birdalone asked the knight concerning
this valley and the bower, if he had known it for long, and he answered:
Yea, lady, I was but a stripling when I first happened on the dale; and I
deem that few know thereof save me; at least none of our flock knoweth
thereof, and I am fain thereof, and keep them unknowing, for if my lord
were to hear of my having a haunt privy unto me he would like it but ill.
Birdalone turned pale when she heard him speak of his lord; for fear of
the Red Knight had entered into her soul, so that now the flesh crept
upon her bones. But she enforced her to smile, and said: Yea, and what
would he do to thee were he ill-content with thy ways? Forsooth, lady,
said he, if he could spare me he would make an end of me in some
miserable way; nay, if he were exceeding ill-content, he would do as much
for me whether he could spare me or not; otherwise he would watch his
occasion, and so grieve me that what he did would go to my very heart.
Woe’s me! said Birdalone, thou servest an evil master. The knight
answered not, and Birdalone went on speaking earnestly: It is a shame to
thee to follow this fiend; why dost thou not sunder thee from him, and
become wholly an honest man? Said he gruffly: It is of no use talking of
this, I may not; to boot, I fear him. Then did Birdalone hold her peace,
and the knight said: Thou dost not know; when I part from thee I must
needs go straight to him, and then must that befall which will befall.
Speak we no more of these matters.
Birdalone flushed with hope and joy as he spake thus, for she took him to
mean that he would lead her, on the morrow, on her way to the Castle of
the Quest. But the knight spake in a voice grown cheerful again: As to
this bower, lady, the tale thereof is soon told; for with mine own hands
I builded it some fifteen years ago; and I have come to this place time
and again when my heart was overmuch oppressed with black burdens of evil
and turmoil, and have whiles prevailed against the evil, and whiles not.
Mayst thou prevail this time, then! said she. He answered her not, but
presently fell to talking with her of other matters, and the two were
frank and friendly together, till the August night grew dark about them;
and then spake Birdalone: Now would I rest, for I can no longer keep mine
eyes open. Abide aloof from me to-morrow morning till I call to thee, as
thou didst this evening; and then, before we eat together again, thou
shalt tell me what thou wilt do with me. He stood up to depart, and she
reached out her hand to him in the glimmer, and he saw it, but said: Nay,
if I take thine hand, I shall take thine whole body. And therewith he
departed, and she laid her down in her smock alone, and slept anon, and
was dreamless and forgetting everything till the sun was up in the
morning.
CHAPTER XVI. YET A DAY AND A NIGHT THEY TARRY IN THE DALE.
BIRDALONE awoke when the sun came into the bower to her, and stood up at
once, and went down to the river and washed the night off her; and then,
when she was clad, called on the knight to come to her; and he came,
looking downcast and troubled; so that Birdalone thought within herself:
It is well, he will do my will.
She stood before him, and gave him the sele of the day, and he looked on
her sorrowfully. Then she said: Now is come the time when I am to ask
thee to take me back to the Castle of the Quest and my own people. He
was not hasty to answer her, and she spake again: This must thou do, or
else take me to the Red Hold and deliver me to the tyrant there; and I
have heard it from thine own mouth that will be nought else than casting
me into shame and torment and death. And I deem thou canst not do it.
Nay, she said, staying the words that were coming from his mouth, I wot
that thou canst do it if thine heart can suffer it; for thou art stronger
than I, and thou mayst break my bow, and wrest this knife out of mine
hand; and thou canst bind me and make me fast to the saddle, and so lead
my helpless body into thraldom and death. But thou hast said that thou
lovest me, and I believe thee herein. Therefore I know that thou canst
not will to do this.
He answered in his surly voice: Thou art right, lady, I cannot. Nay,
hearken thou this time. I have been turning over night-long what thou
didst say about leaving my lord, that is, betraying him, for it comes to
that; and now I have made up my mind to do it, and I will betray him for
thy sake. Wherefore there is a third way to take which thou hast not
seen; we will ride out of this dale in an hour’s time, and I will bring
thee to them who are only less the mortal foes of the Red Knight than are
thy fellows of the Quest, to wit, to the captain and burgesses of the
good town of Greenford by the Water; and I will do them to wit that I
have rescued thee from the hands of the Red Knight, and am become his
foe; and will show them all his incomings and outgoings, and every whit
of rede, and entrap him, so that he fall into their hands. Now, though
were I to be taken in battle by them, I should be speedily brought to the
halter, or may be to the bale-fire (for we be wizards all in the Red
Hold); yet with this word in my mouth, if they trow in it, I shall be
made their captain, and presently their master. Trow in my tale they
will, if thou bear me out therein, and they will honour thee, and suffer
thee to give thyself to me in marriage; and then I know thee, and myself
also, and that ere long we shall be both mighty and wealthy and beloved,
and fair will be the days before us.
His voice had grown softer as he spake, and toward the end of his words
he faltered, and at last brake out a-weeping, and cast himself wordless
on the grass before her.
She was pale, and her brow was knitted, and her face quivered; but she
spake coldly to him and said: This way I cannot take; and I wonder at
thee that thou hast shown it unto me, for thyself thou knowest that I
cannot go with thee. I will go nowhere hence save to the Castle of the
Quest. If thou wilt not lead me thereto, or put me on the road, I ask
thee straight, Wilt thou stay me if I go seek the way thither myself?
He rose up from the ground with a pale face full of anger as well as
grief, and caught her by the wrists and said, scowling the while: Tell me
now which of them it is; is it the stupid oaf Baudoin, or the light fool
Hugh, or the dull pedant Arthur? But it matters not; for I know, and all
the country-side knows, that they be vowed, each man of them, to his own
woman; and if they find not the women themselves, such dolts they are,
that they will ever be worshipping the mere shadows of them, and turn
away from flesh and blood, were it the fairest in the world, as thou art,
as thou art.
She shrank away from him what she might, but he still held her wrists;
then she spake in a quivering voice, her very lips pale with fear and
wrath: It is well seen that thou art a man of the Red Knight; and belike
thou wouldst do with me as he would. But one thing I crave of thee, if
there is any grain of mercy in thee, that thou wilt draw thy sword and
thrust me through; thou mayst leave thine hold of me to get at the blade,
I will not stir from where I stand. O! to think that I deemed thee
well-nigh a true man.
He dropped her hands now and stood aloof from her, staring at her, and
presently cast himself on the ground, rolling about and tearing at the
grass. She looked on him a moment or two, and then stepped forward and
stooped to him, and touched his shoulder and said: Rise up, I bid thee,
and be a man and not a wild beast.
So in a while he arose, and stood before her hang-dog-like; then she
looked on him pitifully, and said: Fair sir and valiant knight, thou hast
gone out of thy mind for a while, and thus hast thou shamed both me and
thyself; and now thou wert best forget it, and therewithal my last words
to thee.
Therewith she held out her hand to him, and he went on his knees and took
it, sobbing, and kissed it. But she said, and smiled on him: Now I see
that thou wilt do what I prayed of thee, and lead me hence and put me on
the road to the Castle of the Quest. He said: I will lead thee to the
Castle of the Quest.
Said Birdalone: Then shall it be as I promised, that I will be thy dear
friend while both we live. And now, if thou canst, be a little merrier,
and come and sit with me, and let us eat our meat, for I hunger.
He smiled, but woefully, and presently they sat down to their meat; and
he strove to be somewhat merry of mood, and to eat as one at a feast; but
whiles his heart failed him, and he set his teeth and tore at the grass,
and his face was fierce and terrible to look on; but Birdalone made as if
she heeded it nought, and was blithe and debonair with him. And when
they had done their meat he sat looking at her a while, and at last he
said: Lady, dost thou deem that, when all is said, I have done somewhat
for thee since first we met the day before yesterday at the lower end of
the Black Valley? Yea, she said, as erst I spake, all things considered
I deem that thou hast done much. And now, said he, I am to do more yet;
for I am to lead thee to where henceforth I shall have no more part or
lot in thee than if thou wert in heaven and I in hell. I pray thee say
not so, said Birdalone; have I not said that I will be thy friend? Lady,
said the knight, I wot well that according to the sweetness of thine
heart wilt thou do what thou canst do. And therewith he was silent a
while and she also.
Then he said: I would ask thee a grace if I durst. Ask it, said she, and
I will grant it if I may; I have gainsaid thee enough meseemeth.
Lady, he said, I will ask this as a reward of the way-leader, to wit,
that thou abide with me here in this dale, in all honour holden, till
to-morrow morning; and let this place, which has helped me aforetime, be
hallowed by thy dwelling here; and I, I shall have had one happy day at
least, if never another. Canst thou grant me this? If thou canst not,
we will depart in an hour.
Her countenance fell at his word, and she was silent a while; for sore
she longed to be speedily whereas her friends should find her if they
came back to the castle. But she thought within herself how wild and
fierce the man was, and doubted if he might not go stark mad on her hands
and destroy her if she thwarted overmuch; and, moreover, frankly she
pitied him, and would do what she might to ease his pain and solace his
grief of heart. Wherefore she cleared her face of its trouble and let it
be vexed no longer, but smiled upon the knight and said: Fair sir, this
meseemeth but a little thing for me to do, and I grant it thee with a
good will, and this shall now be the first day of the friendship if so
thou wilt take it; and may it solace thee.
Who then was gleeful but the knight, and strange it was to see all his
sorrow run off him; and he became glad and gamesome as a youth, and yet
withal exceeding courteous and kind with her, as though he were serving a
mighty queen.
So then they wore the day together in all good fellowship; and first they
went up the dale together and right to the foot of that great force,
where the stream came thundering down from the sheer rocks; and long
Birdalone stood to look thereon, and much she marvelled at it, for no
such thing had she seen before.
Thereafter they went afoot into the wood behind the green bower, and when
they had gone some way therein for their pleasure, they fell to seeking
venison for their dinner; and the knight took Birdalone’s bow and shafts
to strike the quarry withal, but he would have her gird his sword to her,
that she might not be weaponless. So they gat them a roe and came back
therewith to the bower, and the knight dight it and cooked it, and again
they ate in fellowship and kindness; and Birdalone had been to the river
and fetched thence store of blue-flowered mouse-ear, and of meadow-sweet,
whereof was still some left from the early days of summer, and had made
her garlands for her head and her loins; and the knight sat and
worshipped her, yet he would not so much as touch her hand, sorely as he
hungered for the beauty of her body.
Next, when dinner was done, and they lay in the shadow of the trees, and
hearkened the moor-hen crying from the water, and the moaning of the
wood-doves in the high trees, she turned to him and bade him tell her
somewhat of the tale of his life and deeds; but he said: Nay, lady, I
pray thee pardon me, for little have I to tell thee that is good, and I
would not have thee know of me aught worse than thou knowest of me
already. Rather be thou kind to me, and tell me of thy days that have
been, wherein I know full surely shall be nought but good.
She smiled and blushed, but without more ado fell to telling him of her
life in the House under the Wood, and spared not even to tell him
somewhat of the wood-mother. And he said no word to her thereover, save
thanks and praises for the kindness of her story.
At last the day wore to its ending, and then the knight’s grief strode
over him again, and he was moody and few-spoken; and Birdalone was blithe
with him still, and would have solaced his grief; but he said: Let it be;
as for thee, thou shalt be happy to-morrow, but this happy day of mine is
well-nigh worn, and it is as the wearing of my life. And the dark night
came, and he bade her good-night sorrowfully, and departed to his lair in
the wood. Birdalone lay in the bower, and might not sleep a long while
for her joy of the morrow, which should bring her back to the Castle of
the Quest.
But when morning was, and the sun was but just risen, Birdalone awoke,
and stood up and did on her raiment, and called her servant the knight,
and he came at once leading the two horses, and said: Now go we to the
Castle of the Quest. And he was sober and sorrowful, but nought fierce
or wild.
So Birdalone thanked him kindly and praised him, and he changed
countenance no whit therefor.
Then they mounted and set forth, and the knight led straight into the
wood, and by roads that he wotted of, so that they went nowise slowly for
wenders through the thick woodland. Thus went they on their way
together, he sorry and she glad.
But now leaves the tale to tell of Birdalone and the knight on whom she
happened in the Black Valley of the Greywethers, and turns to the Castle
of the Quest and the folk thereof, and what they did in this while and
thereafter.
* * * * *
Here ends the Fourth Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called Of the Days of Abiding, and the Fifth Part now begins, which is
called The Tale of the Quest’s Ending.
THE FIFTH PART: THE TALE OF THE QUEST’S ENDING.
CHAPTER I. OF SIR LEONARD’S TROUBLE AND THE COMING OF THE QUEST.
TELLS the tale that when the chaplain had departed from Birdalone at the
bower in the copse, he went home to the castle sadly enough, because of
his love and longing for her, which well he wotted might never be
satisfied. Moreover when he was come into the castle again, there fell
fear upon him for what might betide her, and he rued it that he had done
her will in getting her forth of the castle; and in vain now he set
before himself all the reasons for deeming that her peril herein was
little or nothing, even as he had laid them before her, and which he then
believed in utterly, whereas now himseemed there was an answer to every
one of them. So he sighed heavily and went into the chapel, wherein was
an altar of St. Leonard; and he knelt thereat, and prayed the saint, as
he had erst delivered folk from captivity, now to deliver both him and
Birdalone from peril and bonds; but though he was long a-praying and made
many words, it lightened his heart little or nothing; so that when he
rose up again, that if anything evil happened to this pearl of women, he
wished heartily that some one might take his life and he be done with it.
Now was the house astir, and the chaplain came from out the chapel, and
thinking all things over, he thought he would go straight to Sir Aymeris
and make a clean breast of it, so that weaponed men might be sent at once
to seek Birdalone. And he said to himself: What matter if he slay me or
cast me into prison, if Birdalone be lost?
So he went his ways to the highest tower, which looked landward and hight
the Open Eye, deeming to find Sir Aymeris; but when he got to the
topmost, he found neither captain nor carle there: wherefore he stayed a
little and looked forth betwixt the battlements, if perchance there were
some wild chance of seeing Birdalone’s coming home again; but his keen
eyes beheld nothing more than he looked to see, as sheep and neat, and
the field-folk of thereabouts. So he turned away and went by the swale
toward the next tallest tower, which looked lakewards, and was called
Hearts’ Hope; and as he went he fell to framing in his mind the words
which he should say to the castellan.
Thus came he, haggard and hapless, on the leads of the tower, which were
nought small; and there gathered together in a knot, and all gazing
eagerly out over the lake, he found a dozen of men-at-arms and the
castellan amongst them. They took no heed of him as he came up, though
he stumbled as he crossed the threshold and came clattering over the lead
floor, and he saw at once that there was something unwonted toward; but
he had but one thought in his mind, to wit, the rescuing of Birdalone.
He went up now behind where the castellan was leaning over the
battlement, and pulled his skirt, and when Sir Aymeris turned round, he
said: Lord, I have a word for thine ear. But the old knight did but half
turn round, and then spake peevishly: Tush, man! another time! seest thou
not I have got no eyes for aught save what we see on the lake? Yea, but
what then? said the priest. There cometh a boat, said Sir Aymeris, not
looking back at him, and our thought is that therein be our lords.
When the priest heard that word, it was to him as if hell had opened
underneath his feet; and he had no might to speak for a minute; then he
cried out: Sir Aymeris, hearken, I pray thee. But the old knight but
thrust him back with his hand, and even therewith one of the men-at-arms
cried out: I hear the voice of their horn! Then shouted Sir Aymeris:
Where art thou, Noise? Blow, man, blow, if ever thou blewest in all thy
life! And therewithal came the blare of the brass, and Sir Aymeris
nodded to the trumpeter, who blew blast after blast with all his might,
so that the priest might as well have been dumb for any hearing he might
get; and all the while to Leonard the minutes seemed hours, and he was
well-nigh distraught.
And then when the knight held up his hand for the Noise to stay his
blowing, and Leonard strove to speak, the castellan turned on him and
said: Peace, Sir Leonard; dost thou not know that now we would listen
with our ears to heed if they answer us? Not a word any one man of you,
learned or lewd, or ye shall rue it!
Even therewith came clearly the sound of the horn from the water, and
again and yet again; and no man spake but the chaplain, who cried out:
Hearken, knight, it is of Birdalone. But Sir Aymeris laid his hand on
his shoulder and said in an angry whisper: Thou shalt be put downstairs,
priest, if thou hold not thy peace.
Leonard drew aback scowling, and went out of the door, and so slowly down
the stair, and withdrew him into the cover of the door of the first
chamber down from the tower-top, with the mind to waylay Sir Aymeris as
he came down; and meanwhile he cursed him for a fool and a dull-wit, and
himself yet more, as was but right, for a fool and a licorous traitor.
But he had not tarried there more than a score of minutes, ere he heard a
great shout from those up above: They are come! they are come! And next
thereafter came all the men clattering down the stair past him, scarce
refraining them from shoving each his neighbour on to the next one;
Leonard followed on them, and presently arose great shouting and tumult
through all the house, and all folk, men and women, hurried flock-meal
toward the water-gate, and with them went Leonard perforce; and sick of
heart he was, calling to mind the first coming thither of Birdalone.
But now when they came to the water-gate, there verily was the Sending
Boat just coming to hand; and in the stern stood the three knights
together, all clad in their armour, and before them sat three lovely
ladies, clad one in gold, one in green, and one in black: and lo, there
was the Quest come home.
CHAPTER II. NOW ASK THEY OF BIRDALONE, AND SIR LEONARD SPEAKS.
NOW the prow touched the stones of the stair, and folk were busy to lay
hold of it that the wayfarers might land, but Sir Baudoin cried out in a
great voice: Let none be so hardy as to touch this ferry, either now or
hereafter; for there is peril therein. And therewith he took Aurea by
the hand, and led her out of the boat and up the stair, and she all
joyous and wondering; and thereafter came Hugh and his darling, and last
of all Arthur and Atra, and she alone of the three women looked downcast,
and her eyes wandered about the throng that was before them there, as
though she sought something, yet feared to see it.
But when they were all standing together on the landing-plain, and the
folk were all about them in a ring, Sir Baudoin spake to the castellan
and said: Sir Aymeris, thee and other folk I see here, the sight of whom
doth me great joy; but where, I pray thee, is the lady, our friend
Birdalone, by whom it is that all we are come happily hither? And he
looked around with an anxious face; but Arthur was as pale as ashes, yet
he spake nought, and Atra let her hand fall away from his.
Then spake the castellan, and said: No harm hath befallen the Lady
Birdalone; but whiles she hath been somewhat ailing of late, and it is
like that she wotteth not what is toward, and keepeth her chamber now,
for it is yet betimes in the morning.
As he spake, came thrusting a man through the throng, eager and
pale-faced; who but the chaplain; and he said: He would not let me speak,
this fool; I cannot choose my time. Lords, I bear evil tidings and an
ugly welcome home. The Lady Birdalone is in peril, and she is not in the
castle; I wot not where she is. Ye must send armed men to seek her out.
Thereat fell the silence of woe upon the throng; but Arthur ran forward
on the priest with drawn sword, and cried out: I misdoubt me that thou
art a traitor; speak! or I will slay thee here and now. If I be a
traitor, quoth Leonard, I shall tell thee in little while what ye must do
to undo my treason, if there be yet time thereto; so slay me not till ye
have heard, and then do what ye will with me.
But Baudoin put Arthur aside, and said: Refrain thee a little, fair
brother, else shall words tumble over each other and we shall know
nothing clear. Sir Aymeris, bring our dear ladies to the fairest
chambers, and do all honour and courtesy to them. And ye, sweetlings, ye
will not begrudge us that we go to seek your friend. Thou priest, come
with us a little apart, and tell thy tale as shortly as thou mayst, and
fear nought; we be not God’s dastards, as the Red Knight and his men.
Viridis wept and kissed her love before all folk, and bade him go and do
his best to find her friend, or never come back to her else. Much moved,
even to tears, was Aurea withal, and reached her hand to Baudoin, and
said: If any man on earth can help us it is thou. Go thou. But Atra
wept not, and but said to Arthur: Go thou, it is meet.
Therewith were the ladies brought to fair chambers; but the three knights
went with the priest and Sir Aymeris into the solar, and set a guard at
the door that their talk should be privy.
CHAPTER III. HOW THEY FOLLOW THE SLOT OF BIRDALONE AND THE BLACK KNIGHT.
IT was but five minutes ere the priest had told them all that need was;
so they let him abide alone there, though sooth to say there was none of
them but had good will to break his neck; and the same rede had all
three, that there was nought for it but to go their ways with all speed
to the Black Valley of the Greywethers, and follow up the slot of
Birdalone if it might yet be found; wherefore they bade saddle their
horses straightway; and while that was a-doing they ate a morsel, and
bade farewell to their lovelings. And they dight them to go, they three
together, with but one squire and a sergeant, who were both of them keen
trackers and fell woodsmen. But ere they went, by the rede of Arthur
they bade Sir Aymeris to arm a two score of men and ride toward the Red
Hold, and beset the ways ’twixt that and the Castle of the Quest; for one
and all they deemed that if any harm befell Birdalone, the Red Knight
would be at the bottom of it.
So rode those fellows, and came unto the dale but some four hours after
Birdalone had happened on the stranger knight; and they took up the slot
of her, but not easily, whereas the ground was hard and stony; howbeit,
they found tokens of the knight also, finding here and there what they
deemed the footprints of a tall man. And this was grievous to those
fellows, since now they could not but deem that somewhat untoward had
befallen Birdalone. But they went on making out the slot, and they
followed it with much toil until they came to the doom-ring in the head
of the dale, whereas Birdalone and the stranger had sat down to meat; but
by that time, so toilsome had been their going, it was somewhat more than
dusk, and there was nought for it but to abide there night-long. So a
while they sat talking, all of them, and the squire and the sergeant
aforesaid were not a little timorous of the adventure of making that
stead unkenned their sleeping chamber; and to while away the time, their
lords made them tell tales such as they knew concerning that place; and
both they said that they had never erst come into the dale but a very
little way, and said that they had done so then but trusting in their
lords’ bidding and the luck of the Quest. Thereafter turned the talk as
to what had befallen Birdalone, and the chances of coming on her; and, as
folk will in such a plight, they talked the matter over and over again
till they were weary and could say no more.
Then they went to sleep, and nought befell them till they awoke in the
broad daylight; but they had little inkling of what hour it was, for all
the dale was full of thick white mist that came rolling down from the
mountains, so that they could scarce see their hands before them, and
there they had to tarry still, would they, would they not; and the
sergeant fell to telling tales of folk who had been lost in that stony
maze; and all of them deemed, more or less, that this was the work either
of evil wights, or it might be of the wizardry of the Red Knight; and, to
be short, they all deemed that he it was who had wielded it, save the
sergeant, who said that the mountain wights were the masters and not the
servants of him of the Red Hold.
Thus, then, it betided; but when the said mist had been hanging upon them
for some six hours, it rolled up like a curtain, and lo the blue sky and
the sun, and the mountains as clear blue as in a picture; and they saw by
the sun that it was but a little after high noon.
But as they rejoiced herein, and betook them once more to tracking out
the slot of Birdalone and the other, the sky became suddenly overcast,
and down from the jaws of the mountain came a storm of wind and rain, and
thunder and lightning, so great that they might scarce see each other’s
faces, and when it cleared off, in about an hour and a half, and went
down the wind to the south-east, the stream was waxen great, and ran
brown and furious down the dale, so that it was fordable only here and
there; and as for tracking the slot of those twain, there was no need to
talk thereof, for the fury of the driving rain had washed all away.
Thus fared they the whole day betwixt fog and clear weather, and they
laid them down to rest at night sore disheartened. When the day broke
they talked together as to what was best to do; and the sergeant
aforesaid spake: Lords, said he, meseemeth I am more at home in the Black
Valley than ye be; heed ye not wherefore. Now so it is that if we tarry
here till night come we wot not what of evil may betide us, or at the
least we do nought. Or if we turn back and go southward out of the dale
we shall be safe indeed; but safe should we have been at your house,
lords, and should have done no less. But now I shall tell you that, if
ye will, lords, I shall guide you to a pass that goeth out of the head of
the dale to our right hands, and so turneth the flank of the mountains,
and cometh out into the country which lieth about the Red Hold; and
meseemeth it is thitherward that we must seek if we would hear any
tidings of the lady; for there may we lay in ambush and beset the ways
that lead up to the Hold, by which she must have been brought if she hath
not been carried through the air. How say ye, lords? Soothly there is
peril therein; yet meseemeth peril no more than in our abiding another
night in the Black Valley.
Said Arthur: We heed not the peril if there be aught to be done;
wherefore let us be stirring straightway. And so said they all.
Wherefore they gat to horse, and rode up to the very head of the valley,
and the weather was now calm and bright.
But the sergeant brought them to the pass whereof the stranger knight had
spoken to Birdalone, which led into the Red Knight’s country, and without
more ado they entered it when it was now about three hours after noon.
But the way was both steep and rough, so that they had much toil, and
went not very far ere night fell upon them, and the moon was not yet up.
So when they had stumbled on another two hours, and their horses were
much spent and they themselves not a little weary, they laid them down to
sleep, after they had eaten such meat as they had with them, in a place
where was a little grass for the horses to bite; for all the road
hitherto had been mere grim stones and big rocks, walled on either side
by stony screes, above which rose steep and beetling crags.
In the dawn they arose again, and made no ado till they were in the
saddle, and rode till they came to the crest of the pass, and came out
thence after a while on to the swelling flank of a huge mountain (as it
might be the side of the mountain of Plinlimmon in Wales), which was
grassed and nought craggy, but utterly treeless.
Now the sergeant led them somewhat athwart the said mountain till they
began to go down, and saw below them a country of little hills much
covered with wood, and in a while, and ere it was noon, they were among
the said woods, which were grown mostly with big trees, as oak here and
beech there, and the going was good for them.
CHAPTER IV. OF THE SLAYING OF FRIEND AND FOE.
SO came they, three hours after noon, to where was a clearing in the
woodland, and a long narrow plain some furlong over lay before them, with
a river running along it, and the wood rose on the other side high and
thick, so that the said plain looked even as a wide green highway leading
from somewhence to somewhither.
At the edge hereof their way-leader, the sergeant, bade draw rein, and
said: Lords, we are now in the lands of the Red Hold, and therein is
mickle peril and dread to any save stout hearts as ye be; but meseems we
are so steaded, that whatever may come out of the Black Valley of the
Greywethers to the Red Hold, ye now may scarce miss. Yonder along this
plain to the north lies the way to the said Hold, and any man coming from
the head of the valley is sure to come by the way we have come, and will
pass us not many yards at the worst from where we now be. On the other
hand, if any come to the Hold from the mouth of the Black Valley, then
along this green road must they needs pass under your very eyes. Lastly,
if we do what we are come to do, to wit, to deliver the lady from the Red
Knight, then, the deed done, we have to take the green road southward,
and ride it for a league and then turn east, and we shall have our heads
turned toward the Castle of the Quest, and shall speedily fall in with
Sir Aymeris and our men who be guarding the out-gates of the Red Knight’s
country toward our house. So now, by my rede, ye shall lay in covert
here and abide a while what may befall; if nought come hereby ere two
hours be lacking of sunset, then may we seek further.
They all yeasaid this, and gat off their horses, and lay quiet on the
grass, not even speaking save softly. And when they had abided thus
scarce an hour’s space, the squire, who was a man of very fine ear, held
up his hand as though to bid utter silence, and all hearkened eagerly.
Presently he said: Hear ye not? Said Arthur: Meseemeth I hear a faint
tinkle as of a sheep-bell. Said the squire: ’Tis the clashing of swords
down the plain to the south, and meseemeth ’tis but of two: ride we
thither?
Quoth Baudoin: Nay, not by my rede; for if we can hear them they can hear
us; let us quietly edge along afoot somewhat nigher their way, ever
keeping the cover of the wood betwixt us and the open plain. Now then to
it; and let each man keep his weapons ready.
Even so did they, and spread out in a line as they went, in such wise
that there was some six paces betwixt each man of them, and they went
softly forward; Baudoin went first, Hugh second, then Arthur; then the
squire and the sergeant last of all.
Now when they had gone but a quarter of an hour, the squire caught up
with Arthur, and spake to him softly, and said: The voice of the swords
has been silent now a while, and I heard a voice crying out e’en now, a
woman’s voice. And now again I could well-nigh deem that I hear
horse-hoofs.
Arthur nodded to him, and they went but a little further ere he said: Lo,
lo! ’tis the time of the eyes now! Here come folk. And therewithal they
stayed them. For the wood turned somewhat here, so as to hide all but a
little of the plain, and round the wood neb the new-comers hove in sight,
and were close on them at once, so that they might see them clearly, to
wit, a knight weaponed, clad all in red, a very big man, riding on a
great bay horse, and behind him a woman going afoot in very piteous
plight; for she was tethered to the horse’s crupper by a thong that bound
her wrists together, so that she had but just room left ’twixt her and
the horse that she might walk, and round about her neck was hung a man’s
head newly hewn off.
This sight they all saw at once, and were out of the wood in a trice with
weapons aloft, for they knew both the man and the woman, that they were
the Red Knight and Birdalone.
So swift and sudden had they been, that he had no time either to spur or
even to draw his sword; but he had a heavy steel axe in his hand as the
first man came up to him, which was the tall Baudoin; and therewith he
smote down on Baudoin so fierce and huge a stroke, that came on him
betwixt neck and shoulder, that all gave way before it, and the Golden
Knight fell to earth all carven and stark dead: but even therewith fell
Hugh, the squire, and the sergeant on the Red Knight; for Arthur had run
to Birdalone and sheared her loose from her tether. The sergeant smote
him on the right arm with a maul, so that the axe fell to the ground; the
squire’s sword came on the side of his head, and, as it was cast back
beneath the stroke, Hugh thrust his sword through the throat of him, and
down he fell unto the earth and was dead in less than a minute.
Then gathered the others round about Baudoin, and saw at once that he was
dead; and Birdalone came thrusting through the press of them, and knelt
down beside him, and when she saw her friend so piteously dight, she wept
and wailed over him as one who might not be comforted; and Hugh stood
over her and let his tears fall down upon the dead man; and withal the
squire and the sergeant did not refrain their lamentations, for sore
beloved was Sir Baudoin the Golden Knight.
But Arthur spake dry-eyed, though there was grief in his countenance, and
he said: Fellows, and thou, lady, let us lament afterwards, but now is
time for us to get us gone hence as speedily as may be. Yet I will ask,
doth any know whose is this head that the slain tyrant here had hung
about the lady’s neck? May the fiends curse him therefor!
Said the sergeant: Yea, lords, that wot I; this is the head of the Red
Knight’s captain and head man, Sir Thomas of Estcliffe; one of the
hardiest of knights he was while he was alive, as ye surely wot, lords;
neither, as I have heard say, was he as cruel a tyrant as his lord that
lieth there ready for the ravens.
Now had Birdalone arisen and was standing facing Arthur; her face was
pale and full of anguish, and she was dabbled with blood from the dead
man’s neck; but there was nought of shame in her face as she stood there
and spoke: O my living friends, who have but now saved me, ye and my dead
friends, from what shame and death I know not, the tale of this woeful
hap is over long to tell if there be peril at hand, and I scarce alive
from dread and sorrow; but shortly thus it is: This man, whose head here
lieth, entrapped me as I foolishly wandered in the Black Valley, and
afterwards delivered me, and was leading me to your castle, my friends,
when this other one, his master, the tyrant of the Red Hold, came upon
him, and fell upon him and slew him as a traitor, and dighted me as ye
saw. And woe’s me! I am the fool whose folly has slain your friend and
mine. Wherefore I am not worthy of your fellowship, and ye shall cast me
forth of it; or to slay me were better.
So she spake, gazing earnestly on Arthur; and so troubled and grieved,
that she might well have died but for her woodland breeding, and the toil
of the days she had won through in the House under the Wood.
But Hugh spake gently to her and said: Keep up thine heart yet, maiden;
for the hand of Fate it is that led thee, and none doeth grievously amiss
but if he mean wrong-doing in his heart; and we know thee for true; and
thou hast been our helper, and brought our lovelings unto us to make us
happy.
But she brake out weeping afresh, and said: O no, no! it is but woe and
weariness I have brought unto my friends; and to myself woe and weariness
yet more.
And she looked piteously into Arthur’s face, and hard and stern it seemed
unto her; and she writhed and wrung her hands for anguish. But he spake
and said: This will we look into when we be safe behind our walls, and
see what she hath done amiss and what not amiss. But now is there but
one thing to do, and that is to get us speedily on our way to the Castle
of the Quest, and bind our fellow’s body on his horse that he also may
ride with us, and the lady shall ride the horse of the accursed thief.
Then they turned to go toward their horses; but therewith Birdalone smote
her foot against the slain knight’s head, and shrank aback from it, and
pointed down toward it and spake no word; and Hugh said: Friends, the
lady is right, this at least we will cover with earth. Do ye go fetch
hither our horses, since we be on the road, and I will do here what need
is meanwhile.
So they went on that errand, and then Hugh and Birdalone between them dug
a hole with the swords and laid the head of the captain of the Red Knight
therein. And forsooth, somewhat would Birdalone have wept for him had
she had a tear to spare.
Then they fell to and bound the dead Baudoin on the Red Knight’s mighty
bay steed, so that no time might be wasted; and when that was done, and
the others had not come back with their horses, Hugh took Birdalone’s
hand and led her down to the stream and washed the gore off her bosom,
and she washed her face and her hands and let him lead her back again in
such wise that now she could hearken to the words of comfort he spake to
her, and piteous kind he seemed unto her; so that at last she plucked up
heart, and asked him how Viridis did. Quoth he: They be all safe at home
in the castle, and Viridis is well and loveth thee well. And Aurea was
well, woe worth the while for her now! As for Atra, she has not been so
glad as the other twain, I wot not wherefore.
Even as he spake were the others come up with the horses, and Arthur
nodded yeasay when he saw what had been done with Baudoin dead; and so
they gat to horse, and Birdalone it was that rode Baudoin’s steed. Then
they went their ways, crossing the river into the wood; and the sergeant
was ever way-leader, but the squire led the horse which bore the
sorrowful burden of the dead Knight of the Quest.
CHAPTER V. THEY COME HOME TO THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
NOW they had gone but some three hours, riding dreary and nigh speechless
all of them, ere they began to know the land they were in, and that they
were coming to the place where they might look presently to fall in with
Sir Aymeris and his company; and even so the meeting betid, that they saw
men standing and going about their horses beside a little wood, and knew
them presently for their folk, who mounted at once and spurred forward to
meet them, spears aloft. Speedily then was the joy of those abiders
turned into sorrow, nor may the grief of Sir Aymeris be told, so great it
was; and Birdalone looked on and saw the mourning and lamentation of the
warriors, and eked was her anguish of mind; and she beheld Arthur the
Black Squire, how he sat still upon his horse with a hard and dreary
countenance, and looked on those mourners almost as if he contemned them.
But Sir Aymeris came up to Birdalone, and knelt before her and kissed her
hand, and said: If my heart might rejoice in aught, as some day it will,
it would rejoice in seeing thee safe and sound, lady; here at least is
gain to set beside the loss.
She thanked him, but looked askance toward Arthur, who said: If that be
gain, yet is there more, for the Red Knight lieth in the green plain for
a supper to the wolf and the crow. Vengeance there hath been, and belike
more yet may come. But now, if ye have lamented as much as ye deem
befitteth warriors, let us tarry here no longer; for even yet meseemeth
shall we be safer behind walls, now that our chief and captain is slain,
I scarce know in what quarrel.
None naysaid it, so they all rode forth together, and the sergeant and
the squire and Sir Hugh told of their tale what they might to Sir Aymeris
and the others; but Arthur held his peace, and rode aloof from Birdalone,
whereas Sir Aymeris and Hugh rode on either side of her, and did not
spare to comfort her what they might.
They rode straight on, and made no stay for nightfall, and thus came home
to the Castle of the Quest before the day was full; and woeful was their
entry as they went in the dawn underneath the gate of the said castle,
and soon was the whole house astir and lamenting.
As for Birdalone, when she got down from her horse in the gateway, and
was stiff and weary of body, and all dazed and confused of mind, there
was but little life in her; nor could she so much as think of the new day
and Aurea’s awakening, but crept up unto her own chamber, so long as it
seemed since she had left it, though it was but a little while; and she
cast herself upon the bed and fell asleep whether she would or not, and
so forgat her much sorrow and her little hope.
CHAPTER VI. OF THE TALK BETWIXT BIRDALONE AND VIRIDIS.
WHEN she woke again, she had slept the night away, and it was broad day,
and for a moment she lay wondering what was the burden upon her; but
presently she called it all to mind, and deemed it were well might she
forget it all again. Anon she became aware of someone moving about the
chamber, and she looked about unhappily; and lo! a woman, fair and
dainty, clad all in green, and it was Viridis that had come there. But
when she saw Birdalone stirring, she came up to her and kissed her
sweetly and kindly, and wept over her, so that Birdalone might nowise
refrain her tears. But when she might cease weeping, she said to
Viridis: Tell me, art thou weeping for thy friend who is lost, and who
shall be thy friend no more; or thy friend whom thou hast found? Said
Viridis: Forsooth I have wept for Baudoin plenteously, and he is worthy
of it, for he was valiant and true and kind. Said Birdalone: True is
that; but I meant not my question so; but rather I would ask thee if thou
weepest because thine heart must needs cast me away, or because thou hast
found me again? Quoth Viridis: Whoso may be dead, or whoso alive, but if
it were Hugh, my loveling, I were rejoiced beyond measure to find thee,
my friend. And again she kissed her as one who was glad and kind. But
for new rest of soul and for joy, Birdalone fell a-weeping afresh.
Again she spake: And what mind have the others about me? For thou art
but one, though the dearest, save . . . And would they punish me for my
fault and folly that has slain the best man in the world? If the
punishment be short of putting me forth of their fellowship, I were fain
thereof.
Viridis laughed: Forsooth, she said, they have much to punish thee for!
whereas it was by thy doing and thy valiance that we all came together
again and the Quest was accomplished. Nay, but tell me, said Birdalone,
what do they say of me, each one of them?
Viridis reddened; she said: Hugh, my mate, saith all good of thee; though
no one of carl-folk may be sorrier of the loss of his fellow. Aurea
layeth not the death of her man upon thee; and she saith: When the
fountain of tears is dried up in me, I will see her and comfort her, as
she me. Atra saith: she saith but little, yet she saith: So is it fated.
I had done belike no better, but worse than she.
Now turned Birdalone red and then pale again, and she said, but in a
quavering voice: And the Black Squire, Arthur, what sayeth he? Said
Viridis: He sayeth nought of thee, but that he would hear all the tale of
what befell thee in the Black Valley. Sweet friend, said Birdalone, I
pray thee of thy kindness and sweetness that thou go unto him presently
and bring him in hither, and then I will tell him all; and he and thou
and I together.
Viridis said: There is this to be said, that when a man loveth a woman he
coveteth her, to have her all wholly to himself, and hard and evil he
groweth for the time that he misdoubteth her whom he loveth. And I will
tell thee that this man is jealous lest thou wert never so little kind to
the slain stranger knight whose head the tyrant hung about thee.
Furthermore, I fear there is no help for it that thou wilt undo the
happiness of one of us, that is Atra; yet were it better that that befell
later than sooner. And if Sir Arthur come in here to thee, and hath thy
tale with none beside save me, meseems the poor Atra will feel a bitter
smart because of it. Were it not better that we all meet presently in
the solar, and that there thou tell thy tale to us all? and thereafter
shall we tell the tale of our deliverance and our coming hither. And
thus doing, it will seem less like to the breaking up of our fellowship.
Said Birdalone: It will be hard for me to tell my tale before Atra and
before him. Might it not be that thou hearken to it here and now, and
tell it to the others hereafter? Nay, nay, said Viridis, I am not a
proper minstrel to take the word out of thy mouth. Never shall I be able
to tell it so that they shall trow it as if they had seen it all.
Besides, when all is told, then shall we be more bound together again. I
pray thee, and I pray thee, sweet, do so much for me as to tell thy tale
to the fellowship of us. And if it be hard to thee, look upon it as my
share of the punishment which is due to thee for falling into that
mishap.
Smiled Birdalone ruefully, and said: So be it; and may the share of the
others be as light as thine, sister. Yet soothly were I liefer that my
body and my skin should pay the forfeit. But now, since I must needs do
this, the sooner is the better meseemeth.
In a little half hour, said Viridis, will I bring what is left of our
fellowship into the solar to hearken thee. So come thou there unto us
when thou art clad. And hear thou! be not too meek and humble, and bow
thyself to us in fear of our sorrow. For whereas thou didst speak of our
punishing thee, there will be one there whom thou mayst easily punish to
thy pleasure; forsooth, friend, I rue that so it is; but since it will
not better be, what may I do but wish thee happy and him also.
Therewith she turned and went out of the chamber, and Birdalone, left to
herself, felt a secret joy in her soul that she might not master, despite
the sorrow of her friends, whatever it might be.
CHAPTER VII. BIRDALONE TELLETH THE TALE OF HER WANDERING UP THE VALLEY
OF THE GREYWETHERS.
NOW Viridis did as she said, and brought them all in to the solar; there
was none lacking save Baudoin, and they sat silently in a half ring, till
the door opened and Birdalone came in to them, clad all simply in but a
black coat; and she made obeisance to them, and stood there with her head
bent down as if they were her judges, for so in sooth she deemed them.
Then Hugh bade her sit down amongst them; but she said: Nay, I will not
sit amongst you till ye have heard my story, and ye have told me that I
am yet of your fellowship. None said aught; Atra looked straight before
her, and her eyes met not Birdalone’s eyes; Arthur looked down on the
ground; but Hugh and Viridis looked kindly on Birdalone, and to Viridis’
eyes the tears were come.
Then spake Birdalone and said: I am here as one that hath done amiss; but
I will tell you, so that ye may not think worse of me than ye should,
that when ye were gone, ye Champions, and the time wore long that ye came
not again, it lay heavy on my heart, and hope waned and fear waxed, and
my soul so grieved my body that I thought to fall sick thereof, and I
knew that it would be ill for you to come home hither and find me sick;
so that I longed sore to do somewhat which should make me whole again.
Then weird would that I should hear all the tale of the Black Valley of
the Greywethers, and of how therein is whiles granted fulfilment of
desire; and methought how well it were if I might seek the adventure
there and accomplish it. Thereof, doubtless, hath the chaplain, Sir
Leonard, told you; but this furthermore would I say, that his doing
herein was nought; all was done by my doing and by my bidding, and he
might not choose but do it. Wherefore I do pray you all earnestly that
ye keep no grudge against him, but pardon him all. Tell me, then, will
ye do thus much?
Said Hugh: Let him be pardoned, if he can take pardon. But Arthur spake
not, and Birdalone looked on him anxiously, and her face was moved, and
it was with her throat as if she had swallowed something down. Then she
spake again, and fell to tell them all that had betid to her when she
went to the Black Valley, even as is hereafore writ, hiding nought that
had been done and said; and freely she told it, without fear or shame,
and with such clearness and sweetness of words that no one of them
doubted her aught; and Arthur lifted up his head, and once and again his
eyes met hers, and there was nought of hardness in them, though they
turned away at once.
So at last fell Birdalone to telling what betid after they two, the
stranger knight and she, left the valley of the force and fell to riding
the wildwood with their heads turned toward the Castle of the Quest; and
she said:
When we turned into the wood away from the said valley it lacked some
four hours of noon; and we rode till noon was, and rested by a
stream-side and ate, for we knew no cause wherefore we should hasten
overmuch; but my fellow the strange knight was downcast and heavy, and
some might have called him sullen. But I strove to make him of better
cheer, and spake to him kindly, as to one who of an enemy had become a
friend; but he answered me: Lady, it availeth not; I grieve that I am no
better company than thou seest me, and I have striven to be merrier; but
apart from all that I wot and that thou wottest which should make me of
evil cheer, there is now a weight upon my heart which I cannot lift, such
as never have I felt erst. So by thy leave we will to horse at once,
that we may the speedier come to the Castle of the Quest and Sir Aymeris’
prison.
So I arose, but smiled on him and said: Hold up thine heart, friend! for
thee shall be no prison at the Castle of the Quest, but the fair welcome
of friends. He said nought, and mended not his cheer; and in this plight
we gat to horse and rode on for some three hours more, till we came out
of the thick forest into a long clearing, which went like a wide highway
of greensward between the thicket, and it seemed as if the hand of man
had cleared that said green road. Thereto we had come, following a
little river which came out on to the clearing with us, and then,
turning, ran well-nigh amidst it toward the north.
Now when we were come thither, and were betwixt the thicket and the
water’s edge, we drew rein, and it seemed to me as fair a stead as might
be in the woodland, and I looked thereon well pleased and with a happy
heart. But the knight said: Lady, art thou not exceeding weary? Nay,
said I, not in any wise. Said he: It is strange then, for so weary am I,
that I must in any case get off my horse and lay me down on the grass
here, or I shall drop from the saddle. And therewith he lighted down and
stood by me a little, as to help me off my horse; but I said to him:
Knight, I pray thee, even if ye be weary, to struggle forward a little,
lest we be in peril here. In peril? quoth he; yea, that might be if the
Red Knight knew of our whereabouts; but how should that be? He spoke
this heavily, as one scarce awake; and then he said: I pray thee pardon
me, lady, but for nought may I hold my head up; suffer me to sleep but a
little, and then will I arise and lead thee straight to thy journey’s
end. Therewithal he laid him down on the grass and was presently asleep,
and I sat down by him all dismayed. At first, indeed, I doubted some
treachery in him, for how might I trust him wholly after all that had
come and gone? but when I saw that there was no feigning in his sleep, I
set that doubt aside, and knew not what to make of it.
Thus passed an hour, and from time to time I shook him and strove to
waken him, but it was all in vain; so I knew none other rede than to
abide his awakening; for I knew not the way to take toward this castle;
and, moreover, though he were a knight, and armed, yet might it be
perilous for him if he were left there alone and unguarded; so I abode.
But now came new tidings. Methought I heard the sound of the tinkling of
weapons and armour; the green highway so turned that a wood neb about an
hundred yards to the north hid it from my sight, so that a man might have
drawn somewhat near to us without being seen, came he on the hither side
of the river. So I stood up hastily, and strung my bow, and took a shaft
in my fingers, and no sooner was it done than there came a rider round
about the aforesaid wood neb. He was all-armed and had a red surcoat,
and rode a great shining bay horse. I kept my eye upon him while I
stirred the sleeping knight with my foot, and cried to him to wake, but
he scarce moved, and but uttered words without sense.
Now the new-comer drew rein for a moment when he saw us, and then moved
on a little toward me, but I nocked a shaft and pointed it at him, and
cried out to him to stay. Then I heard a great rattling laugh come from
him, and he shouted: Nay, do thou stay, fair wood-wife, and I will risk
thy shafts to come at thee. But why doth not the sluggard at thy feet
rise up and stand before me, if he be thy loveling? Or is he dead? His
voice was harsh and big, and I feared him sore; and it was as much
because of fear as of hardihood, that I drew and loosed straightway; and
doubtless it was because of fear that I saw my shaft fly an inch or so
over his right shoulder. I heard his rattling laugh again, and saw him
bend forward as he spurred; I knew that time lacked for drawing another
shaft, so I caught up my skirts and ran all I might; but swift-foot as I
be, it availed me nought, for I was cumbered with my gown, and moreover I
was confused with not knowing whither to run, since I wotted that in the
water the horse would do better than I.
So he was up with me in a twinkling, and reached out his hand and caught
hold of me by the hair, and tugged me to him as he reined back his horse.
Then he laughed again and said: Forsooth she will look better when she is
no longer reddened and roughened with fleeing; and, by Red Peter! what
limbs she hath. Then he let me loose and got off his horse, and shoved
me on before him till we came to where the Black One lay still sleeping
heavily. Then the Red Knight stood against me, and looked hard into my
face; and I saw how huge a man he was, and how a lock of bright red hair
came out from under his sallet. His eyes were green and fierce
underneath shaggy red eyebrows; terrible he was to look on.
Now he spake fiercely and roughly, and as though he had something against
me: Tell me, thou, who thou art and who this is? I answered nought, for
fear had frozen my speech. He stamped his foot on the ground and cried:
Hah! art thou gone dumb? Speak! thou wert best! I said, all quaking: My
name is Birdalone; I belong to no one; I have no kindred: as for this
man, I know not his name. He said: Comest thou from the Castle of the
Quest? Art thou the whore of those lily-and-rose champions there? My
heart was hot with anger in spite of my dread, but I spake: I came from
the Castle of the Quest. He said: And this man (therewith he turned
about and spurned him in the side), where didst thou happen upon him?
Again I was silent, and he roared out at me: So thou wilt not answer!
Beware, or I may see how to compel the speech of thee. Now answer me
this: Was it in the Black Valley of the Greywethers that ye two came
together? Again I knew not how to answer, lest I might do a wrong to him
who had repented him of the wrong he had done me. But the Red Knight
burst out a-laughing and said: It shall be remembered against thee,
first, that thou didst let fly a shaft at me; second, that thou didst run
from me; and thirdly, that thou hast been slack in answering my
questions. But all this scathes me nought; first, because thy shaft
missed me; second, because thy legs failed thee (though they were fair to
look on, running); and third, because all thou canst tell me I know
without thine answering. Now thee will I tell that this is Friday, and
that ye two first met in the Black Valley on Tuesday; now I will ask this
last question, and thou mayst answer it or not as thou wilt; for
presently I shall wake this brisk and stirring knight, and I deem that he
will tell me the truth of this if of nought else. Tell me, thou whore of
the Questing Champions, where and how many times thou hast lain in this
good knight’s arms since last Tuesday? Nowhere and never, quoth I. Thou
liest, I doubt thee, said the Red Knight; howsoever, let us see what this
doughty one will say. Hah! thou deemest he shall be hard to wake up,
dost thou not! Well, I shall see to that. He who giveth sleep may take
it away again.
Therewith he went up to the Black One and stooped adown over his head,
and spake some words over him, but so softly that I heard not their
import; and straightway the sleeper rose up so suddenly that he wellnigh
smote against the Red Knight. He stood awhile staggering, and blinking
at the other one, but somehow got his sword drawn forth, and the Red
Knight hindered him nought therein, but spake anon when the other was
come to himself somewhat: The sele of the day to thee, Sir Thomas, True
Thomas! Fair is thy bed, and most fair thy bedfellow.
The Black Knight drew aback from him and was now come awake, wherefore he
stood on his guard, but said nought. Then said the Red Knight: Sir
Thomas, I have been asking this fair lady a question, but her memory
faileth her and she may not answer it; perchance thou mayst do better.
Tell me where and how many times hast thou bedded her betwixt last
Tuesday and this? Nowhere and never, cried Sir Thomas, knitting his
brows and handling his sword. Hah, said the Red Knight, an echo of her
speech is this. Lo, the tale ye have made up betwixt you. But at least,
having done mine errand, though meseemeth somewhat leisurely, and having
gotten the woman for me, thou art now bringing her on to the Red Hold,
whatever thou hast done with her on the road? I am not, said my fellow,
I am leading her away from the Red Hold. Pity of thee, quoth the other,
that thou hast fallen in with me, and thou but half-armed. And he raised
aloft his sword; but presently sank it again, and let the point rest on
the earth.
Then he spoke again, not mockingly as erst: A word before we end it,
Thomas: thou hast hitherto done well by me, as I by thee. I say thou
hast gotten this woman, and I doubt not that at first thou hadst the mind
to bring her to me unminished; but then thou wert overcome by her beauty,
as forsooth I know thee woman-mad, and thou hadst meant to keep her for
thyself, as forsooth I marvel not. But in thy love-making thou hast not
bethought thee that keep her to thyself thou mayst not while I am above
ground, save thou bewray me, and join thee to my foemen and thine.
Because I am such a man, that what I desire that will I have. For this
reason, when I misdoubted me of thee for thy much-tarrying, I cast the
sleep over thee, and have caught thee. For what wilt thou do? Doubt it
not, that if our swords meet, I shall pay thee for trying to take my
bedthrall from me by taking from thee no more than thy life. But now
will I forgive thee all if thou wilt ride home quietly with me and this
damsel-errant to the Red Hold, and let her be mine and not thine so long
as I will; and then afterwards, if thou wilt, she shall be thine as long
as thou wilt. Now behold, both this chance and thy life is a mere gift
of me to thee, for otherwise thou shalt have neither damsel nor life.
Yea, yea, said my friend, I know what thou wouldest: I have been no
unhandy devil to thee this long while, and thou wouldst fain keep me
still; but now I will be devil no longer, on this earth at least, but
will die and take my luck of it. And do thou, God, see to the saving of
this damsel, since thou hast taken the matter out of my hands. Farewell,
dear maiden!
Scarce was the word out of his mouth ere his sword was in the air, and he
smote so fierce and straight that he beat down the huge man’s blade, and,
ere he could master it again, smote the Red Knight so heavily on the
crest that he fell to his knees; and the heart rose in me, for I deemed
that he might yet prevail; and in as ’twere a flash I bethought me of the
knife at my girdlestead, and drew it and ran to the Red Knight, and tore
aside his mail hood with one hand and thrust the knife into his shoulder
with the other; but so mighty was he that he heeded nought the hurt, but
swept his sword back-handed at the Black Knight’s unarmed leg, and smote
him so sore a wound that down he fell clattering. Then arose the Red
Knight, and thrust me from him with the left hand, and strode over my
fellow-farer and thrust his sword through his throat. Then he turned to
me, and spake in a braying voice as if a harsh horn were blown:
Abide thou; if thou takest one step I will slay thee at once. So he went
and sat down on a bank a little way from the dead man, and wiped his
sword on the grass and laid it beside him, and so sat pondering a while.
Thereafter he called me to him, and bade me stand in face of him with my
hands clasped before me. Then he spake to me: Thou art my thrall and my
having, since I had thus doomed it no few days ago; and thou art now in
my hands for me to do with as I will. Now instead of being meek and
obedient to me thou hast rebelled against me, shot an arrow at me, run
from me, denied answer to my questions, and thrust a knife into me. To
be short, thou hast made thyself my foe. Furthermore, it is by thy doing
that I have lost a right good servant and a trusty fellow, and one that I
loved; it is thou that hast slain him. Now have I been pondering what I
shall do with thee. I said: If I have deserved the death, then make an
end and slay me presently; but bring me not to thine house, I pray thee.
I pray by the mother that bore thee!
Quoth he: Hold thy peace, it is not what thou deservest that I am looking
to, but what shall pleasure me. Now hearken; I say that thou hast made
thee my foe, and I have overcome thee; thou art my runaway thrall, and I
have caught thee. As my foe I might slay thee in any evil way it might
like me; as my thrall I might well chastise thee as sharply and as
bitterly as I would. But it is not my pleasure to slay thee, rather I
will bring thee to the Red Hold, and there see what we may make of thee;
whereas I cannot but deem that in thee is the making of somewhat more
than a thrall; and if not, then a thrall must thou needs be. Again as to
the chastising of thee, that also I forgive thee since I have gotten the
hope aforesaid. Yet forsooth some shame must I do thee to pay thee back
for the love that was betwixt thee and the slain man. I will ponder what
it shall be; but take heed that whatsoever it shall be, it will not avail
thee to pray me to forego it, though thy speech be as fair and sweet as
thy body.
Therewith he was silent a while, and I stood there not daring to move,
and my heart was so downcast that all the sweetness of life seemed
departed. Yet I withheld lamentations or prayers, thinking within
myself, who knows what occasion may be between this and the Red Hold for
my escaping; let me keep myself alive for that if it may be.
Presently he arose and took his sword, and went up to the slain man’s
body and smote the head from off it. Then he went to the two horses of
Sir Thomas and of me, and took from them such gear of girths and thongs
as he would, and therewith he dight me as ye saw, doing a girth about my
middle and making me fast to a line wherewith to hold me in tow. And
then he did that other thing which sickens my very soul to tell of, to
wit, that he took the slain man’s head and tied a lace thereto, and hung
it about my neck; and as he did so, he said: This jewel shalt thou
thyself bear to mine house; and there belike shall we lay it in earth,
since the man was my trusty fellow. Lo now, this is all the ill I shall
do thee till it be tried of what avail thou art. This is a shaming to
thee and not a torment, for I will ride a foot’s-pace, and the green way
is both soft and smooth; wherefore fear not that I shall throw thee down
or drag thee along. And to-morrow thy shame shall be gone and we shall
see what is to betide.
Lo, friends, this is the last word he spake ere he was slain, and the
ending of my tale; for we had gone thus but a little way ere ye brake out
of the wood upon us; and then befell the death of one friend, and the
doubt, maybe, of the others, and all the grief and sorrow that I shall
never be quit of unless ye forgive me where I have done amiss, and help
me in the days to come. And she spread out her hands before them, and
bowed her head, and the tears fell from her eyes on to the floor.
Viridis wept at Birdalone’s weeping, and Aurea for her own sorrow, which
this other sorrow stirred. Atra wept not, but her face was sadder than
weeping.
But Arthur spake and said: Herein hath been the hand of Weird, and hath
been heavy on us; but no blame have we to lay on our sister Birdalone,
nor hath she done light-mindedly by us; though maybe she erred in not
trusting to the good-hap of the Quest to bring us back in due time: and
all that she saith do we trow as if it were written in the Holy Gospel.
They all yeasaid this, and called on her to come amongst them; but she
thought of little at first save the joy of hearing the sweetness of those
words as Arthur spake them; wherefore she hung back a little, and thought
shame of it that she might not give more heed to the others of them.
Then came Viridis and took her by the hand and led her to Sir Hugh, and
Birdalone knelt down before him and took his hand to kiss it, but he put
both hands about her face and kissed her kindly and merrily on the lips.
Then she knelt before Aurea, and was hapless before her; but Aurea kissed
her, and bade her be of better cheer, albeit the words came coldly from
her mouth. Next she came to Arthur, and knelt before him and took his
hand and kissed it, and thanked him kindly for his kind words, looking
into his face meanwhile; and she saw that it was pale and troubled now,
and she longed to be alone with him that she might ask him wherefore.
As for Atra, she arose as Birdalone came before her, and cast her arms
about her neck, and wept and sobbed upon her bosom, and then went
hurrying from out the solar and into the hall, and walked to and fro
there a while until the passion that tore her was lulled somewhat, and
she might show her face to them calm and friendly once more. And as she
entered Arthur was speaking, and he said:
To you, ladies, I tell what we of the castle wot better than well, that
our dear friend hath escaped so heavy a fate in escaping the Red Hold,
that it were unmeet for us to murmur at our loss in our fellow; for a
warrior’s life, which is ever in peril of death, is nought over heavy a
ransom for such a friend, and so dear and lovely, from such a long and
evil death. Whereas ye must wot that the said Hold hath this long while
been a very treasure-house of woes and a coffer of lamentations; for
merciless was the tyrant thereof, and merciless all his folk. Now
another time, when ye are stronger in heart than now ye be, I may tell
you tales thereof closer and more nicely of those who did his will; as of
his innermost band of men-at-arms, called the Millers; and of his
fellow-worker in wizardry and venoms, called the Apothecary; and the
three hags, called the Furies; and the three young women, called the
Graces; and his hounds that love man’s flesh; and the like tales, as evil
as nightmares turned into deeds of the day. But now and here will I say
this, that when we have done the obsequies of our dear fellow, it were
good that we follow up the battle so valiantly begun by him. I mean that
the Quest of our ladies being now accomplished, we should turn what is
left of the fellowship into a war against the Red Hold and its evil
things; and that so soon as the relics of Baudoin are laid in earth, we
gather force and go thither in arms to live or die in the quarrel, and so
sweeten the earth, as did the men of ancient days when they slew the
dragons and the giants, and the children of hell, and the sons of Cain.
His cheek flushed as he spoke, and he looked around till his eyes fell on
Birdalone, and he saw that her face also glowed and her eyes gleamed; but
Viridis, her heart sank so that she paled, and her lips trembled.
But Aurea spake and said: I thank thee for thy word, Black Squire, and I
know that my man shall rejoice in Paradise when he knoweth of it, and
thereof shall I tell him to-morrow when the mass is said for him.
And Atra said: Good is the word, and we look to it that the deed shall be
better yet. Thus hath the evil arisen that shall destroy the evil, as
oft hath been when the valiant have been grieved, and the joy of the
true-hearted hath been stolen from them; then the hand doth the doughty
deed and the heart hath ease, and solaced is sorrow.
They looked on her and wondered, for she spake with her head upraised and
her eyes glittering, as she had been one of the wise women of yore agone.
And Birdalone feared her, though she loved her.
Lastly spake Hugh, and said: Brother, this is well thought of indeed, and
I marvel that I did not prevent thee; and I am thine to live and die with
thee. And the adventure is nought unlikely; for if we have lost a
captain they have lost their head devil, and their head little devil;
moreover, the good men of Greenford shall join them to us, and that shall
make us strong, whereas they have men enough, and those stout
men-at-arms; and artificers they have to make us engines, and do other
wisdom; and therewithal money to buy or to wage what they will.
Wherefore, to my mind, we were best to make no tarrying, but send out the
messengers for the hosting straightway.
Straightway, said the Black Squire; and let us go now and find Sir
Aymeris. So they arose both and went their ways, and left the women
there alone, and were gone a good while.
CHAPTER VIII. ATRA AND BIRDALONE TALK TOGETHER WHILE THE LORDS SIT AT
THE MURDER-COUNCIL.
MEANWHILE of their absence, Viridis sat sad and silent and downcast,
though she wept not, for her gladness, which erst had been so great,
seemed now reft from her; and no merrier was Aurea, as might have been
looked for. But Atra came quietly unto Birdalone, and said softly: I
have a word for thee if thou wilt come forth with me into the hall.
Birdalone’s heart failed her somewhat, but she suffered Atra to take her
hand, and they went into the hall together, and Atra brought her into a
shot-window, and they sat down together side by side and were silent
awhile. Spake Atra then, trembling and reddening: Birdalone, knowest
thou what thought, what hope, was in my heart when I spake so proudly and
rashly e’en now? Birdalone kept silence, and trembled as the other did.
This it was, said Atra: he will go to this battle valiantly, he may fall
there, and that were better; for then is life to begin anew: and what is
there to do with these dregs of life? Said Birdalone, with flushed face:
If he die he shall die goodly, and if he live he shall live goodly. Yea,
yea, said Atra; forsooth thou art a happy woman! Dost thou hate me? said
Birdalone. Said Atra: Proud is thy word, but I hate thee not. Nay, e’en
now, when I spake thus boastfully, I thought: When he hath died as a
doughty knight should, then, when life begins again, Birdalone and I
shall be friends and sisters, and we two will talk together oft and call
him to mind, and the kindness of him, and how he loved us. Woe’s me!
that was when he was there sitting beside me and I could see him and his
kindness; and then it was as if I could give him away; but now he is gone
and I may not see him, it is clear to me that I have no part or lot in
him, and I call back my thought and my word, and now it is: O that he may
live! O thou happy woman, that shall be glad whether he liveth or dieth!
Said Birdalone: And now thou hatest me, dost thou not, and we are foes?
Atra answered not, nor spake for a while; then she said: Hard and bitter
is it, and I know not what to turn to. I have seen once and again, on
the wall of the Minorites’ church at Greenford, a fair picture of the
Blessed, and they walking in the meads of Paradise, clad in like raiment,
men and women; their heads flower-crowned, their feet naked in the
harmless blossomed grass; hand in hand they walk, with all wrath passed
for ever, all desire changed into loving-kindness, all the anguish of
forgiveness forgotten. And underneath the picture is it writ:
Bitter winter, burning summer, never more shall waste and wear;
Blossom of the rose undying brings undying springtide there.
O for the hope of it, that I might hope it! O for the days to be and the
assuaging of sorrow: I speak the word, and the hope springeth; the word
is spoken, and there abideth desire barren of hope! And she bowed down
her head and wept bitterly; and Birdalone called to mind her kindness of
the past and wept for her, she also.
After a while Atra lifted up her head, and thus she spake: I hate thee
not, Birdalone; nor doth one say such things to a foe. Yea, furthermore,
I will crave somewhat of thee. If ever there come a time when thou mayst
do something for me, thou wilt know it belike without my telling thee.
In that day and in that hour I bid thee remember how we stood together
erst at the stair-foot of the Wailing Tower in the Isle of Increase
Unsought, and thou naked and fearful and quaking, and what I did to thee
that tide to comfort thee and help and save thee. And then when thou
hast called it to mind, do thou for me what thou canst do. Wilt thou
promise this? Yea, yea, said Birdalone; and with all the better will,
that oft and over again have I called it to mind. Wherefore I behight
thee to let me serve thee if I may whenso the occasion cometh, even if it
be to my own pain and grief; for this I know thou meanest.
See thou to this then, said Atra coldly; and thou shalt be the better for
it in the long run belike: for thou art a happy woman.
She arose as she spake, and said: Hist! here come the lords from the
murder-council; and lo, now that he cometh, my heart groweth evil toward
thee again, and well-nigh biddeth me wish that thou wert naked and
helpless before me again. Lo my unhap! that he should mark my face that
it shows as if I were fain to do thee a mischief. And nought of that
would I do; for how should it avail me, and thou my fellow and the
faithful messenger of the Quest?
Now little of her last words did Birdalone meet, as into the hall came
Hugh and Arthur; and though she strove to sober her mind and think of her
she-friend and her unhappiness, yet she could not choose but to be full
of joy in her inmost heart now she knew without doubt that she was so
well-beloved of her beloved: and she deemed that Atra was in the right
indeed to call her a happy woman.
So now they all went into the solar together, and sat them down with the
two others; and Hugh did them to wit, how they had ordered all the matter
of the messengers who were to summon the knights and chiefs of
thereabouts, and the aldermen of Greenford, to meet at the Castle of the
Quest, that they might set afoot the hosting to go against the Red Hold.
CHAPTER IX. HUGH TELLS THE STORY OF THE QUEST’S ENDING.
WHEN this was said, and there had been silence a while, Birdalone took up
the word, and spake meekly and sweetly, saying: Dear friends, how it
fared with you on the isle from the time of my leaving you, and how with
you, true knights, from the time of your departure, I both were fain to
know for the tale’s sake, and also I would take the telling thereof as a
sign of your forgiveness of my transgression; so I would crave the same
of you but if it weary you overmuch.
All they yeasaid her kindly, and Hugh spake and said: By your leave,
fellows, I will tell in few words what betid us on our way to the Isle of
Increase Unsought, and then shall Viridis take up the tale from the time
that Birdalone left the said isle in the witch’s ferry. None said aught
against it, and Hugh went on: Short is my tale of the journey: We came to
the Isle of Nothing on the morrow’s morn of our departure, and being
warned of thee, Birdalone, we abode there but a little while to rest us
from the boat, and went nowhither from the strand, and so went on our way
in a three hours’ space.
Thence again we took the water, and came to the Isle of Kings, and that
was in the middle of the night: we beheld the dead long and heedfully
when the morning came, and departed again before noon, and came to the
Isle of Queens a little after nightfall. The next morning we deemed we
needs must go see the images of those ladies, lest aught might have
befell since thou wert there which might be of import to the Quest, but
all was unchanged, and we came away while the day was yet young.
We made the Isle of the Young and the Old about sunset that day, and the
boy and the girl came down to the strand to behold us and wonder at us,
and we sported with them merrily a while; and then they brought us to the
house of the old man, who received us courteously and gave us to eat and
drink. Forsooth, when the night was somewhat spent, he brought out
strong drink to us, and took it somewhat amiss that we drank not overmuch
thereof, as forsooth he did, and so fell asleep. Before he was drunk we
asked him many questions about the isle and its customs, but he knew
nought to tell us of them. Of thee also we asked, sister, but he had no
memory of thee.
On the morrow he fared down with us to our ferry, and made many prayers
to us to take him along with us; for here, said he, is neither lordship
nor fair lady; and if here I abide, soon shall I come to mine ending day,
and sore I yearn for joyance and a long term to my years. Now we durst
not take him aboard lest we should fare amiss with the wight of the
Sending Boat; so we naysaid him courteously, thanked him for his
guesting, and gave him gifts, to wit, a finger gold ring and an ouch of
gold, so he turned away from us somewhat downcast as we deemed; but ere
we had given the word to the Sending Boat we heard him singing merrily in
a high cracked voice as he went on his way.
Now on this last day betid somewhat of new tidings; for scarce was this
isle out of sight behind, ere we saw a boat come sailing toward us from
the north-east, and it came on swiftly with a blue ripple of the lake
behind it. Thereat we marvelled, and yet more when we saw that its sail
was striped of gold and green and black; next then were we betwixt fear
and joy when, as it drew nigher, we saw three women in the said boat,
clad in gold, green, and black; and it came so nigh unto us at last, that
we could see their faces that they were verily those of our lovelings;
and each reached out her arms to us and called on us for help, each by
our name: and there we were, oarless, sailless, at the mercy of our
unkenned ferry. Then would Baudoin and I have leapt overboard to swim to
our loves at all adventure; but Sir Arthur here stayed us, and bade us
think of it, that we were now nearing the Witch-land, and if we might not
look to be beset with guiles and gins to keep us from winning to our
journey’s end; wherefore we forbore, though in all wretchedness, and the
gay boat ran down the wind away from us, and the breeze and the ripple
passed away with it, and the lake lay under the hot sun as smooth as
glass; and on we went, weary-hearted.
Came again another sail out of the north-east, when the sun was getting
low, and speedily it drew nigh, but this time it was no small boat or
barge, but a tall ship with great sails, and goodly-towered she was and
shield-hung, and the basnets gleamed and the spears glittered from her
castle-tops and bulwarks, and the sound of her horns came down the wind
as she neared us. We two handled our weapons and did on our basnets, but
Arthur there, he sat still, and said: Not over-wise is the witch, that
she lets loose on us two sendings in one day so like unto each other.
Hah, said Baudoin, be we wary though; they are going to shoot. And sure
enough we saw a line of bowmen in all the castles and even along, and a
horn blew, and then forth flew the shafts, but whither we knew not, for
none came anywhere anigh us; and Arthur laughed and said: A fair shot
into the clouds; but, by our Lady! if none shot better in our country, I
would bear no armour for their shafts. But we two were confused and knew
not what to think.
The great ship flew past us on the wind as the barge had done, but when
she was about half a mile aloof we saw her canvass fall to shivering and
her yards swaying round, and Arthur cried out: St. Nicholas! the play
beginneth again! she is coming about!
Even so it was, and presently she was bearing on us, and was ere long so
close aboard that we could see her every spar and rope, and her folk all
gathered to the windward, knights, sergeants, archers, and mariners, to
gaze at us and mock us; and huge and devilish laughter arose from amongst
them as she ploughed the water so close beside us, that one might
well-nigh have cast a morsel of bread aboard her; for clear it was
presently that she had no mind to run us down.
Spake Arthur then: There will be a fresh play presently, my mates, but ye
sit fast, for meseemeth this show is no more perilous than the other,
though it be bigger.
Scarce were the words out of his mouth, ere there was a stir amongst the
men gathered in the waist, and lo, amidst a knot of big and fierce
mariners, three women standing, pale, with flying hair, and their hands
bound behind them, and one was clad in gold and another in green and the
third in black; and their faces were as the faces of Aurea and Viridis
and Atra.
Then there came forth from that ship a huge cruel roar blent with mocking
laughter that shamed our very hearts, and those evil things in the form
of mariners took hold of each one of the ladies and cast them overboard
into the gulf of the waters, first Aurea, next Viridis, and then Atra;
and we two stood up with our useless swords brandished and would have
leapt over into the deep, but that Arthur arose also and took hold of an
arm of each of us and stayed us, and said: Nay, then, if ye go, take me
with you, and let all the Quest sink down into the deep, and let our
lovelings pine in captivity, and Birdalone lose all her friends in one
swoop, and we be known hereafter as the fools of lovers, the unstable.
So we sat us down, but huge shrieking laughter rose up unblended from the
keel of the evil thing, and then they let her go down the wind, and she
went her way with flashing of arms, and streaming of banners and pennons,
and blowing of horns, and the sun was setting over the wide water.
But Arthur spake: Cheer up, brethren! see ye not how this proud witch is
also but an eyeless fool to send us such a show, and the second time in
one day to show us the images of our dearlings, who hours ago flitted
past us in the stripe-sailed boat? Where, then, did they of the ship
meet with them? Nay, lords, let not the anguish of love steal all your
wits.
We saw we had been fools to be so overcast by guile, and yet were we
exceeding ill at ease, and over-long the time seemed unto us until we
should be come to the Isle of Increase Unsought, and find our lovelings
there.
Now was the night come, and we fell asleep, but belike were not often all
asleep at once; and at last it was, when we felt the dawn drawing near,
though, the moon being down, it was the darkest of the summer night, that
we were all three awake, when all of a sudden we heard just astern the
rushing of the water, as though some keel were cleaving it, and dimly in
the dark we saw a sail as of a boat overhauling us. Close at hand there
rang out a lamentable cry: O, are ye there, fellows of the Quest? O,
help me, friends! save me and deliver me, who am snatched away to be cast
into the hands of my mistress that was. Help me, Baudoin, Hugh, Arthur!
Help! help!
Then all we knew the voice of Birdalone, and Arthur leapt up, and would
have been overboard in a trice had not we two held him, and he fought and
cursed us well-favouredly, there is no nay thereto; and meanwhile the
wailing voice of thee, my sister, died out in the distance, and the east
grew grey, and dawn was come.
Then spake Baudoin: Arthur, my brother, dost thou not mark that this also
was of the same sort of show as those two others, and thou who wert so
wise before? It is but beguilings to bring the Quest to nought;
wherefore call to mind thy manhood and thy much wisdom!
And we admonished him and rebuked him till he became quiet and wise
again, but was sad and downcast and silent. But the Sending Boat sped on
through the dawning, and when it was light we saw that we had the Isle of
Increase close aboard, and we ran ashore there just as the sun was
rising. Fain were we then to get out of the boat and feel earth under
our feet. We took all our hards out of the boat, and hid away under the
roots of an old thorn a little mail wherein was your raiment, my ladies,
which ye had lent to Birdalone; then we did on our armour, and advised us
of whereabout on the isle we were, and we saw the orchards and gardens
before us, and the great fair house above all, even as ye told us of
them, Birdalone.
Next, then, without more ado, we went our ways up through the orchard and
the gardens, and when we were well-nigh at the end of them, and in face
of those many steps ye spake of, we saw at the foot of them a tall woman
clad in red scarlet, standing as if she abode our coming. When we drew
nigh we saw that she was strong-looking, well-knit, white-skinned,
yellow-haired, and blue-eyed, and might have been called a fair woman, as
to her shaping, save that her face was heavy, yet hard-looking, with thin
lips and somewhat flagging cheeks, a face stupid, but proud and cruel.
She hailed us as we came up, and said: Men-at-arms, ye be welcome to our
house, and I bid you to eat and drink and abide here.
Then we louted before her, and bade her Hail; and Baudoin said: Lady, thy
bidding will we take; yet have we an errand to declare ere we break bread
with thee, lest when it is told we be not so welcome as ye tell us now.
What is it? said she. Said Baudoin: This man here is called the Green
Knight, and this the Black Squire, and I am the Golden Knight; and now
will we ask thee if this isle be called the Isle of Increase Unsought?
Even so have I called it, quoth she, wherefore I deem none other will
dare call it otherwise. It is well, quoth Baudoin; but we have heard say
that hereto had strayed three dear friends of ours, three maidens, who
hight Viridis, the friend of the Green Knight, and Atra, who is the Black
Squire’s, and Aurea, who is mine own friend, so we have come to take them
home with us, since they have been so long away from their land and their
loves. Now if they be thy friends thou wilt perchance let them go for
love’s sake and the eking of friendship; but if they be thy captives,
then are we well willing to pay thee ransom, not according to their
worth, for no treasure heaped up might come nigh it, but according to thy
desire, lady.
Laughed the proud lady scornfully and said: Big are thy words, Sir
Knight: if I had these maidens in my keeping I would give them unto you
for nothing, and deem that I had the best of the bargain. But here are
they not. True it is that I had here three thralls who were hight as
thou hast said; but a while ago, not many days, they transgressed against
me till I chastised them; and then was I weary of them and would be quit
of them; for I need no servants here, whereas I myself am enough for
myself. Wherefore I sent them away across the water to my sister, who
dwells in a fair place hight the House under the Wood; for she needeth
servants, because the earth there yieldeth nought save to the tiller and
the herdsman and the hunter, while here all cometh unsought. With her
may ye deal, for what I know, and buy the maidens whom ye prize so high;
though belike ye may have to give her other servants in their place.
For, indeed, a while ago her thrall fled from her and left her half
undone, and it is said that she came hither in her shamelessness: but I
know not; if she did, she slipped through my fingers, or else I would
have made her rue her impudence. Now meseemeth, Sir Knights, here is
enough of so small and foolish a matter; and again I pray you to enter my
poor house, and take meat and drink along with me, for ye be none the
less welcome because of your errand, though it be a foolish one.
Now would Sir Baudoin have answered wrathfully, but Arthur plucked at his
skirt, and he yeasaid the lady’s bidding, though somewhat ungraciously;
but that she heeded nought; she took Sir Baudoin by the hand and led him
up the stately perron, and thence came we into a pillared hall, as fair
as might be. And there on the dais was a table dight with dainty meats
and drinks, and the lady bade us thereto, and we sat to it.
Thereat was the lady buxom and merry: Baudoin scowled across the board; I
was wary and silent; but Arthur was as blithe with the lady as she with
him; nor did I altogether marvel thereat, since I knew him wise of wit.
But when we were done with the meal, the lady stood up and said: Now, Sir
Knights, I will give you leave; but this house is as your own to roam
through all its chambers and pleasure you with its wonders and
goodliness; and when ye are weary of the house, then is the orchard and
the garden free to you, and all the isle wheresoever ye will go. And
here in this hall is meat and drink for you whenso ye will; but if ye
would see me again to-day, then shall ye meet me where ye first happened
on me e’en now, at the foot of the great perron.
Then she laid her hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and said: Thy big friend may
search out every nook in this house, and every bush in the whole island,
and if he find there the maidens he spake of, one or all of them, then
are they a gift from me unto him.
Therewith she turned, and went out of the hall by a door in the side
thereof; and now already meseemed that though the woman was hateful and
thick-hearted and cruel, yet she was become fairer, or seemed so, than
when we first came on her; and for my part I pondered on what it might
grow to, and fear of her came into my soul.
Now spake Baudoin: Fellows, let us get out into the garden at least; for
this place is evil, and meseems it smells and tastes of tears and blood,
and that evil wights that hate the life of men are lurking in the nooks
thereof. And lo, our very she-friend that was so kind and simple and
dainty with us, there is, as it were, the image of the dear maiden
standing trembling and naked before the stupid malice of this lump of
flesh. So spake he, Birdalone.
But I said to Arthur in a soft voice: And when shall we slay her? Said
he: Not until we have gotten from her all that may be gotten; and that is
the living bodies of our friends. But come we forth.
So did we, and came down to the orchard and did off our helms, and lay
down under a big apple-tree which was clear of cover all round about, and
so fell to our redes; and I asked Arthur what he deemed of the story of
our loves having been carried to the House under the Wood, and if it
might not be tried seeking thither; but he laughed and said: Never would
she have told us thereof had it been sooth: doubtless our friends are
here on this isle, but, as I deem, not in the house, else had not the
witch left all the house free for us to search into. Yea, said I, but
how if they be in her prison? Said he: It is not hard to find out which
is the prison of so dainty a house as is yonder; and when we had found
it, soon should we have hit upon a way to break it, since we be three,
and stout fellows enough. Nay, I deem that the lovelings be stowed away
in some corner of the isle without the house, and that mayhappen we shall
find them there; and yet I trow not before we have made guile meet guile,
and overcome the sorceress. But come now, let us be doing, and begin to
quarter this little land as the kestrel doth the water-meadow; and leave
we our armour, lest we weary us, for we shall have no need for hard
strokes.
We hung up there on the tree helm and shield and hauberk, and all our
defences, and went our ways quartering the isle; and the work was
toilsome, but we rested not till the time was come to keep tryst with the
lady; and all that while we found no sign of the darling ones: and the
isle was everywhere a meadow as fair as a garden, with little copses of
sweet-growing trees here and there, and goodly brooks of water, but no
tillage anywhere: wild things, as hart and buck and roe, we came upon,
and smaller deer withal, but all unhurtful to man; but of herding was no
token.
Came we then back to that lordly perron, and there, at the foot thereof,
stood the witch-wife, and received us joyously; clad was she all
gloriously in red scarlet broidered and begemmed; her arms bare and her
feet sandalled, and her yellow hair hanging down from under its garland;
and certainly it was so that she had grown fairer, and was sleek and
white and well-shapen, and well-haired; yet by all that, the visage of
her was little bettered, and unto me she was loathsome.
Now the feast went much as the earlier meal had done; and Baudoin was
surly and Arthur blithe and buxom; and nought befell to tell of, save
that dishes and meats, and flasks and cups, and all things came upon the
board as if they were borne thereon by folk unseen; and thereat we
wondered not much, considering in what wonder-house we were. But the
lady-witch looked on us and smiled, and said: Knights, ye marvel at the
manner of our service, but call to mind that we told you this morning
that we were enough for Ourselves, and we have so dight our days here
that whoso is our friend on this Isle of Increase shall lack nothing.
Fear not, therefore, to see aught ugly in our servants as now unseen, if
their shapes were made manifest unto you.
All things were we heedful to note at this banquet; but when it was over,
then came music into the hall from folk unseen, but not as if the
musicians were a many, only belike some three or four. And thereat the
lady spake, saying: Knights, ye may deem our minstrels but few, but such
is our mind that we love not our music overloud, and for the most part
only three sing or play unto us at one time.
Thereafter the lady brought us to fair chambers, and we slept there in
all ease, and we arose on the morrow and found the lady still blithe with
us; yet I noted this, that she seemed to deal with Arthur as if she saw
him now for the first time, and much he seemed to be to her liking.
Again we fared forth, and were no less diligent in searching the isle
than erst, and found nought; and all went that day as before.
On the morrow (that is, the third day) the witch seemed to have somewhat
more memory of Arthur than erst, and even yet more liking of him, so that
she reached out her hand for him to kiss, which needs must he do, despite
his loathing of her.
When we had lain under the apple-tree a little while, Baudoin spake and
said: Yesterday and the day before we searched the open land and found
nought; now to-day let us search the house, and if we find nought, then
at least it shall lie behind us. We yeasaid it, and presently went back,
and from chamber to chamber, and all was fair and goodly as might be, and
we marvelled what would betide to it when the witch was undone and her
sorcery come to an end.
To the Wailing Tower we came, and up the stairs, and found the door open
of the prison-chamber, and all there as thou hast told us, Birdalone;
only we opened the great coffer, whence thou didst refrain thee, and
found it full of hideous gear truly, as fetters and chains, and whips and
rods, and evil tools of the tormentors, and cursed it all and came away;
and Arthur said: Lo you, this stupid one! How eager is she to bid us
what to do, and to tell us that our ladies are not in this evil house,
since she leaveth all open to us. Yet we went about the house without,
and counted the windows heedfully to see that we had missed no chamber,
and found nought amiss; and then we went in again and sought as low down
as we might, to see if perchance some dungeon there were underground, but
found nought save a very goodly undercroft below the great hall, which
was little less fair than that which was above it. So came the evening
and the banquet, and the end of that day; but the witch-wife led Arthur
by the hand to the board, and afterwards to the chamber ere we slept.
On the fourth day and the fifth it was no otherwise than erst; and when I
fared to bed I felt confused in my head and sick of heart.
The night of the next day (the sixth), as we went to our chambers, and
the witch-wife and Arthur hand-in-hand, she stayed him a while, and spake
eagerly to him in a soft voice; and as he came up to me afterwards he
said: To-night I have escaped it, but there will not be escape for long.
From what? said I. He said: From bedding her; for now it has come to
this, that presently we must slay her at once and have no knowledge of
our sweetlings, or I must do her will.
In such wise passed four more days, and it was the twelfth morning of our
sojourn there, and we went forth on our search of every mead and every
covert of the isle, and all day we found nought to our purpose; but as it
grew toward sunset, and there grew great clouds in the eastern ort, piled
up and copper-coloured, we came over a bent on to a little green dale
watered by a clear brook, and as we looked down into it we saw something
shine amongst its trees; so we hastened toward that gleam, and lo, amidst
the dale, with the brook running through it, a strange garth we saw. For
there was a pavilion done of timber and board, and gaily painted and
gilded, and out from that house was, as it were, a great cage of thin
gilded bars, both walls and roof, just so wide apart as no one
full-grown, carl or quean, could thrust through.
Thitherward then ran we, shouting, for we saw at once that in the said
cage were three women whose aspect was that of our sweetlings, and
presently we were standing by the said herse, reaching our hands out to
them to come to us and tell us their tale, and that we would deliver
them. But they stood together in the midst of the said cage, and though
they gazed piteously on us thence, and reached out their hands to us,
they neither spake nor came to the herse to us; so we deemed that they
were bewitched, and our joy was dashed.
Then we went all about the cage and the pavilion to find ingate, and
found it not; and then the three of us together strove with the bars of
the herse, and shook and swayed them, but it was all to no purpose.
Moreover, while we were at this work the sun seemed to go out, and there
came a heavy black mist rolling into the dale, and wrapped us about so
that we saw not each other’s faces, and the bars of the herse were gone
from our hands as we stood there. Then came rain and thunder and
lightning on to the black night, and by the glare of the lightning we
could see the leaves and grass of the dale, but neither herse nor house
nor woman. So we abode there in the dark night, and the storm all
bewildered us, till the rain and clouds drew off and it was calm fair
starlight again, but clean gone was the golden cage and they that stood
therein; and we turned sadly, and went our ways toward the witch-house.
On the way said Arthur: Brethren, this meseemeth is but a-going on with
the shows which were played us on the water as we came hither; but
whether she doth this but for to mock and torment us, or that she would
beguile us into deeming that our friends are verily here, I wot not; but
to-morrow, meseemeth, I shall can to tell you.
Now came we to the perron of the house, and there stood the witch-wife
under the stars to meet us. And when she saw us, she took hold of Arthur
by the hand and the arm to caress him, and found that he and we were
drenched with the rain and the storm, as might well be deemed; then she
bade us up to our chambers to do on raiment which she had dight for us,
and we went thither, and found our garments rich and dainty indeed; but
when we came down into the hall where the witch abode us, we saw that
Arthur’s raiment was far the richest and daintiest. But the witch ran to
him and cast her arms about him, and clipped and kissed him before the
others, and he suffered it. So sped the feast again.
But when they went to bed, the said witch took Arthur’s hand and spake a
word unto him, and led him away, and he went with her as one nought loth;
but we twain were afraid lest she should destroy him when she had had her
will of him. Wherefore we waked through the more part of the night with
our swords ready to hand.
But when we were clad in the morn he came unto us, he also clad, and was
downcast and shamefaced indeed, but safe and sound; and he said: Speak no
word about our matter till we be out in the open air, for I fear all
things about us.
So when we had gone forth and were under the apple-tree once more, spake
Arthur: Now, lords, am I shamed for ever, for I have become the leman of
this evil creature; but I pray ye not to mock me; and that the more as
the same lot may happen on you both, or either; for I can see for sure
that the wretch will weary of me and desire one of you two. Let it pass.
Somewhat have I found out from her, but not much; first, that she has
forgotten her first lie, to wit, how she sent our ladies to the
sister-witch; for I told her of the golden cage, and how we had missed it
in the storm; and she said: Though I deem it a folly that ye should seek
these thralls, yet would I help you if I might, since ye are now become
my dear friends. Though, forsooth, when ye meet them I deem that ye will
find them sore changed to you. For, as I told you, they fled away from
me, after I had chastised them for a treason, into the hidden places of
the isle, whereas they had no keel to sail away hence. And I cared not
to follow them, as I myself am queen and lady of all things here, and am
enough for myself, save when love constraineth me, dear lord. Now, my
rede is that ye seek the golden cage again and yet again, because I deem
that these thralls have somehow learned some wisdom, and they have
enchanted the said cage for a defence against me, from whom they might
not hide as they did from you; for of me have they stolen their wizardry,
and I am their mistress therein.
This, therefore, is the new lie of her, and my rede is that we heed it
nought. For my mind is that she it is that hath made the appearance of
the cage and the women therein, and that she hath our poor friends
somewhere underneath her hand.
Now this we deemed most like; yet whereas we had nought to do with the
time, which, now that we had searched the isle throughly, hung heavy on
hand, we deemed it good to go to the dale of the golden cage again,
though we looked not to find the cage there any more. But this betid,
that we found the little dale easily enough, and there stood the cage as
we had seen it yesterday, but nought was there within its bright bars
save the grass and the flowers, and the water of the brook a-running.
We loitered about that place a while, and went back to the house in due
time; and to shorten the tale, I shall tell that for many days it betid
that we went every day to seek the golden cage, but after the first three
days we saw it no more.
Now began sadness and weariness to overcome us as the days and weeks
wore, and belike the witch-wife noted it that we were worse company than
heretofore.
And now on a day Arthur bade us note that the said witch was growing
weary of him, and he bade me look to it; for, said he, she is turning her
face toward thee, brother. My heart burned with rage at that word; I
said nought, but made up my mind that I would try to bring the matter to
an end.
That same night befell what Arthur had threatened; for the feast being
done in the evening, the witch drew me aside while the music was
a-playing, and caressed my hand and my shoulder, and said: I am yet
wondering at you Champions, that ye must needs follow after those three
wretched thralls, whom never will ye find, for they. need ye not, but
will flee from you if ye have sight of them, as they did that other day;
and therein they are scarce in the wrong, whereas they may well think
that if ye find them they should fall into my hands; for easily may I
take them any day that I will, and then I have a case against them, and
may lawfully chastise them according to the law that has been given unto
me; and then shall they be in grievous plight. Wherefore the rede We
give unto you three now is the rede of friendliness that ye make
yourselves happy in Our Island, and then will We do everything We may for
your pleasure and delight; and if ye will that We make Ourselves even
fairer than now We be, that may be done, and shall be a reward unto you
for your yielding and obedience. And if ye will women thralls for your
pleasure, that also may be gotten for you; for We be not wholly without
power in these waters, though We have no keel or ferry upon them. And
now, thou fair lad, We give thee this last word: Ye Champions have been
dwelling in Our house a long while, and that while have ever striven to
thwart Us. We now counsel you to make an end of it, and it shall be
better for you.
She seemed to my eyes prouder and stupider than ever erst, despite her
golden hair and white skin and lovely limbs; and I said to myself that
now must we destroy the evil of that house even if we died for it, or
else we were all undone; withal I saw somewhat of truth thrusting up
through her much lying, and I deemed, even as Arthur did, that she had
our friends under her band somewhere.
Nought else betid that night; but on the morrow we went forth and strayed
on till we were come into the southernmost quarter of the isle, and not
very far from the water we came upon a wood or big thicket which was new
to us. So we entered it, and as we went and noted the wild things of the
wood going hither and thither, we espied afar off the shape of a man
going amidst the thicket; wherefore we went warily towards him, lest he
should see us and flee from us; and when we drew a little nigher we saw
it was a woman, though she was clad as a hunter, with legs naked to above
the knee. She had a quiver at her back and a bow in her hand, and her
coat was black of hue. Belike now she heard our going amongst the dry
leaves, for she turned her face to us, and lo! it was the face of Atra.
When she saw us, she gave a shrill cry, and fell to running at her
swiftest away from us, and we followed all we might, but we could not
over-run her, though we kept her in sight ever, till we had run all
through the wood, and before us was the sheer side of a rocky hill and
the mouth of a cave therein, and by the said mouth who should there be
but Aurea and Viridis, as we thought, clad in gold and in green, but the
fashion of their raiment not otherwise than Atra’s. Their bows were
bended and they had shafts in their hands, and as we came out of the
thicket into the open lawn before the cave, Viridis nocked a shaft and
aimed at us and drew, and the shaft flew over my head; therewith mocking
laughter came from them, and they ran into the cave. Speedily we ran up
to it, but when we came home thither, there was the sheer hillside, but
never a cave nor an opening.
Dismayed were we thereat; but more dismayed had we been but that we
deemed that all this was but a cheat and a painted show put upon us by
the witch to back up her lying. Nevertheless we fared the next day to
seek the wood and the cave in the sheer rock, but nowise might we find
either wood or cave.
Now it was the night of the day hereafter, as we went to our chambers,
that the witch-wife took me by the hand and led me apart, and said me
many soft things of her accursed lust, whereof I will not say one again.
But the upshot of it all was that she would bring me to her chamber and
her bed. And whereas I was determined what to do, and had my war-sword
by my side, I naysaid her not, but made her good countenance. And when
we came to her chamber, which was full gloriously dight, and fragrant as
with the scent of the roses and lilies of mid-June, she bade me to lie in
her bed of gold and ivory and she would be with me anon. So I unclad
myself and laid me down, but I drew forth my sword, and laid the ancient
naked blade betwixt my side and her place.
Anon she cometh back again unclad, and would step into the bed; but she
saw the sword and said: What is this, Champion? Said I: These edges are
the token of sundering between us, for there is a spell on me, that with
no woman may I deal, save with mine only love, but I shall do her mortal
scathe; so beware by the token of the grey edges of battle. She drew
aback, and was as a spiteful and angry cat, and there was no loveliness
in her; and she said: Thou liest, and thou hatest me; see thou to it,
both for thyself and thy loveling. And she turned about and strode out
of the chamber; but I arose and clad myself in haste, and took my naked
sword in my hand. But before I went, I looked around, and espied an
ambry fashioned in the wall of the bed-lane, and the door was half open;
and the said ambry was wrought of the daintiest, all of gold and pearl
and gems; and I said to myself: Herein is some treasure, and this is a
tide of war. So I opened the ambry, and within it was even more
gloriously wrought than without; and there was nought therein, save a
little flask of crystal done about with bands of gold set with great and
goodly gems. So I took the said flask and went my ways hastily to my own
chamber, and there I looked at the said flask and took out the stopple;
and there was a liquor therein, white like to water, but of a spicy
smell, sweet, fresh, and enheartening. So I yet thought this was some
great treasure, and that much hung upon it, could I find out unto what
use it might be put. And I said: To-morrow we will put it to the proof.
Then I put the said flask under my pillow, and laid my sword by my side
and slept, and was not ill-content so far.
But on the morrow, when I met my fellows, they asked me how I had sped,
and I told them, Well, and that we would talk the matter over under our
tree of counsel. So we went down into the hall, where we met the
witch-lady; and I looked for it that she would be angry and fierce with
me; but it went far otherwise; for she was blithe and buxom, and
abounding in endearments more than I could away with. But this I noted,
that her eyes wandered, and her speech faltered at whiles, and ever she
seemed to be seeking somewhat; and withal that her caressing hands were
seeking if they could aught stowed away in the bosom of my coat. But all
was nought, for as we came to the door of the hall I gave Baudoin the
flask to guard until we should come to our apple-tree of rede. Wherefore
the she-wolf went red and white by turns, and fumed, and fretted her
bedizenments with unrestful hands, and when she should let us go our
ways, she lingered and looked back oft, and was loth to depart ere she
had gotten what she lacked, and that, forsooth, was the said flasket.
But when we were without the house, I bade our fellows go with me to
another place than the wonted apple-tree of rede, and they understood my
word, and I led them to a little grassy plain without the orchard, where
was no covert for a wide space about it, nought but the one linden-tree
under which now we sat. There I told them all the tale of the last night
and of the flasket, and put before them all that was in my mind to do
that evening at the banquet, and they both of them yeasaid it. But what
it was, that shall ye hear anon when we carried the matter through; but I
bade Baudoin still carry the flasket till the evening.
Thereafter we spake of other matters; but soon we had good cause to
rejoice that we had not talked our talk under the apple-tree (whereas I
doubted not that the witch would spy upon us there), for not long had we
been at our talk ere, looking that way, we saw the evil creature by the
hedge of the orchard and gazing over at us.
We arose then, and came to her as if nought had happened; and she bade us
walk the garden with her, and we yeasaid it, and went with her, and paced
about amidst the flowers and lay on the blossomed grass. Forsooth, both
to her and to us the time hung heavy on hand. And meseemed that the
sleekness and fairness of her body was worsened since yesterday, and she
was pale and haggard, and her eyes were wandering and afraid.
Now she bade us come a little further into the garden and eat a morsel at
noon; and we arose, and she brought us to where were vines trellised all
about and overhead, so that it was like a fair green cloister; and there
was a board laid and spread with many dainties of meat and drink. And
she bade us sit. Verily we had but little stomach to that dinner; and I
said to myself, Poison! poison! and even so my fellows deemed, as
afterwards they told me. And I saw Baudoin loosen his sword in the
sheath, and I knew that his mind was to smite at once if he saw aught
amiss. And I, who sat next to the witch, laid my hand on a little dagger
which I wore at my girdle. She also saw this, and turned as pale as
death, and sat trembling before us; and whatso we ate or drank at that
board under the rustling vine-leaves, she gave unto us with her own hand;
and then we wotted full surely that she had meant our deaths there and
then, but was cowed by the fierce eyes of Baudoin and the threat of my
hand.
Withal it seemed that she might not bear it to sit there long amongst us.
She rose up and smiled on us as ghastly as a corpse, and gave us leave,
and went hurrying into the house. And right glad we were to be at rest
from her. Yet as we ourselves durst not go far away from the house, lest
some new thing might happen, neither could she leave us quite alone, but
thrice again that afternoon at some turn of the garden, or orchard, or
meadow, we came upon her wan face and eyes full of all hate and staring
pride, and she enforced her to smile upon us, and turned away with some
idle word.
At last the sun began to sink, and we went to the perron of the house,
and found her standing to meet us in her wonted way. But when we came up
she gave no hand to any one of us but went up the stairs before us, and
we followed with no word spoken.
There was the hall with the lordly service on the board, and the
wax-candles lighted all about, and the great vault of stone fair and
stately over it. We went to the dais and the board and sat down, the
witch-wife in her gold and ivory chair at the board’s end, and I at her
right hand and looking down the hall, my two fellows facing me, with
their backs to the clear of the hall.
There we sat, and the meats and drinks were before us as dainty as ever
erst; but we put forth no hand to them, but sat staring at each other for
some two minutes it might be, and the witch looked from one to the other
of us, and quaked that her hands shook like palsy.
Then I rose up and put my hand to my bosom (for Baudoin had given me the
flasket ere we came to the perron): I spake in a loud voice, and it
sounded wild and hard in the goodly hall: My lady, I said, thou art
looking but pale now, and sick and downcast. Drink now to me out of this
precious flasket, and thou shalt be whole and well.
And therewith I held the flasket aloft; but her face changed horribly;
she sprang up in her chair and reached out her arm to clutch at the
flasket, screaming like an eagle therewith. But I thrust her back into
the chair with my left hand; and therewith arose Baudoin and Arthur, and
caught her by the shoulders, and bound her fast to the chair with cords
that they had gotten thereto. But when she got her breath she yelled
out: Ah, now shall all tumble together, my proudful house and I under it!
Loose me, traitors! loose me, fools! and give me one draught of the water
of might, and then shall I tell you all, and ye shall go free with your
thralls if ye will. Ah! ye will not loose me? ye will not? Well then,
at least ye, the fools, shall be under it, and they also, the
she-traitors, the scourged and tormented fools that might not save
themselves from me. O loose me! loose me! thou in whose arms I have lain
so many a night, and give me to drink of the proud water of might!
So she yelled; and now had all the fairness gone from her body: flaggy
and yellow were her limbs, and she looked all over as her face, a lump of
stupid and cruel pride, and her words lost meaning and changed into mere
bestial howling. But for me, since she so desired that water, I knew
that it was good for us to drink, and I took out the stopple and drank,
and it was as if fire ran through all my veins, and I felt my strength
three-folded straightway, and most wondrous clear was my sight grown
therewith; and I raised my eyes now and looked down the hall, and lo,
there was Aurea, chained by the ankle to the third pillar from the dais;
and over against her, Viridis; and next, to the fourth pillar, Atra.
Then I cried in a loud voice that rang through the witch’s hall: Lo what
I see! And I ran round the head of the board, and thrust and dragged
Baudoin and Arthur along with me, crying out: Come, come! they are found!
they are here! And I came to my sweetling, and found her clad but in her
white smock, which was flecked with blood all about, and her face was wan
and pined, and the tears began to run when she saw me, but no word came
from her lips though the kissing of them was sweet.
Then I turned about to my two fellows, and they stood bewildered, not
knowing what was toward; and I came to them and made them drink of the
flasket, and their eyes were opened and the strength of giants came to
them, and they ran each to his sweetling; but Baudoin, before ever he
kissed Aurea, caught hold of the chain that bound her to the pillar, and
by main force dragged it out. Wise was that, meseemed, for words were
again come into the witch’s howls, and I heard her: Ah, long may ye be
playing with the chains, long! for now the house rumbleth toward its
fall. Ah, the bitches are loose! Woe’s me! to die alone! And once more
she howled wordless, as both I and Arthur had our loves in our arms, and
fell to following Baudoin out on to the perron and down into the fresh
fragrant garden wherein now was the moon beginning to cast shadows.
Stood we then aloof from the house, and the rumbling whereof the evil hag
had howled waxed into a thunder, and under our very eyes the great white
walls and gold-adorned roofs fell together, and a great cloud of dust
rose under the clear moonlit sky.
We looked and wondered, and our loves also, but no word they spake; but
ere the other two had time to grieve thereat, I gave Viridis to drink of
the water of might, and she fell to sweet speech straightway, of such
sort and such wise as I will not tell you. Then I did the same by Aurea
and Atra, and forthwith the speech flowed from them to their friends.
Full happy were we then in the early night-season, for the water of might
gave them strength also, as to us, and healed all the stripes and wounds
their bodies had suffered of the foul witch, and made their eyes bright,
and their cheeks full and firm, and their lips most sweet, and their
hands strong and delicious.
Now when we had stood gazing toward the melting of the beauteous palace
for a little, we took our darlings in our arms again, whereas the chains
would have hindered their walking, and went down to the lip of the water
whereas lay the Sending Boat, so that we might be anigh our ferry in case
of need; for we knew not what might betide the isle now its mistress had
perished. Then we fell to and sawed off the chains from the dear ankles
with our swords, and took Birdalone’s lendings from the mail. And Aurea
had her gown again, and Viridis her smock, and my green surcoat over it,
and Atra wore the battle-coat of the Black Squire. As for their bare
feet (for Atra would not have hers dight prouder than her sisters’), we
so clad them with kisses that they were not ill-covered belike.
So gat we aboard our ferry, and did blood-offering to the wight thereof,
and so sped merrily and lovingly over the wide lake back on our homeward
road. And we said: This hath the dear Birdalone done for us.
And now, my Viridis, I will that thou fill up the tale by telling to
Birdalone, as ye told us, how it fared with you three and the evil one
from the time that ye sped Birdalone on her way till the moment when mine
eyes first beheld you made fast to the pillars of the palace which has
crumbled into dust.
CHAPTER X. HOW IT FARED WITH THE THREE LADIES AFTER THE ESCAPE OF
BIRDALONE.
VIRIDIS took up the word without more ado, and said: I will do my best
herein, and ye, sisters, must set me right if I err. When we had seen
the last of you, dear Birdalone, that early morning, we turned back again
to the house as speedily and as covertly as we might, lest the witch
might espy our disarray and question us thereover. Then we went to the
wonder-coffer, and gat thereout raiment for that which we had given away,
which was easy for us to do, whereas the witch-mistress was so slothful
that she had given to us the words of might wherewith to compel the
coffer to yield, so that we might do all the service thereof, and she not
to move hand or foot in the matter. So when we were clad, and the time
was come, we went into the hall, by no means well assured of our
mistress.
When we came before her, she looked on us in surly wise, as her wont was,
and said nought for a while; she stared on us and knit her brows, as if
she strove to call to mind something that ran to and fro in her memory;
and I noted that, and for my part I trembled before her. But she spake
at last: Meseemeth as if there is a woman in the isle besides you three;
some misdoer that I was minded to punish. Tell me, you! was there not a
naked one who came into this hall a while ago, one whom I threatened with
pining? Atra, who was the boldest of us, bowed the knee before her, and
said: Nay, our lady, since when do stranger women come naked into thine
hall, and dare thee there?
Said the witch: Yet have I an image of a naked woman standing down there
before me; and if I have it in mine eye, so should ye. Tell me
therefore, and beware, for We are not bidden to hold Our hand from you if
We take you in misdeeds.
If I quaked before, now much more I quaked, till my legs well-nigh failed
me for fear; but Atra said: Great lady, this image will belike be of that
one whom a while ago ye had stripped and tied to a pillar here, and
tormented while ye feasted.
The lady looked on her hard, and again seemed striving to gather up the
thrums of some memory, and then her face became smooth again, and she
spake lightly: All that may well be; so do ye go about your due service,
and trouble Our rest here no longer; for We love not to look on folk who
be not wholly Our own to pine or to spare, to slay or let live, as We
will; and We would that the winds and the waves would send Us some such
now; for it is like to living all alone to have but such as you with Us,
and none to cower before Us and entreat Us of mercy. So begone, I bid
you.
Thus for that time were we saved from the witch’s cruelty; but our time
came before long. The days wore heavily, nor kept we count of them lest
we should lose heart for the weariness of waiting. But on a day as we
stood on the steps of the perron and served my lady with dainties, of a
hot afternoon, came two great white doves a-flying, who pitched down
right before our mistress’s feet; and each had a gold ring about his
neck, and a scroll tied thereto, and the witch bade us take the doves and
take off the scrolls and give them unto her; and she looked on the gold
rings which the doves bore, and for a moment on the scrolls, and then she
said: Take ye the doves and cherish them, lest We have need of them; take
also the two scrolls and keep them till to-morrow morning, and then give
them into Our hands. And look ye to this, that if ye give them not unto
Us it will be treason against Us, and We shall have a case against you,
and your bodies will be Ours.
Then she rose up slowly, and bade me to her that she might lean upon my
shoulder and be helped upstairs, so slothful a beast as she was; and as
we went up I heard her say softly to herself: Weary on it, now must I
drink a sup of the Water of Might, that I may remember and do and desire.
But dear is my sister, and without doubt she hath matters of import to
tell me by these doves.
So when we were together alone I told the others hereof, and we talked it
over; and they deemed the tidings ill, even as I did; for we might not
doubt but that the doves were a sending from the witch-sister who dwelt
at the House under the Wood; and sore we misdoubted that they were sped
to our mistress to tell her of thee, Birdalone, and mayhappen of the
Quest, so wise as we knew she was. As to the two scrolls, forsooth, they
were open, and not sealed; but when we looked on them we could make
nought of it; for though they were writ fairly in Latin script, so that
we read them, yet of the words no whit might we understand, so we feared
the worst. But what might we do? we had but two choices, either to cast
ourselves into the water, or abide what should befall; and this last one
we chose because of the hope of deliverance.
Next morning, therefore, we came before our mistress in the hall, and we
found her pacing up and down before the dais; though her wont was at that
hour to be sitting in her throne of gold and ivory, lying back on the
cushions half asleep.
So Atra went up to her, and knelt before her and gave her the scrolls,
and she looked on her grimly, and smiled evilly, and said: Kneel there
yet; and ye others kneel also, till I see what befitteth you. So did we,
and indeed I was fain to kneel, for I might scarce stand up for terror;
and all of us, our hearts died within us.
But the witch read those scrolls to herself, sitting in her throne, and
spake not a long while; then she said: Come hither, and grovel before Us,
and hearken! Even so we did; and she said again: Our sister, who hath
been so kind unto you, and saved you from so many pains, here telleth Us,
by the message of the two doves, that ye have betrayed Us and her, and
have stolen her thrall and her Sending Boat, and sent her an errand for
Our destruction; and therewith she delivereth you into Our hands, and ye
are Ours henceforward; nor is it to be thought that ye may escape Us.
Now, for your treason, some would slay you outright here and now, but We
will be merciful, and let you live, and do no more than chastise you
sharply now; and thereafter shall ye be Our very thralls to do as We will
with: thereafter, that is to say, when they whom ye have sent Our
sister’s thrall to fetch have come hither (as belike I may scarce stay
them), and I have foiled them and used them, and sent them away empty.
Now I tell you, that meanwhile of their coming shall ye suffer such
things as We will; and when they be here We will not forbid you to be
anigh them; but We shall see that there will be little joy to you in that
nighness. Yea, ye shall know now to what market ye have brought your
wares, and what the price of treason is therein.
Verily then we suffered at her hand what she would, whereof it would
shame me to tell more as at this present; and thereafter did she chain us
to those three pillars of the hall whereas ye found us chained; and we
were fed as dogs be, and served as dogs, but we endured all for the sake
of hope; and when we durst, and deemed the witch would not hear us, we
spake together and enheartened each other.
But on the fourth day of our torment came the witch to us, and gave us to
drink a certain red water from out of a leaden flasket; and when I drank
I deemed it was poison, and was glad, if gladness might be in me at such
a tide; and when I had drunk I felt an icy chill go through all my body,
and all things swam before my eyes, and deadly sickness came over me.
But that passed away from me presently, and I felt helpless and yet not
feeble; all sounds heard I clearer than ever yet in my life; also I saw
the hall, every arch and pillar and fret, and the gleam on the pavement
from the bright sun that might not enter; and the witch I saw walking up
and down the hall by the dais; but my sisters I saw not when I looked
across to their pillars. Moreover, I might not see myself when I reached
out my hand or my foot, though I saw the chain which made my ankle fast
to the pillar; and withal, when I set my hand on my face, or any other
part of my body, or what else I might touch, I felt there what I looked
to feel, were it flesh or linen, or the cold iron of my fetter, or the
polished face of the marble pillar.
Now I knew scarce if I were alive or dead, or if I were but beginning to
be dead; but there came upon me the desire of life, and I strove to cry
out to the sisters, but though I formed the words in my mouth, and did
with my throat as when one cries out aloud, yet no sound of a voice came
from me, and more helpless did I feel than erst.
But even therewith I saw the witch come toward me, and therewith all my
body felt such fear of her that I knew I was not dead. Then she came
before me and said: O shadow of a thrall, whom none can see but them unto
whom wisdom hath given eyes to see wonders withal, now have I tidings for
thee and thy sisters, to wit, that your lovers and seekers are at hand;
and presently I shall bring them into this hall, and they shall be so
nigh unto you that ye might touch them if I did not forbid it; but they
shall not see you, but shall wonder where I have hidden you, and shall go
seeking you to-day and many days, and shall find you not at all. So make
ye the most of the sight of them, for in them henceforward ye have no
other part or lot.
Therewith she spat out at me, and went over to my sisters, and said words
of like import to those which she had said unto me. And presently she
went out of the hall; and not long afterwards I heard voices speaking on
the perron, and knew one for the voice of the witch, and the other for
the voice of my lord Baudoin; and then again wore a little while, and I
saw the witch come through the great door of the hall leading Sir Arthur
by the hand, as if she were his dear friend, and Baudoin and Hugh, my
man, following them. And the said witch was clad full fair, and had laid
by her sloth and stupid pride, as meseemed; and her limbs were grown
rounder and sleeker, and her skin fairer, so that to them that knew her
not she might well seem to be a goodly woman.
Now they sat to meat as my man hath told you, and then departed from the
hall, and the witch also. But after a while she came back again and
loosed us, and grimly bade us go with her, and needs must we, though we
could not so much as see our own feet upon the floor. And she set us to
tasks about the house, and stood by while we toiled for her, and mocked
us not without stripes, and in all ways was as rough and cruel and hard
with us as she had been smooth and debonair to our lords; but after noon
she brought us back and chained us to our pillars again. And when the
evening came and the banquet was, it was we who were the unseen players
of the string-play; and we might play no other melody than what the witch
bade us; else belike, could we have held converse, we might have played
such tunes as would have smitten the hearts of our loves, and told them
that we were anigh. To make a short story of it, thus did she day by
day, and no comfort or converse might we sisters have of each other, or
of aught else save the sight of our beloved ones, and a glimmer of hope
therewith. And, forsooth, for as grievously as my heart was wrung by the
yearning of me for my love, yet was it a joy unto me to think that he
went there desiring me, and that whom he desired was not the poor
wretched creature chained there in her nakedness, with her body spoiled
by torment and misery, but the glad maiden whom he had so often called
fair and lovesome.
So passed the days, and at last hope had grown so pale and wan, that she
was no more to be seen by us than we were by our lords; and now it seemed
to me that death was coming, so feeble and wretched as I grew. But the
witch would not let us die, but sustained us from time to time with some
little draughts of a witch-drink that revived us.
So wore the time till that evening, when came hope together with the
fulfilment of hope, so that one minute we durst hope for deliverance, and
the next we were delivered.
Nor is there more to tell, Birdalone, my dear, save that we came safely
to the Isle of the Young and the Old in the full morning-tide; and as our
ferry drew nigh the green shore, there were the two younglings whereof
thou didst tell us awaiting our landing, and when we stepped ashore they
came to us bearing cakes and fruit in a fair basket, and they made much
of us and we of them. And so we came to the old man, who was exceeding
fain of us, and grand and courteous, till he became a little drunk, and
then he was somewhat over-kind to us women. Nevertheless, there in that
pleasant isle we rested us for three days, that we might somewhat calm
and refresh our spirits with what was small and of little account. And
when we departed, the old man followed us down to the strand, and
lamented our departure, as he had done with our lords erewhile; only this
time yet greater was his lamentation, and needs must we kiss him, each
one of us, or never had he been done. So he turned up landward,
bewailing the miss of us, but presently, before we had seen the last of
him, was cheerful again and singing.
So we went on our way; and we also, we maidens, in our turn, saw those
woeful images of the Isle of Queens and the Isle of Kings; and we came to
the Isle of Nothing, and abode warily by our ferry, and so came away
safe, and thus, as thou wottest, home to the castle to hear evil tidings
of thee. Now is this all my tale.
Birdalone sat shyly and hushed when all was done; and then all they did
somewhat to comfort her, each after their own fashion; and now sorrow for
the slain man was made softer and sweeter for them, whereas they had to
lose not two fellows, but one only. Yet, despite of all, trouble and
care was on Birdalone’s soul betwixt the joy of loving and being beloved,
and the pain and fear of robbing a friend of her love. For Atra’s face,
which she might not hate, and scarce might love, was a threat to her day
by day.
CHAPTER XI. BIRDALONE AND THE BLACK SQUIRE TALK TOGETHER IN THE HALL OF
THE CASTLE.
NOW within a few days was the body of Baudoin laid in earth in the chapel
of the castle; and in the solemnest of fashions was the burial done.
When it was over, the two knights and Sir Aymeris turned them heartily to
dighting the war against the Red Hold, and less than a month thereafter
was the hosting at the Castle of the Quest, and if the host were not very
many (for it went not above sixteen hundreds of men all told), yet the
men were of the choicest, both of knights and sergeants and archers.
There then they held a mote without the castle, whereas Arthur the Black
Squire was chosen for captain, and in three days they were to depart for
the Red Hold.
Now this while Birdalone had seen but little of Arthur, who was ever busy
about many matters, and never had she had any privy talk with him, though
sore she longed for it; yet indeed it was more by her will than his that
so it was. But when it was come to the very last day before the
departure, she said that she must needs see him before he went, and he
perchance never to come back again. So when men were quiet after dinner
she went into the hall and found him there, pacing up and down the floor.
For indeed she had sent a word to him by Leonard the priest that he
should be there.
So she went up to him, and all simply she took him by the hand and led
him into a shot-window and set him down by her; and he, all trembling for
love and fear of her, might not forbear, but kissed her face and her
mouth many times; and she grew as hot as fire, and somewhat she wept.
Then she spake after a while: Dear friend, I had it in my mind to say to
thee many things that meseems were sage, but now neither will the thought
of them come into my mind, nor the words into my mouth. And this is a
short hour. And therewith she fell to kissing him, till he was well-nigh
beside himself betwixt desire and joy and the grief of departure, and the
hardness of the case.
But at last she forbore and said: Will it not be when thou art gone
to-morrow as it was when ye were away upon the Quest, and I knew not how
to bear myself, so heavy lay all the world and its doings and its fashion
upon me? It will be hard to me, he said; evil and grim will be the days.
She said: And yet, even now in these last days, when I see thee oft,
every day my soul is worn with grief, and I know not what to do with
myself. I shall come back, he said, and bear my love with me, and then
belike we shall seek some remedy. She was silent a while, and then she
said: Meanwhile of thy coming, and I see thee not at all for many days,
how will it be with my grief then? Quoth he: More than enough of grief
no soul may bear; for either death comes, or else some dullness of the
pain, and then by little and little the pain weareth. Then she said: And
how would it be if thou come not back and I see thee never again, or if
when thou come back thou find me not, for that I be either dead or gone
away out of thy reach? He said: I know not how it would be. When thou
sayest thou shalt die, dost thou wholly believe it in thy sense or thy
body otherwise than Holy Church would? I will tell thee, she said, that
now I am sitting by thee and seeing thy face and hearing thy voice, it is
that only which I believe in; for I may think of nought else of either
grief or joy. Yea, when I wept e’en now, it was not for sorrow that I
wept, but for I cannot rightly tell what. And she took his hand and
looked fondly upon him.
But presently she looked on his hand, and said: And now meseemeth that we
twain are grown to be such close friends that I may ask thee what I will,
and thou be neither angry, nor wonder thereat. I see on thy finger here
the ring that I brought with me from the Isle of Increase, and which
thereafter thou hadst of me when I gave thee back also the shoon which
were lent unto me. Tell me how thou hadst it back from Atra, as I
suppose thou gavest it unto her. But how now art thou angry? for I see
the blood come up in thy face. Nay, beloved, said he, I am not angry,
but whenso I hear of Atra, or think of her closely, shame comes on me and
confusion, and maybe fear. But now will I answer thee. For even in
those hours which we wore on the Isle of the Young and the Old, when all
we should have been so happy together, she divined somewhat of my case,
or indeed, why do I not say it out, all thereof. And she spake to me
such words (for she is both tender and wise and strong of heart) that I
cowered before her and her grief and pain; and she gave me back the said
ring, which forsooth I gave to her in the Sending Boat in the first hour
that the Isle of Increase lay astern of us. And I wear it now as a token
of my grief for her grief. See now, love, since I have answered thee
this question without anger or amaze, thou needest not fear to ask me any
other; for this of all things lies closest to my heart.
Birdalone drooped her head, and she spake in a low voice: Lo now! the
shadow of parting and the shadow of death could not come between our
present joy; but this shadow of the third one cometh between us and is
present between us. Woe’s me! how little did I think of this when thou
wert away and I was sick of longing for the sight of thee, and deemed
that that would heal it all.
He spake not, but took her hand and held it; and presently she looked up
again and said: Thou art good, and wilt not be angry if I ask thee
something else; this it is: Why wert thou so grim with me that other day
when ye found me in that evil plight in tow of the Red Tyrant, so that I
deemed that thou of all others hadst cast me off? That was worse to me
than the witch’s stripes, and I kept thinking to myself: How simple was
my trouble once, and now how tangled and weary!
Then he might not refrain him, but threw himself upon her, and clipped
her and kissed her all he might, and she felt all the sweetness of love,
and lacked nought of kindness and love to him. And thereafter they sat
still awhile, and he said, as if her question had but that moment left
her lips: This, forsooth, was the cause that I looked grim on thee:
first, that from the time I first saw thee and heard thy tale, and of thy
deeds, I had deemed thee wise above the wisdom of women. But this going
forth of thee to the Black Valley, whereof came the slaying of Baudoin,
seemed unto me a mere folly, till again I had heard thy tale of that
also; and then the tale and thy speech overcame me. But again, though I
was grieved and disappointed hereat, belike that had passed from me
speedily, but then there was this also which would not let my soul rest,
to wit, that I feared concerning that slain knight whose head the Red One
had hung about thy neck; for how else, methought, might he have been so
wroth with him and thee; and meseemed, moreover, that thou wert kind in
thine heart to the dead man, even when we were come to thee; and then,
seest thou, my desire for thee and the trouble of Baudoin’s slaying, and
the black trouble aforesaid. Lo now, I have told thee this. When wilt
thou cease to be angry with me?
She said: I ceased to be grieved with thine anger when thine anger died;
yet strange, meseemeth, that thou shouldst trust me so little when thou
lovest me so much!
And she leaned against him and caressed him gently, and again was he at
point to take her in his arms, when lo! the sound of men coming unto the
screen of the hall; so then those two stood up and went to meet them, and
there was the speech of their sundering done. Yet belike for a little
while both those twain were happy.
CHAPTER XII. THE KNIGHTS AND THEIR FELLOWS BETAKE THEM TO THE ASSAULTING
OF THE RED HOLD.
ON the morrow, when the day was yet young, the knights were ready for
departure, and in the very gate they bade farewell to the ladies, who
kissed them kindly one and all, and Viridis wept sore; and Atra
constrained herself to do even as the others did; but pale she was and
quaking when she kissed Arthur and watched him get a-horseback.
But the knights bade their ladies be of good cheer, for that they would
send them tidings of how they sped every seven days at least, whereas it
was no long way thence to the Red Hold, save there were battle on the
road, and they deemed their host which should beset the Hold would be
enough to clear all the ways behind it. For that same cause withal they
had Sir Aymeris with them, nor left a many men behind them, and they
under the rule of three squires, whereof two were but young, and the
third, who was made the captain of the castle, was an old and wise man of
war, who had to name Geoffrey of Lea. There, withal, was the priest Sir
Leonard, who went about now much hushed and abashed, and seemed to fear
to give a word to Birdalone; albeit she deemed of him that his thoughts
of her were the same as erst they had been.
So now when the knights were departed, and all the host was gone out of
sight, it was heavy time indeed in the Castle of the Quest till they
should hear tidings of them again. Both Aurea and Atra kept much to
themselves, and did I know not what to wear away the time; for now it was
not to be looked for that they should venture out-a-gates. But as for
Viridis, she waxed of better cheer after a while, but whatever betid she
would not sunder herself from Birdalone; nay, not for an hour; and
Birdalone took all her kindness kindly, though forsooth it was somewhat
of a pain unto her; it shall be told wherefore ere long.
Withal, as if to wear the time, Birdalone betook her diligently to her
needlework, and fell to the cunningest of broidery; so that Viridis and
the others wondered at her, for when they were done it seemed indeed that
the flowers and creatures and knots had grown of themselves upon the
cloth, such wondrous work it was.
Moreover, to his great joy, the very first day of the departure of the
host she called Sir Leonard unto her, and prayed to go on again with the
learning her fair scribe-craft; and therein also was she diligent hours
of every day; and Viridis would sit beside her wondering at the deftness
of her fingers, and crying out for joy as the page grew fair and
well-learned under them.
Thus wore a week, and at the end thereof came a messenger from the host
and told how they had come before the Red Hold and had summoned them
thereof to yield, which they had utterly denied to do, but defied the
host; wherefore the host had now beset the Hold, and more folk were daily
flocking unto them; but that the said Hold would be hard to win by plain
assault, whereas it was both strong and well-manned; but few of the host
had been slain or hurt as yet, and of the chieftains not one.
Right glad were they of the castle because of these tidings; though,
forsooth, the men-at-arms knew well enough that the time would soon come
when some fierce assault would be made, and then, forsooth, would be sore
peril of life and limb unto the chieftains.
CHAPTER XIII. BIRDALONE BETHINKS HER TO FULFIL THE PROMISE MADE UNTO
ATRA.
AGAIN wore a week, and once more came the messenger, and did them of the
castle to wit that there had been nought more done at the Red Hold, save
skirmishing at the barriers, wherein few were hurt on either side; and
also that the engines for battering the walls were now well-nigh all
dight, and they would begin to play upon the Hold, and in especial one
which hight Wall-wolf, which had been set up by the crafts of Greenford.
This tidings also was deemed good by all, save it might be by Atra, who,
as Birdalone deemed, pined and fretted herself at the delay, and would
fain that, one way or other, all were over. Atra spake but little to
Birdalone, but watched her closely now; oft would she gaze on her
wistfully, as if she would that Birdalone would speak unto her; and
Birdalone noted that, but she might not pluck up heart thereto.
Wore a third week, and again came the messenger, and told how three days
ago, whenas Wall-wolf had sorely battered one of the great towers which
hight the Poison-jar, and overthrown a pan of the wall there beside, they
had tried an assault on the breach, and hard had been the battle there,
and in the end, after fierce give and take, they of the Hold had done so
valiantly that they had thrust back the assailants, and that in the
hottest brunt the Black Squire had been hurt in the shoulder by a
spear-thrust, but not very grievously; but withal that he sent, in so
many words, forbidding the ladies to make any account of so small a
matter. And, quoth the sergeant, most like my lord will wear his armour
in four days’ time; also now we have reared another great slinger, which
we call Stone-fretter, and soon, without doubt, we shall be standing
victorious within that den of thieves.
Now though these tidings were not so altogether ill, yet were those
ladies sore troubled thereby, and especially Atra, who swooned outright
when she had heard the last word thereof.
As for Birdalone, she made as little semblance of her trouble as she
might, but when all was quiet again she went to find Viridis, and brought
her to her chamber and spake to her, saying: Viridis, my sister, thou
hast been piteous kind unto me from the first minute that thou sawest me
naked and helpless, and fleeing from evil unto worse evil; nowise
mightest thou have done better by me hadst thou been verily my sister of
blood; and I know it that thou wouldst be loth to part from me.
Viridis wept and said: Why dost thou speak of parting from me, when thou
knowest it would break my heart?
Said Birdalone: To say it as short as may be, because the parting must
now come to pass. Viridis waxed pale and then red, and she stamped her
foot and said: It is unkind of thee to grieve me thus, and thou doest
wrong herein.
Hearken, dear sister, said Birdalone: thou knowest, for thou thyself wast
the first to tell me thereof, that I am the supplanter in our fellowship,
and that I have undone Atra’s hope. This I did not of mine own will, but
it came unto me; yet of mine own will I can do the best I may to amend
it; and this is the best, that I depart hence before the Red Hold is
taken and my lords come back; for if they come back and I see my lord
Arthur, so fair and beauteous as he is, before me, never shall I be able
to go away from him. And lo thou, I have promised Atra by all the
kindness she did me when we were come to the Wailing Tower, and I naked
and quaking and half-dead with terror, that if occasion served I would do
my utmost to help her, even if it were to my own grief. Now behold this
that now is, is the occasion, and there will not be another; for when my
love comes home hither and beholdeth me, think thou how all the desire
which has been gathering in his heart this while will blossom and break
forth toward me; and mayhappen he will make but little semblance of it
before other folk, for proud and high of heart is he; but he will seek
occasion to find me alone, and then shall I be with him as the lark in
the talons of the sparrow-hawk, and he will do his pleasure of me, and
that with all the good-will of my heart. And then shall I be forsworn to
Atra, and she will hate me, as now she doth not, and then is all the
fellowship riven, and that by my deed.
Yet was Viridis wrath, and she said: Meseemeth this is fool’s talk. Will
not the fellowship be all the more riven if thou depart and we see thee
no more?
O nay, said Birdalone; for when I am gone thy love shall be no less for
me, though as now thou art angry; and Atra will love me for that I shall
have held to my promise to mine own scathe; and thy man and Aurea will
lay it to me that I have done valiantly and knightly. And Arthur, how
can he choose but love me; and maybe we shall yet meet again.
And therewithal she did at last bow down her head and fall to weeping,
and Viridis was moved by her tears and fell to kissing and caressing her.
After a little Birdalone lifted up her head and spake again: Moreover,
how can I dare to abide him? didst thou not see how grim he was to me
when they delivered me and brought me back? and he with his own lips told
me so much, that it was because he doubted that I had done amiss; and now
if I do amiss again, even if it be at his bidding, will it not be so that
he will speedily weary of me, and curse me and cast me off? What sayest
thou, Viridis mine?
What is to say, said Viridis, save that thou hast broken my heart? But
thou mayst heal it if thou wilt take thy words back, and tell me that
thou wilt not sunder thee from us.
But Birdalone brake out weeping and lamenting aloud, and she cried out:
Nay, nay, it may not be; I must depart, and Atra hath smitten me amidst
of my friends. And Viridis knew not what to say or to do.
At last came Birdalone to herself again, and she looked sweetly on
Viridis and smiled on her from out her tears, and said: Thou seest,
sister, how little a loss thou wilt have of me, a mere wild woman. And
now nought availeth either me or thee but I must begone, and that
speedily. Let it be to-morrow then. And when the messenger comes at the
end of this week, send word by him of what I have done; and look thou to
it but both our lords will praise me for the deed.
Said Viridis: But whither wilt thou, or what wilt thou do? To Greenford
first, said Birdalone, and after whither the Good Lord shall lead me; and
as for what I will do, I am now deft in two crafts, script and broidery
to wit; and, wheresoever I be, folk shall pay me to work herein for them,
whereby I shall earn my bread. Hearken also, my sister, canst thou give
me any deal of money? for though I wot little of such matters, yet I wot
that I shall need the same. And I ask this whereas, as e’en now I said,
I deem our lords shall praise my deed, and that, therefore, they would
not that I should depart hence as an outcast, wherefore they shall not
begrudge it to me. Moreover, for the same cause I would thee speak to
the old squire Geoffrey of Lea, and tell him that I have an errand to
Greenford, and crave of him that he lend me one of the two younglings,
Arnold or Anselm, and two or three men-at-arms to bring me safely
thither; since now, forsooth, I need no more adventures on the road.
She smiled as she spake; and now all the passion of anguish seemed to
have left her for that while; but Viridis cast her arms about her neck
and wept upon her bosom, and said: Woe’s me! for I see that thou wilt go
whatsoever I may say or do; I strove to be angry with thee, but I might
not, and now I see that thou constrainest me as thou dost all else. I
will go now straightway and do thine errand.
Thus then they parted for that time; but it was not till the day after
the morrow that Birdalone was alboun. Viridis told of her departure both
to Aurea and Atra; and Aurea lamented it, but would not do aught to stay
her; for she was waxen weary and listless since the death of her man. As
for Atra, she spake but little concerning it, but to Viridis praised
Birdalone’s valiance and kindness. Yet unto herself she said: Verily she
understood my word that I spake to her about the occasion of her helping.
Yet woe’s me! for she shall carry his love with her whithersoever she
wendeth; and a happy woman is she.
But when Geoffrey the squire knew that the ladies, all three, were at one
with Birdalone as to her departure, he doubted nothing, but bade Arnold,
his mate, take four good men with him, and bring the Lady Birdalone unto
Greenford and do her bidding there. Albeit, he deemed no less but they
would bring her back again.
CHAPTER XIV. BIRDALONE LEAVES THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
ON the morrow morn, then, Birdalone spake farewell both to Aurea and
Atra; but as for Viridis, she sent her word that she had no heart
thereto, and yet she sent her a word of comfort, to wit, that she deemed
that they would one day meet again. Aurea, in her parting words, part
praised her, part chid her; saying that she did well and kindly and
valiantly, as her wont was. Yet, said she, when all is said, thou
mightest have abided this tangle and trouble, which at the worst had not
been so evil as death between us. Yea, sister, said Birdalone, but might
not death have come of my abiding?
As she spake, in came Atra, with her head somewhat drooped, meek and
humble, her cheeks red, her hands trembling; and she said: Wilt thou take
now my word of farewell and blessing, and the kiss of peace betwixt us,
and bear away the memory of our kindness together?
Birdalone stood up proud and straight, and was somewhat pale as she
suffered Atra to kiss her cheeks and mouth, and said: Now hast thou
forgiven me that weird dragged me in betwixt thy love and thy goodhap;
and I have forgiven thee that I am led away by weird into the waste and
the wilderness of love. Farewell. Therewith she went her way to the
gate, and the others followed her not.
Without abode her Arnold and the four men-at-arms, and her palfrey and a
sumpter-horse bearing two goodly coffers, wherein Viridis had let load
raiment and other havings for her; and Arnold came up to her smiling, and
said: My lady Viridis hath given me a pouch wherein is money to bear for
thee to Greenford and hand over to thee there when we be safe; and she
hath bidden me to be in all wise obedient unto thee, lady, which needed
not, whereas now and from hence forth am I by mine own will thy very
servant to do thy pleasure always and everywhere.
She thanked him and smiled on him kindly, so that his heart beat fast for
joy and love of her; and therewith she gat into the saddle and they rode
their ways together, and Birdalone looked back never till the Castle of
the Quest was shut from their eyes by the nesses of the little hills.
* * * * *
Here ends the Fifth Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called The Tale of the Quest’s Ending, and begins the Sixth Part of the
said tale, which is called The Days of Absence.
THE SIXTH PART: THE DAYS OF ABSENCE.
CHAPTER I. BIRDALONE RIDES TO GREENFORD AND THERE TAKES LEAVE OF ARNOLD
AND HIS MEN.
ON the road to Greenford nought befell to tell of; they came thither when
the sun was at point to set, for they had ridden diligently all day.
As they rode the streets of the good town, they noted of them, that
though it was evening wherein folk do much disport them abroad, there
were women and children enough in the streets or standing at their doors,
but of carles very few, and they for the more part grey-heads.
Now did Arnold bring Birdalone to the town hall, wherein yet sat the
deputy of the burgrave, who himself was in the leaguer at the Red Hold;
this man, who was old and wise and nothing feeble of body, made much of
Birdalone and her folk, and was glad of them when he knew that they had
the seal and let-pass of Geoffrey of Lea; wherefore he gave them to eat
and drink, and lodged them in his own house, and made them the best of
cheer.
But betimes on the morrow did Birdalone send back Arnold and the four
men-at-arms, with no tale but that such was her will; and bidding
farewell to the said Arnold, she suffered him to kiss her hands, and gave
him a ring from off her finger, so that he went on his way rejoicing.
So soon as she saw him and his men well on the road, she went to the old
man, the vice-ruler of the town, who was of the aldermen thereof, and did
him to wit that she would wage two or three carles who could deal with
horses and beasts, and withal handle weapons if need were, to be both as
servants and guards for her, as she had errands in that country-side, and
belike might well have to go from town to town thereabout. He took her
asking kindly, but said it was none so easy to find men who for any wage
would fare forth of Greenford at that stour, whereas well-nigh all their
fighting-men were lying before the Red Hold as now. Howsoever, ere
noontide he brought before her a man of over three score, but yet
wayworthy, and two stout young men, his sons, and told her that these men
were trusty and would go with her to the world’s end if need were.
She took these men readily, and agreed with them for a good wage; and
whereas each one had bow and arrows and short sword, she had but to buy
for them jacks, sallets, and bucklers, and they were well armed as for
their condition. Withal she bought them three good horses and another
sumpter-horse; which last was loaded with sundry wares that she deemed
that she needed, and with victual. Then she took leave of the alderman,
thanking him much for his good-will, and so departed from Greenford at
all adventure, when the day was yet young.
The alderman had asked her whither away, and she had told him that she
was boun for Mostwyke first, and thereafter for Shifford-on-the-Strand;
whereas she had heard talk of these two towns as being on one and the
same highway, and Mostwyke about a score of miles from Greenford; but
when she was well out-a-gates she came to a little road on the right hand
which turned clean away from Mostwyke, and she took the said road; and
when she had followed it some three miles, she asked the old carle
whither it led. He looked on her and smiled somewhat, and she on him in
turn; and she said: Wonder not, my friend, that I am not clear about my
ways, for I shall tell the sooth that I am a damsel adventurous, and am
but seeking some place where I may dwell and earn my livelihood till
better days come; and this is the whole truth, and thou shalt know it at
once, to wit, that I am indeed fleeing, and were fain to hide the
footsteps of me, and I bid you three to help me therein. But ye must
know that I am fleeing, not from my foes, but from my friends; and, if ye
will, as we go by the way, I will tell you all the story of me, and we
will be friends while we are together, yea, and thereafter if it may be.
Now she said this because she had looked carefully on these men, and
herseemed that they were good men and true, and not dull of wit.
Forsooth the old man, who hight Gerard of the Clee, was no weakling, and
was nought loathly to look on, and his two sons were goodly and great of
fashion, clear-eyed, and well-carven of visage; they hight Robert and
Giles.
Now spake old Gerard: Lady, I thank thee heartily of thy much grace unto
me; now would I get off my nag and kneel to thee in the highway therefor,
but that I see that thou wert fain to make as much way as may be to-day;
wherefore, by thy leave, I will tarry my homaging till we rest our horses
by the wayside. She laughed, and praised his wisdom; and the young men
looked on her and worshipped her in their hearts. Forsooth, the
fellowship of these good and true folk was soft and sweet to her, and
soothed the trouble of her spirit. And she enforced herself to talk
cheerfully with them, and asked them many things, and learned much of
them.
But now went on Gerard to say: Lady, if thou wilt hide thy ways from
whomsoever it may be, thou hast happened on no ill way; for though this
road be good to ride, it is but a byway through the sheep-walks that folk
may drive their wains hereby in the wet season of winter and spring; and
for a great way we shall come to but little save the cots of the
sheep-carles; scarce a hamlet or two for the space of two days’ riding;
and on the third day a little town, hight Upham, where are but few folk
save at the midsummer wool-fair, which is now gone by.
Now there is a highway cometh into this road from out of the tilled
country and Appleham, a good town, and goeth through it toward the
tillage, and the City of the Bridges and the liberties thereof; and all
the land is much builded and plentiful; but, if thou wilt, we will not
take either highway, but wend over the downland which lieth north-east of
Upham, and though it be roadless, yet is it not ill-going, and I know it
well and its watering-places, little dales and waters therein all running
north-east, wherein be certain little thorps here and there, which shall
refresh us mightily. Over that downland we may wend a four days, and
then the land will swell up high, and from the end of that high land we
shall behold below us a fair land of tillage, well watered and wooded,
and much builded; and in the midst thereof a great city with walls and
towers, and a great white castle and a minster, and lovely houses a many.
In that city mayst thou dwell and earn thy livelihood if thou canst do
aught of crafts. And if thou mayst not, then may we find somewhat to
swink at for a wage, and so maintain thee and us. But the said city is
called the City of the Five Crafts, and the land round about it is the
frank thereof; and oftenest, frank and city and all, it is called the
Five Crafts all simply. Now what sayest thou hereof, my lady?
She said: I say that we will go thither, and that I thank thee and thy
sons of thy good-will, and so may God do to me as I reward you well
therefor. But tell me, good Gerard, how it is that thou art so willing
to leave kith and kin to follow a gangrel wife along the ways? Said
Gerard: Dame, I think that the face and body of thee might lead any man
that yet had manhood in him to follow thee, even if he left house and all
to go with thee. But as for us, we have no longer a house or gear,
whereas they of the Red Hold lifted all my bestial, and burned my house
and all that was therein a month ago. Yea, said Birdalone, and how
befalleth it, then, that ye are not before the Red Hold to avenge thee?
Dame, said he, when the muster was I was deemed somewhat over old,
wherefore the sheriff took me not, but suffered my sons also to abide
behind to earn a living for me; may God be good to him therefor, and St.
Leonard! But as to my kindred, I must tell thee that I am not kinned
hereabout, but in a good town hight Utterhay, and that when our alderman
sent for me to bring me to thee, I was more than half-minded to get me
back thither. Now sooth it is that the best way thither, though it may
be indeed the safest rather than the shortest, lies through the Five
Crafts; for the road goes thence to Utterhay a three score miles or so,
making the longer of it, as it skirteth ever some way off a perilous
forest, a place of sore dread and devilish, which hight Evilshaw, on the
edge whereof lieth Utterhay, a merry cheaping-stead and a plenteous, and
the home of my kindred. Wherefore now is the City of the Five Crafts
handy to us; because when thou hast done with us, as I hope it may be
long first, then are we others nigh home, and may all simply wend our way
thither.
Birdalone thanked him again full heartily; but therewithal as they rode
along there seemed to stir in her some memory of the earliest of her days
in the witch’s house, and she began to have a longing to betake her to
Utterhay and the skirts of Evilshaw.
CHAPTER II. OF BIRDALONE AND HER FELLOWSHIP, THEIR FARING OVER THE
DOWNLAND.
THUS rode they along and loitered not, though they talked blithely
together; and Birdalone wondered to herself that she might so much as
hold up her head for bitter thoughts of the days and the longings but
late passed away, but so it was, that it was only now and again that they
stung her into despair and silence, and for the most part she hearkened
to the talk of the old man and the lads about the days of Greenford and
the alarms of lifting and unpeace, and the ways of the chapmen and the
craftsmen.
An hour after noon they rested in a little dale of the downland where was
a pool and three thorn-bushes thereby; and when they had lighted down,
the old man knelt before Birdalone and took her hand, and swore himself
her man to do her will, whatso it were; and then he stood up and bade his
sons do likewise; so they two knelt before her in turn, somewhat shy and
abashed, for all that they were such stout, bold fellows, and found it
hard to take her hand, and then when they had it in theirs, hard to let
it go again.
A score of miles and five they rode that day, and had no roof over them
at night save the naked heaven, but to Birdalone that was but little
scathe: they made a shift to have some fire by them, and the three men
sat long about it that even while Birdalone told them somewhat of her
life; and as she told of the House under the Wood and the Great Water,
Gerard had some inkling of whereabouts it was; but was nought so sure,
because, as abovesaid in this tale, seldom did any from the world of men
venture in Evilshaw, or know of the Great Water from its banks that gave
unto the forest.
In like wise they rode the next day, and came at eventide to a thorp in a
fair little dale of the downland, and there they guested with the
shepherd-folk, who wondered much at the beauty of Birdalone, so that at
first they scarce durst venture to draw nigh unto her until Gerard and
his sons had had some familiar converse with them; then indeed they
exceeded in kindness toward them, in their rough upland fashion, but ever
found it hard to keep their eyes off Birdalone, and that the more after
they had heard the full sweetness of her voice; whereas she sang to them
certain songs which she had learned in the Castle of the Quest, though it
made her heart sore; but she deemed she must needs pay that kindly folk
for their guestful and blithe ways. And thereafter they sang to the pipe
and the harp their own downland songs; and this she found strange, that
whereas her eyes were dry when she was singing the songs of love of the
knighthood, the wildness of the shepherd-music drew the tears from her,
would she, would she not. Homelike and dear seemed the green willowy
dale to her, and in the night ere she slept, and she lay quiet amidst of
the peaceful people, she could not choose but weep again, for pity of the
bitter-sweet of her own love, and for pity of the wide world withal, and
all the ways of its many folk that lay so new before her.
CHAPTER III. THEY COME TO THE CITY OF THE FIVE CRAFTS, AND BIRDALONE
MEETS WITH THE POOR-WIFE.
THEY made not so much way that they came to the Five Crafts on the fourth
day, but lay under the bare heavens in a dale below the big swell of the
downland, whereof Gerard spake. But betimes in the morning Birdalone
arose and stirred up her men, and they gat to horse, and rode the hill
before them till they came on to the crest thereof. Then Birdalone cried
aloud with joy to see the lovely land before her, and the white walls and
the towers of the great city, whereas Greenford was but small beside it.
So they rode down into the frank, and entered the gates of the city a
little after noon, and again was Birdalone in all amaze at the going to
and fro in the streets and the thronging of the markets, and the divers
folk, as chapmen and men-at-arms, and craftsmen and lords, who used the
said city; and to say sooth, somewhat her heart sank within her, and it
seemed to her that it would be hard and troublous to have to deal with so
much folk, and that they must needs go past her on the right hand and the
left without heeding her life.
Howsoever, Gerard, who knew the city, brought her to a fair hostel, where
she was well lodged, she and her men. Straightway, then, before she went
out into the streets again, she fell to getting together what she had of
fine broidered work and of fair script, and to finishing what she had
unfinished. And she sent forth Gerard and his sons to find out where was
the market for such goods, and if she would have leave to sell the same
therein, or anywhere in the town; and Gerard found the hall of the
embroiderers, and therein the master of the craft, and he received the
carle courteously when he heard that there was fine work come to town,
and did him to wit that none in any such craft might have freedom of the
market save by leave of the guild of the craft; but, said he, the guilds
were open-handed and courteous, and were nowise wont to refuse the said
leave, were the work good and true; and he bade Gerard withal tell his
mistress that she were best to bring samplings of her work to the
Guildhall so soon as she might. So the very next day went Birdalone
thither, and found the master a well-looked tall man of some
five-and-forty winters, who looked on her from the first as if he deemed
it were no ill way of wearing the time. To this man she showed her work,
and though he found it not easy to take his eyes off Birdalone herself,
yet when he looked at her handiwork, he found it better than very good,
and he said to her: Damsel, here is what will be sought for at a great
price by the great lords and ladies of the land, and the rich burgesses,
and especially by the high prelates; and so much of it as thou hast a
mind to do is so much coined gold unto thee; and now I see thee what thou
art, I were fain that thou gathered good to thee. But as diligent as
thou mayst be, thou hast but one pair of hands, wonderful soothly, and
yet but one pair. He broke off at that word, for he was verily staring
at her hands, and longing to see more of her arms than the wrists only,
so that he scarce knew what he was saying. Then he turned red and said:
Soothly I wot that no other hands save thine may do such needlework, or
make the draughts for them. But thou wilt need women-servants to help
thee, both in dighting the house for thee (for this big old carle here
will be scarce meet thereto) and as apprentices to help thee about the
work itself; and if thou wilt, I shall seek the best ones out for thee.
Moreover I must tell thee, that though I know for sure how that no woman
in the world may work such needlework as thine, yet whiles there cometh
hither a woman of middle age, a woman worn by troubles, pious, meek, and
kind; and by St. Lucia! now I look on thee again, she might be somewhat
like unto thee, were she young and fresh-looking and strong as thou art.
Now this woman I say, and thereat I marvel, doeth needlework that is
somewhat after the manner of thine, and which seemed to us excellent till
I had seen thine. Good livelihood she earneth thereby, and is diligent
therein; but she hath no heart to get apprentices, or be made one of our
guild, both of which were lawful to her as to thee, lovely damsel. But
now I shall counsel her to be made of our guild along with thee, if thou
wilt have it so, and then may ye both have three apprentices each, and
may make in our city a goodly school, so that our guild shall be
glorified thereby, for there will be none such work in the world. How
sayest thou?
She thanked him much, and yeasaid him, and thought in her heart that such
work which would keep her hands and her head both busy, would solace the
grief of her heart, and wear away the time, that she might live till hope
might peradventure arise in her.
Then said the master: There is one thing else, that is, thy
dwelling-place; and if thou wilt I shall hire thee a house in the street
of the Broiderers, a goodly one: sooth to say, that same is mine own, so
thou mayst deem that I tell thee hereof to mine own gain; and that may be
(and he reddened therewith); but there is this in it, that if thou
lackest money I shall let thee live therein without price till thou shalt
have earned more than enough to pay me.
Birdalone thanked him well, but she did him to wit that she was nowise
penniless; and presently she departed well pleased, though she deemed
that the said master was well-nigh more friendly than might be looked
for. And the next day he came to her in the hostelry, and without more
ado brought her to the house in the street of the Broiderers, and she
found it fair and well plenished, and so she fell to work to get all
things ready.
Now the next week was the day appointed when she should be received into
the broiderers’ guild, and the day before came the master aforesaid to
see Birdalone. Sooth to say, he had not failed to come to see her every
day, on one pretence or another, since the first day they had met, but
ever he did to her with all honour and simply. But on this day he
brought with him the woman skilful of her hands, to show her unto
Birdalone, who received her gladly, and thereafter Master Jacobus left
them alone together.
The said woman looked worn and aged indeed, but was not of more than
five-and-forty winters even by seeming, after the first look at her; she
was somewhat tall and well-knit, her face well shapen, and her hair yet
goodly. There was a kind look in the eyes of her, as if she might love
anyone with whom she lived that would be kind to her. Meek, or rather
over-meek, of mien she was, and it seemed of her that she had been sore
scared and oppressed one while or another.
So when Master Jacobus was gone, Birdalone set her down on the settle
beside her, and spake to her full sweetly and kindly, and the woman spake
little in turn save answering simply to her questions. Birdalone asked
where she was kinned, and she answered: In Utterhay. Then said
Birdalone: Within these last few days I have heard that town named twice
or thrice, and never before, as meseemeth; and yet, hearing the name from
thy mouth, it seemeth to stir something in me, as if I had been there one
time and longed to be there again. Is there aught in the place whereof
folk tell wide about, so that I might have heard it told of and not noted
it at the time? Nay, lady, said the dame, save perchance that it is on
the verge of a very great and very evil wood, otherwise it was once a
merry town and of much resort from the country-side.
Birdalone looked on her, and saw that the tears were coming from her eyes
and running down her cheeks as she spake; so she said to her: Why dost
thou weep, mother? Is there aught I may do to assuage thy grief? Said
the dame: Thou art so kind to me, and thy voice is so dear and sweet,
that I cannot choose but weep. Meseems it is because love of thee hath
taken mine heart, and therewith is blended memory of past sorrow of mine.
Thou askest me if thou mayest do aught to assuage my grief; dear lady, I
am not grieved now, that has gone by; nay, now I am more than not
grieved, I am made happy, because I am with thee. But since thou art so
debonair with me, I will ask thee to do somewhat for me; and that is, to
tell me of thy life gone by; I mean, sweet young damsel, of thy life when
thou wert a little child.
Then Birdalone kissed her and said: It goes to my heart that thou lovest
me; for soon as I set eyes on thee my heart went out to thee; and now
belike we shall be dear friends; and that is a thing that shall avail me
much, to have a friend who is so much older than I, so that nought can
come between us, of the love of men and other griefs. Yea, now, said the
dame, smiling somewhat sadly; now do I see the water standing in thine
eyes, and thy voice quavers. Is it so, thou lovely kind damsel, that
thou hast been grieved by love of a man? Who then may prevail in love if
thou prevail not? And she fell to fondling Birdalone’s hand; but
Birdalone said: It is over-long to tell of all my life, mother, though I
be so young; but now I will do as thou badest me, and tell thee somewhat
of my days when I was little.
And therewith she fell to telling her of her days in the House under the
Wood, and the witch and her surliness and grimness, and of her love of
the wild things, and how she waxed there. And she spake a long while,
for the memory of those days seemed to lead her along, as though she
verily were alive now in them; and the woman sat before her, gazing on
her lovingly, till Birdalone stayed her tale at last and said: Now have I
told thee more than enough of a simple matter, and a life that was as
that of a wild creature of the woods. Now shalt thou, mother, tell me
somewhat of thee, and what was thy grief of Utterhay: for thou shalt find
that the telling thereof shall solace thee. Ah! so think young folk,
said the woman sadly, because there are many days left for them to hope
in. But though the telling of my sorrow be a fresh sorrow to me, yet
shalt thou hear it. It is but of the loss of my babe; but she was of all
babes the fairest and the sweetest.
Then she fell to telling Birdalone all that concerning the witch at
Utterhay and the poor-wife that ye have heard in the beginning of this
book, until the time when she left the house to buy meat for the witch;
for she herself was the said poor-wife. And then she told how she came
back again and found her guest gone and the child withal; and though she
had wept for love of Birdalone, she wept not at telling of this grief,
but told it as a tale which had befallen some other one. And she said:
And so when I had done running up and down like a wild thing, and asking
of the neighbours with lack of breath and fierceness of speech who had
taken my child away from me; and when I had gone up to the wood and even
some way into it, and when I had wandered up and down again, and night
was falling, I came back at last again to my poor house so weary with my
woe, that I scarce knew what had befallen me. And there upon the board
lay the victual and drink which I had brought, and the money which the
witch had given unto me; and despite of grief, hunger flamed up in me at
the sight, and I threw myself on to it and ate and drank, and so came to
myself, that is, to my grief. But the next day I ran about hither and
thither, and wearied folk with my asking and my woe; but it was all of
none avail. The child was gone away from me. There is little more to
tell of me, sweet lady. If I were to live, needs must I take the poor
price of my little one, to wit, the witch’s money, and deal with folk for
my livelihood; wherefore I bought me cloth and silks, having now the
wherewithal, and set to work on broidery, for even then was I a cunning
needle-woman. So were God and the saints good to me, and inclined the
folk to me, that they were good and piteous, and I lacked not work nor
due livelihood; but after a while I wearied of Utterhay, where my dear
child should have been running about before my feet; and having by this
time gotten a little money together, and being exceeding deft in my
craft, I came on hither to live, and, praise be to St. Ursula! I have
found it easy to live: and praise be to All-hallows withal that I have
found thee, who art so kind and lovely; and thou by seeming of the very
age my child should be if she be living: or how old art thou, dear lady?
Birdalone laid her hand on her breast, and she was turned pale, but she
said in a low voice: I deem that I am of twenty summers.
Then they both sat silent, till Birdalone might master the fluttering of
her heart, and she said: Now meseems I have a memory even earlier than
those I told thee erst. A woman took me out of a basket and set me on
the back of an ass, and I looked about, and I was in a grassy lawn of the
woods; and I saw a squirrel run up a tree-trunk before me, and wind round
the tree and hide him; and then I stretched out my hands and cried out to
him; and then came the woman unto me, and gave me wood-strawberries to
eat out of her hand.
Brake out the poor-wife thereat, pale and trembling: Tell me now, my
child, hast thou any memory of what the woman was who set thee on the ass
and gave thee the strawberries? Birdalone looked on her, and scanned her
face closely, and then shook her head, and said: Nay, it was not thou,
mother. Nay, surely; nay, surely, said the woman; but think again. Said
Birdalone, speaking slowly: Was it my mistress then? She was a tall
woman, somewhat thin and bony, with goodly red hair and white-skinned,
but thin-lipped. Quoth the poor-wife: No, no; it is of no use; nought
such was she. Then Birdalone looked up and said eagerly: Yea, but it was
her other shape belike: therein was she a tall woman, dark-haired,
hook-nosed, and hawk-eyed, as if of thirty summers; a stark woman. Hast
thou seen such? dost thou remember her?
The woman sprang up and cried out, and was like to have fallen, but
Birdalone arose and held her in her arms and comforted her, and set her
in her seat again and knelt before her; and presently the poor-wife came
to herself and said: My child, thou sayest do I remember her; how shall I
ever forget her? she was the thief who stole my child.
Therewith she slid from off her seat, and knelt by Birdalone, and stooped
low down on the floor as if the tall maiden were but a little one, and
she fell to kissing her and patting her, her face and her hands, and all
about; and said, sobbing and yet smiling: Suffer me a little, my child,
mine own lovely child! For in good sooth I am thy mother, and it is long
since I have seen thee: but hearken, when I come quite to myself I shall
pray thee not to leave me yet awhile, and I shall pray thee to love me.
Birdalone clipped and kissed her, and said: I love thee dearly, and
never, never shall I leave thee.
Then they stood up, and the mother took Birdalone by the shoulders, and
held her a little aloof, and devoured her with her eyes; and she said:
Yea, thou hast grown tall, and belike wilt grow no taller: and how fair
and lovely thou hast grown; and thou that wert born in a poor man’s
house! no wonder that any should covet thee. And I, I wonder if ever I
was as fair as thou art; forsooth many called me fair for a little while;
and now behold me! Nay, child and darling, let not thy face grow
downcast, for now shall I know nought more of fear and grief; and is it
not like that I shall grow fairer of flesh, and shapelier, in the happy
days we shall dwell together? And therewith she took her to her arms,
and it seemed as if she might never have enough of clipping and embracing
her; and she would look at Birdalone’s hands and her feet and her arms,
and stroke them and caress them; and she wondered at her body, as if she
had been a young mother eaten up with the love of her firstborn. And as
for Birdalone, she was as glad of her mother as might be; and yet in her
heart she wondered if perchance one of the fellowship might stray that
way, and be partaker in her joy of this newfound dear friend; and she
said, might it be Viridis; but in her inmost heart, though she told it
not to herself, she longed that the Black Squire might find her out at
last.
CHAPTER IV. OF THE LOVE OF GERARD’S SONS AND OF JACOBUS FOR BIRDALONE.
NOW dwelt Birdalone in rest and peace when she had been taken into the
guild along with her mother, and they had taken the due apprentices to
them; and they began to gather much of goods to them, for of fine
broidery there was little done in the Five Crafts, and none at all that
could be put beside their work, either for beauty of the draught of it,
or for skill of handiwork. She declared unto all folk how that the
poor-wife (who had to name Audrey) was her very mother, from whom she had
been stolen in her youngest days; but she told none any tale of how she
was stolen. And the twain dwelt together in the greatest
loving-kindness; and it was with Audrey as she had forecast, that now her
days were happy, and she living in all ease and content, that the
goodliness of her youth came back to her, and she became a fair woman as
for her years; and therewith it grew to be clear that the two were so
much alike one to the other, that all might see that they were mother and
daughter.
Gerard and his two sons she maintained yet as her men; and not only were
they of much use to her in fetching and carrying, but also true it is
that her beauty was so manifest, that she whiles needed a stout lad
weaponed at her back when she was in the streets or amidst the throng of
the market; and many were they, and whiles of the highest, who craved
love of her, some with honour, and some with lack of it.
Of these, forsooth, were but two that anywise troubled her; and the most
trouble was this, that she might not fail to see that the love of her had
entered into the hearts of the two Gerardsons, Robert and Giles; so that
times were when she deemed she must even send them away, but when it came
to the point she had not the heart thereto; though none other remedy
there seemed, so sorely as their souls were wounded by longing for her.
It is not to be said that they ever spake to her thereof, or wittingly
wearied her with signs of love; but they could not so easily cover it up
but that it was ever before her eyes. But she suffered it all for
friendship’s sake and for their true service, and in all friendliness did
what she might to solace their grief. Forsooth so good and true she
found that father-kind, and the young men so goodly and kind, that she
said to herself, had she not another man lying in her heart, she might
well have chosen one of those twain for her very speech-friend and true
lover.
The second wooer that troubled her was the master, Jacobus, who, when but
three months were worn of her dwelling in her house, did all openly crave
her love and offer her marriage, he being a man unwedded. Sore was her
heart that she must needs gainsay him, so kind and courteous as he had
been to her at their first coming together; though this indeed is sooth,
that straightway, so soon as he saw her, he fell into the captivity of
her love. Howsoever, gainsay him she needs must, and he took the naysay
so hardly that he was scarce like a man before her, and wept and prayed
and lamented many times over, till she wearied of it, and well-nigh fell
to loathing him. So that it came to this at last, that one day she spake
to him and said that she might no longer bear it, but must seek another
house and leave his. There then was the to-do, for he fell on his knees
before her, and kissed her feet, would she, would she not, and cried out
in his grief, till at last for pure weariness of his folly she gave way
unto him, and said that she would still abide there; whereon he rose up
from her and went away with all the grief run off him for that time, and
as glad a man to look on as you might see on a summer’s day.
But the next morning he came unto her again, and she thinking all was
begun afresh, made him no glad countenance; but he stood up before her
and spake friendly, and said how that she was in the right of it, and
that if they both dwelt in one house together they were like to have but
a weary time of it, both she and he. But, said he, I will not that thou
shouldst depart out of this house, for a goodly one it is, and full meet
for thee; it is for me to depart, and not for thee. I tell thee,
forsooth, that I had from the first meant this house as a gift from me to
thee. And therewith he drew from his pouch a scroll, which was a deed of
gift of the said house, duly sealed and attested, and he gave it into her
hands; but she was sore moved thereat, and at the demeanour of him that
morning, and she let the scroll fall to the floor and wept for pity of
him, and reached out both her hands, and he kissed them, and then her
lips also, and sithence he sat down beside her. But she said: Alas! that
thou wilt give me what I may not take, and wouldst have of me what I may
not give.
But now he waxed hotter, and said: This once I command thee to do my
will, and take my gift. It will be nought to my gain if thou take it
not; for I may not live in this house when thou art gone from it; and I
swear by All-hallows that I will not let any have it to hire, nor will I
sell it, since thou hast made it holy by dwelling therein.
Yet was she sore moved by his generous fashion, and she said: I will take
thy gift then, and live here in honour of thee and thy friendship; for
well I wot thou hadst no mind to buy me with thy gift.
So she spake, and he stood up stark and stern, and so departed, and
kissed her not again; though meseems she would have suffered him had he
offered it. Nay, belike had he at that moment pressed his wooing
somewhat masterfully, it is not so sure but she might have yeasaid it,
and suffered him to wed her and lead her to bed; though it would have
gone ill both with him and with her thereafter.
Thenceforth dwelt Birdalone with her mother and her maidens and her men
in that house, and it became famous in the Five Crafts because of her
beauty and her wisdom, which minished not, but waxed day by day; but
therewithal as the time wore, waxed her longing and sadness. But all
this she hid in her own heart, and was debonair to all about her, and so
good to poor folk that none had a word save of blessing on her beauty and
her wisdom.
CHAPTER V. OF THE DEATH OF AUDREY, MOTHER TO BIRDALONE. SHE IS WARNED
IN A DREAM TO SEEK THE BLACK SQUIRE, AND IS MINDED TO DEPART THE CITY OF
THE FIVE CRAFTS, AND SEEK AGAIN THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
THUS dwelt Birdalone in the Five Crafts in such rest and peace as her
heart would let her; and dear and good friends she had about her; her
mother first, whose love and desire for love of her made all things soft
and dear unto her. Gerard and the Gerardsons were next, who were ever
faithful and true unto her, and deft both of hand and of mind, so that
they wrought many things for her avail. Then came the master, Jacobus,
who held himself unwedded for her sake, and though he no longer dwelt in
the same house with her, might scarce endure to miss the sight of her for
two days running: a dear friend she deemed him, as forsooth he was,
though whiles he tormented and wearied her, and belike had wearied her
more, but for the sorrow which lay on her own heart, whereof it came that
she might not think of any man as of one who might be a lover, and so
felt safe even with so kind a friend and so stubborn in his love as was
this one. Moreover he never again craved love of her in so many words,
but only in his goings and comings so did, that it was clear how he had
her, and the love of her, ever in his heart.
Wore thus a five years; and then came a sickness on the city, and many
died thereof; and the said sickness entered into Birdalone’s house, and
slew Audrey her mother, but spared all else therein. Thereby at the
first was Birdalone so overwhelmed that she might heed nought, neither
her craft nor her friends, nor the days to come on the earth for her.
And moreover when she came more to herself, which was not for many days,
and asked why her friend Jacobus had not been to see her the last days,
she was told that he also was dead of the pestilence; and she sorrowed
for him sorely, for she loved him much, though not in the way he would.
And now did the city and land of the Five Crafts begin to look unfriendly
to Birdalone, and she fell to thinking that she must needs depart thence,
as she well might do, whereas she had foison of goods: and at first it
was in her mind to go with Gerard and his sons unto Utterhay; but then
she deemed the thought of her mother, and how she would be ever thinking
of the loss and the gain, and the loss once more stood in the way; and
she turned one thing and another over in her mind, and might not face it.
On a night, as she slept, came to her dreams of her days in the House
under the Wood (as very seldom betid), and the witch-wife was speaking to
her in friendly fashion (as for her) and blaming her for fleeing away,
and was taunting her with the failure of her love, and therewith telling
her how fair a man and lovesome was the Black Squire, and what a loss she
had of him; and Birdalone was hearkening and weeping for tenderness’
sake, while the witch was unto her neither fearful nor irksome, and
forsooth nought save a mouthpiece for words that both grieved Birdalone
and yet were an eager pleasure unto her. But in the midst thereof, and
ere the dream had time to change, Birdalone awoke, and it was an early
morning of later spring, and the sky was clear blue and the sun shining
bright, and the birds singing in the garden of the house, and in the
street was the sound of the early market-folk passing through the street
with their wares; and all was fresh and lovely.
She awoke sobbing, and the pillow was wet with her tears, and yet she
felt as if something strange and joyous were going to betide her, and for
joy of the love of life the heart beat fast in her bosom.
She arose all darling naked as she was, and went to the window and looked
out on the beauty of the spring, while the sound of the market-wains
brought to her mind the thought of the meads, and the streams of the
river, and the woodsides beyond the city; and she fell a-longing for
them, as a while she knelt on the window-seat, half dreaming and asleep
again, till the sun came round that way, and its beams fell upon her
bosom and her arms; and she stood up and looked on the fairness of her
body, and a great desire took hold of her heart that it might be loved as
it deserved by him whom she desired. And thus she stood there till she
became ashamed, and hastened to do on her raiment; but even as she was
about it, it came upon her that what she had will to do was to seek to
the Castle of the Quest, and find out where was her love if there he were
not, and so to seek him the world over till she found him. And such a
flood of joy possessed her when she thought this, and so eager to begone
she was, that she deemed every minute wasted till she were on the road.
Nevertheless, in a while, when her mind was steadied, she knew that she
had somewhat to do ere she might be gone, and that here, as oft, it would
be more haste less speed.
So she abode a little, and then came into her hall duly dight, and found
Gerard and his sons there to serve her; and she brake her fast, and bade
them sit by her at table, as oft she did; and she spake to them of this
and that, and Gerard answered lightly again; but the two Gerardsons
looked at one another, as though they would speak and ask a question from
time to time, but forbore because they durst not. But Gerard looked on
them, and deemed he wotted what was in their minds; so at last he spake:
Our lady, both I, and meseemeth my sons also, deem that there is some
tidings toward which are great unto thee; for thine eyes sparkle, and the
red burns in thy cheeks, and thine hands may not be quiet, nor thy feet
abide in one place; wherefore I see that thou hast something in thy mind
which strives to be forth of it. Now thou wilt pardon us, our dear lady,
that we ask concerning this, because it is in our love for thee that we
speak, lest there be some change toward which shall be a grief to some of
us.
My men, said Birdalone, flushing red, sooth it is that there is a change
at hand, and I shall tell you straightway what it is. Years ago I told
you that I was fleeing from my friends; now the change hath betid that I
would seek them again; and needs must I leave the Five Crafts behind to
do so. And moreover there is this ill word to be said, which I will say
at once, to wit, that when I am but a little way gone from the Five
Crafts I must wend the other deal of my journey birdalone, as my name is.
All those three sat silent and aghast at that word, and the young men
grew pale; but after a while spake Gerard: Our lady most well-beloved,
this word which thou hast spoken, to wit, that thou needest us no longer,
I have looked to hear any time this five years; and praise be to the
saints that it hath come late and not soon. Now there is no more to be
said but that thou tell us what is thy will that we should do.
Birdalone hung her head awhile for sorrow of sundering from these men;
then she looked up and said: It seemeth, my friends, as if ye deem I have
done you a wrong in sundering our fellowship; but all I may say hereon is
to pray you to pardon me, that I needs must go alone on my quest. And
now what I would have you do, is first of all to fetch hither a notary
and scrivener, that he may draw up a deed of gift to you, Gerard and
Gerardsons, of this house and all that is therein, saving what money I
may need for my journey, and gifts such as I shall bid you to be given to
my workwomen. Ye must needs yeasay this, or ye are forsworn of your
behest to do my will. But furthermore, I will have you to let the
workwomen of mine (and the head one ruling) to hire the aforesaid house,
if so they will; for now are they skilled, and may well earn good
livelihood by the work. But the next work is simple; it is to furnish
for me the array of a young man, with such armour as I may easily bear,
to dight me for my road. Forsooth ye wot that not unseldom do women use
the custom of going arrayed like men, when they would journey with hidden
head; and ye may happen upon such gear as hath been made for such a woman
rather than any man; but thou shalt get me also a short bow and a quiver
of arrows, for verily these be my proper weapons that I can deal with
deftly. Now my last command is that, when all is done, maybe to-morrow,
or maybe the next day, ye bring me out of the city and the frank of the
Five Crafts, and bring me somewhat on my way over the downs, for loth am
I to part from you ere needs must. Then they knelt before her and kissed
her hands, and they were full of grief; but they saw that so it had to
be.
Thereafter Gerard spake with his sons apart, and in a while came to
Birdalone, and said: Our lady, we will do your will in all wise; but we
shall tell thee, that the Five Crafts will look but strange to us when
thou art gone, and that we have a mind to betake us to Utterhay and the
land of our kindred. Wherefore we pray thee to give this house that hath
been so dear to us unto thy workwoman and her mates; for we need it not,
nor the hire thereof, but shall do well enough with what money or good
thou mayst give us. Is this according to thy will, or have I spoken
rashly?
She said: Ye are good and ungreedy, and I bless you for it; be it as ye
will; and this the more, as I were fain that ye go to Utterhay; for
whiles I have deemed that I myself am drawn thitherward, wherefore it may
be that we shall meet again in that place.
And when she had so spoken, she might not refrain her tears; and the
Gerardsons turned away, for they were ashamed, both that they should see
her weep, or she them. But at last she called to them and said: Now make
we the speediest end we may of this, for sorry work is the tarrying of
farewell; so I pray you, my friends, to go about the work I have bidden
you.
So all was done as she would, and the day after the morrow was Birdalone
abiding the coming of Gerard and his sons with the horses; and despite of
the sundering of friends and the perils that belike lay before her, the
world seemed fair to her, and life beginning anew. And she made no doubt
that she would soon be at the Castle of the Quest, and there find all
things much as she had left them; and there at least would be the welcome
of her dear friend Viridis.
CHAPTER VI. OF THE SUNDERING OF BIRDALONE FROM GERARD AND HIS SONS.
PRESENTLY were the horses come with Gerard and his sons, and Birdalone
gat to horse amongst them. She was armed in a light hauberk, and over it
a long and loose surcoat that came down beneath the knee of her; and a
sallet she had upon her head, wide but light, so that not very much of
her face was to be seen. She had made up her mind to this tale upon the
road, when she was among folk, that she was under a vow not to do off her
helm for a seven days’ space. Withal she had covered up the lovely
shapeliness of her legs with long boots of deer-leather, and her surcoat
was wide-sleeved; she was well hidden, and whereas she was a tall and
strong woman, she might well pass for a young man, slender and
fair-faced. She was girt with a good sword, and Gerard had gotten her a
strong horseman’s bow and a quiver full of arrows, wherewith, as
aforesaid, she knew well how to deal; wherefore she was by no means
without defence.
So they went their ways through the streets and out-a-gates; and it must
be said, that were not Birdalone’s thoughts turned toward the Castle of
the Quest, and what she should meet there, her heart had been somewhat
sore at leaving the city which had cherished her so well these years
past; nay, as it was, the shadow of the southern gate, as she past
thereunder, smote somewhat cold upon her, and she silently bade farewell
to the City of the Five Crafts with some sorrow, though with no fear.
Forth they rode then through the frank and up on to the shepherd country,
and whereas their horses were of the best, and they had no sumpter-beast
with them till they came to Upham, where they must needs have victual,
they made but five days of it to the place where the road turned aside
from the country of Mostwyke. There then they drew rein, and Birdalone
lighted down from her horse, and they all, and they lay upon the grass
and ate and drank together.
But when they were done, spake Birdalone and said: Dear friends, this is
the hour and the place when we must needs part; for ye shall go back
again to Five Crafts, and do what I have bidden of you, and do your will,
and wend your ways with your livelihood unto Utterhay. But as for me, I
must go my ways first unto Greenford, and thence to seek my friends from
whom erst I was fleeing when ye first became my friends. Now perchance
ye will say that I have taken you up in my need, and cast you aside at my
pleasure; but I may only say that there be at present two deals of my
life, and of one of them have ye been partakers, and of the other ye may
not be. Forsooth that is a grief unto me, as I suppose unto you is it a
greater one. But unto me also were it heavier but that my heart tells me
it shall not ever be so; for as I said to you some days agone, I have a
hope that we shall yet meet again, be it in Utterhay or in some other
place. And now I pray you to pardon me wherein I may have done amiss
unto you, and begrudge it not that there be others, who indeed were
first-comers in regard to you, and whom I love better than you; for of
your truth and your good-will and loving-kindness will I bear witness
wheresoever I may be.
Then spake Gerard: Do ye speak, my sons; for I have no grudge against
her, nor aught to bewail me as to her, save, it may be, that I am now so
well on in years that it may well befall that I shall not live till the
time of the meeting in Utterhay. But I will pray thee this, dear lady,
that if thou come to the place where I lie dead thou wilt kiss my
burial-stone, and sing due masses for me. Nay, she said, but this is the
worst shall betide betwixt us.
Then spake Robert Gerardson: I am not deft of speech, but this parting
makes me bold to say this: that from the time when first I set eyes on
thee I have loved thee in such wise that never mayst thou love me as much
as I love thee, if thou hast anywhere, as I deem thou hast, a lover of
thy body, whom thou lovest. Now I have seen that for a long while thou
hast known this, and hast ever because of it been as meek and kind with
me as thou mightest be. And this hath partly grieved me the more,
because it hath eked my longing for thee; and yet it hath comforted me
the more, because it hath made me deem better of thee, and deem thee
worthier of worship and holier; therefore have thou all my blessing for
it. And now I know that thou sunderest from us that thou mayst go seek
thy very bodily lover; and I say, that if the sundering had been for any
lighter cause, grieved at heart should I have been; but since it is even
so, once more I bless thee, and ever shall I be happy in the thought of
thee; and if ever we meet again, still shalt thou find me as now I am in
heart and in soul.
She turned to him, not dry-eyed, and said: I know that what thou sayest
is sooth; and thou hast guessed right as to my goings; and I take thy
blessing with love and joy.
Then were they silent; but Giles Gerardson was struggling with words, for
he was slow to speech; at last he said: I say much as saith my brother:
but see thou, our lady, how ill it had gone if thou hadst loved one of us
with an equal love; woe worth the strife then! But now I will crave this
of thee, that thou kiss me on the lips, now whenas we part; and again,
that thou wilt do as much when first we meet again hereafter. And I tell
thee right out, that if thou gainsay this, I shall deem it unfriendly in
thee, and that those lovely words which thou didst speak e’en now were
but words alone, and that thou art not as true as I have deemed thee.
She laughed amidst her tears, and said: Dear lad, doom me not till I have
been found guilty! I shall nowise naysay thee this, for I love thee, and
now and ever shalt thou be unto me as a brother, thou and Robert also;
for even so have ye done by me. But thou wottest, dear lad, that whiles
and again must sister sunder from brother, and even so it has to be now.
Then they sat silent all four; and thereafter Birdalone arose and did off
her sallet, and kissed and embraced Gerard and his sons, and bade them
farewell, and she and the young men wept. Then she armed herself and gat
to horse, and went her ways towards Greenford, having nought with her but
the raiment and arms that her body bore, and her horse, and some gold
pieces and gems in a little pouch. So rode she; and the others turned
back sadly toward the Five Crafts.
CHAPTER VII. BIRDALONE COMETH TO GREENFORD, AND HEARS OF THE WASTING OF
THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
NOW came Birdalone riding into Greenford an hour before sunset on a day
of the latter end of May; and she had no doubt but to go straight to the
hostelry, and that the less as she had not abided there before, as hath
been told. To them that served her she told the tale of her vow, that
she might not do off her sallet that seven days; and some trowed her, and
some deemed her a woman, but whereas she seemed by her raiment to be of
condition none meddled with her. Moreover, as she told her intent to
ride on betimes in the morning, it mattered the less unto them: withal
she gave out that she came from foreign parts, as sooth it was.
In the evening she sat in the hall, and with her were three chapmen
travelling with their wares, and two good men of the town sitting; and
they were talking together, and were courteous and blithe, and amidst
their talk they threw many a glance at the slim and fair young squire, as
Birdalone seemed, and were fain to speak unto him, but refrained them for
courtesy’s sake. For her part, Birdalone longed sore to ask them
somewhat of the Castle of the Quest, but the words clave to her throat
for very fear; and she sat restless and ill at ease. However at last
said a townsman to a chapman: Art thou for the Red Hold, Master Peter,
when thou art done here? Birdalone turned very pale at that word; and
Master Peter spake: Yea, surely, neighbour, if the folk leave aught in my
packs for others to buy. He spake in a jovial voice, as if he were
merry, and the others all laughed together, as though they were well
pleased and in good contentment. And now, deemed Birdalone, would be her
time to speak if she would learn aught; so she constrained herself at
last, and spake, though in a quavering voice: Meseems then, masters, this
good town is thriving as now? This I ask because I am a stranger in
these parts this long while, and now I am come back hither fain were I to
find the land in good peace; for I may chance to take up my abode hereby.
The goodmen turned to her and smiled kindly when they heard the sweetness
of her voice; and one of them said: Sir of the sallet, ye shall be
content with the peace in this land, and the thriving of its folk; the
very villeins hereabout live as well as franklins in most lands, and the
yeomen and vavassours are clad as if they were knights of a good lord’s
household. Forsooth their houses are both goodly and easy to enter; and
well is that, whereas there lacks never good meat and drink on the board
therein. And moreover their women are for ever seeking whatso is fair
and goodly, whatso is far-fetched and dear-bought, whereof we chapmen
also thrive, as thou mayst well deem. Ah! it is a goodly land now!
The others nodded and smiled. But Birdalone spake, hardening her heart
thereto for very need: Belike then there is a change of days here, for
when I last knew of the land there was little peace therein. And that
will not be so long agone, said a townsman, smiling, for I doubt we
should see no grey hair in thine head if thy sallet were off it.
Birdalone reddened: It will be some five years agone, said she. Yea,
yea, said the townsman, we were beginning to end the unpeace then, and it
was the darkest hour before the dawn; for five years agone we and the
good knights of the Castle of the Quest were lying before the walls of
the Red Hold. Forsooth we cleared out that den of devils then and there.
What betid unto it after ye won it? said Birdalone, and she trembled
withal. Said the townsman: Heard ye never of the Black Squire, a very
valiant knight, since thou sayest that thou hast known this country-side?
She bowed a yeasay, for this time she found it hard to speak.
Well, said the townsman, we held garrison in the Red Hold for some three
months, and thereafter we craved of him to come and be our captain
therein; for, even after the Hold was won, there was yet a sort of
runagates that haunted the country-side, men who had no craft save
lifting and slaying. And forsooth we knew this Lord Arthur for the
keenest and deftest of men-at-arms; so he yeasaid our asking, and did all
he might herein, and forsooth that was all there was to do; for he was
ever in the saddle, and at the work. Forsooth he was not a merry man,
save when he was at his busiest; and little he spake in hall or chamber,
else had he been better beloved. But at least by no man better might the
land have been served.
There was silence a little, and Birdalone waxed deadly pale; then she
strove with herself and said: Thou sayest he was and he was; is he dead
then? Said the townsman: Not to our knowledge. When he had brought the
land into good peace, which is some three years and a half agone, he went
his ways from the Red Hold all alone, and we saw him no more. But some
folk deem that he hath entered into religion.
Birdalone’s heart sickened, and she thought to herself that now all was
to begin again; yet she felt that the worst was over since he was not
dead, and she was able to think what she should do. So she said:
Mayhappen he hath gone back to the Castle of the Quest? Nay, nay, said
the townsman, that may not be; for waste is that house now; there is none
dwelleth there, save, it may be, now and again a wandering carle or
carline abideth there a day or two. Said Birdalone: How hath that
befallen? or where is gone Sir Hugh, the Green Knight? Said the
townsman: We knew the Green Knight well; frank and free and joyous was
he; all men loved him; and his lady and speech-friend, none ever saw a
lovelier, and as kind as was he. But we might not keep them with us;
they are gone into their own country. Sir Hugh left the Castle of the
Quest some three months after the Black Squire came to us for captain,
and he gave over the castle to Sir Geoffrey of Lea, an old and wise man
of war. But not many months thereafter we heard that he also had
departed, leaving it ungarnished of men; and we deem that the cause
thereof is that something uncouth is seen and heard therein, which folk
may not endure. Is it not so, my masters?
They all yeasaid that, and the talk went on to other matters. As for
Birdalone, though her hope to come amongst friends was so utterly
overthrown, yet she saw not what to do save to go her ways to the Castle
of the Quest, and see if perchance she might find any tidings there. And
she said to herself, that if the worst came to the worst, she would
herself dwell there as an hermit of love; or, maybe, to face those
uncouth things and see if any tidings might be compelled out of them.
CHAPTER VIII. BIRDALONE COMETH TO THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST, HEARETH THE
TALE THEREOF FROM LEONARD, AND DEPARTETH THENCE BY THE SENDING BOAT.
SHE arose betimes on the morrow, and was out of Greenford so soon as the
gates were open, and at first made all speed that she might toward the
Castle of the Quest; and nothing hindered her, for the land was verily in
good peace, and she might have come there if she would before sunset, for
all whom she met furthered her. But as the day waned her courage waned
with it, so that at last she stayed some six miles short of the house,
and craved shelter at a yeoman’s stead there, which was granted her with
all kindness; and they made much of her, and she told them her vow of the
sallet, and they deemed nought save that she was a young man.
She departed early in the morning with their God-speed, and while the day
was yet young came into the meadows before the castle, and saw the towers
thereof rising up before her: then she checked her horse, and rode on no
faster than a foot’s pace; yet as slow as she might ride, needs must she
get to the gate while the day was yet young.
So came Birdalone by that bower wherein she had slept that first night
she came to the castle; and she reined up to look on it; and as she sat
there gazing, came a man out from it clad as a man of religion; and her
heart beat quick, and she was like to fall from her horse, for there came
into her mind what the townsman had said, that the Black Squire had gone
into religion. But the hermit came towards her with a cup of water in
his hand, and he cast his hood aback from him, and she saw at once that
it was Leonard the priest, and though it was not the friend whom she
sought, yet was she glad that it was a friend; but he came and stood by
her, and said: Hail, wayfarer! wilt thou drink of our well and rest thee
a while? So she took the cup and drank of the water, looking kindly on
him, while he wondered at the beauty of her hand, and misdoubted him.
Then she gave him back the cup and lighted down off her horse, and took
the sallet from her head, and spake: I may not pass by a friend without a
word; think if thou hast not seen me before?
Then he knew her, and might not refrain him, but cast his arms about her
and kissed her, weeping; and she said: It is sweet to me to find a friend
after what I have been told of yonder house. Yea, said he, and art thou
going up thither? Certes, said she, and why not? Said he: They are
gone, and all gone! How and whither? said she. But I must full
certainly go thither at once; I will go afoot with thee; do thou tether
my horse till thou comest back.
He said: But wilt not thou come back? I know not, she said: I know
nought save that I would go thither; let it be enough that I suffer thee
to go with me, and on the way thou shalt tell me what thou canst of the
tale.
Then went Leonard and tethered the horse, and they went together afoot to
the gate; and Birdalone told what she had heard of Arthur and Hugh; and
Leonard said: This is true, and there is not much else to be said. When
the Black Squire came back from the leaguer of the Red Hold, and had
heard before of thy departure, he was heavy of mood and few-spoken, and
wandered about as one who might find no rest; yet was he not stern with
Atra, who for her part was no less heavy-hearted: soothly a sad company
we were, and it was somewhat better when my Lord Arthur went his ways
from us; and indeed eager he was to be gone; and it could be seen of him
that he was fain of the toil and peril which they of Greenford offered
him. Then in some four months spake my lord Hugh that he also would be
gone to a place where were both a land and folk that would look friendly
on him; so he went with my lady Viridis and my lady Aurea, and they had
Atra also with them; and me also they would have had, but my heart failed
me to leave the place where I had been so glad and so sorry with thee;
death had been better; wherefore in yonder bower as in an hermitage I
serve God and abide my time. But though I wot nought of where is gone
the Black Squire, I know whereto those four are gone, and it is but a
seven days’ ride hence, and the land is goodly and peaceable, and if they
be not dead, most like they be there yet. How sayest thou then, thou
dearest and kindest, wilt thou thither to them? For if so, I may well
lead thee thither.
Birdalone shook her head. Nay, she said, I deem that I am drawn
elsewhither, but soon I shall tell thee. Lo now the gate. But ere we
enter, tell me of Sir Geoffrey of Lea, and why it was that they might not
abide the uncouth things, or if there were any such. Spake Leonard:
Things uncouth there were, and I was called upon to lay them, and I did
as biddeth Holy Church in all wise, but prevailed not against them, and
still were they seen and heard, till folk might endure it no longer.
And what like were these things? said Birdalone, and are they yet seen
and heard? Said Leonard: Strange it is, but last night I went into the
great hall where they mostly betid, and laid me down there, as whiles I
do, for I fear them not, and would see if they yet appear; but all night
came nothing at all. As to the likeness of them . . . Then he stopped,
but said presently: Hard it is to tell thee of them, but needs must I.
There be two of these things; and one is an image of a tall woman of
middle-age, red-haired, white-skinned, and meagre, and whiles she has a
twiggen rod in her hand, and whiles a naked short sword, and whiles
nought at all. But the voice of her is cursing and blaspheming and
ill-saying.
Said Birdalone: This is then a fetch of my witch-mistress of whom I told
thee erst, and the image of her; what is the other? Said Leonard: I were
fain not to tell thee. Yet needs must thou, said Birdalone. Dear lady,
said Leonard, the other is an image of thee, and even most like unto
thee; but whiles clad in a scanty grey coat and barefoot, and whiles clad
in a fair green gown goodly broidered, and broidered shoon; and whiles
all mother-naked.
And what voice cometh from mine image? said Birdalone, smiling, yet
somewhat pale withal. Said Leonard: One while a voice of sweet singing,
as of a bird in the brake, and that is when thou art clad; and again,
when thou art naked, a voice of shrieking and wailing, as of one enduring
torments.
Spake Birdalone: And when did these wonders begin? Said he: Not till
after Sir Hugh and thy she-friends were gone hence.
Pondered Birdalone a little; then she said: I see herein the malice of my
witch-mistress; she would not send these fetches while Hugh was here,
lest he should turn to seeking me with all his might. But when they
departed, she would have the castle waste, and then she sent them,
wotting that thereby she would rid her of Sir Geoffrey of Lea; while, on
the other hand, I was nought so much unto him that he would spend all his
life seeking me. But now I deem I know so much of her that I may bid
thee to look on her as dead if these fetches come not again within a
little while. Then mayst thou send and do Sir Geoffrey to wit thereof,
and belike he will come back again; and fain were I thereof for it will
be merrier if the Castle of the Quest be dwelt in once more.
Yea, verily, said Leonard; but far merrier yet wert thou to dwell there.
Nay, she said, but now I see that it is not fated for me. Let us go in,
for I would get to what I would do.
So therewith they passed under the shadow of the archway, and Birdalone
stayed not but went straightway into the hall, and through it; and the
priest, who lagged somewhat behind her speedy feet, cried out unto her:
Whither wilt thou? what chamber wilt thou visit first? But she stayed
not, and spake to him over her shoulder as she went: Follow me if thou
wilt; I have but one place only to come to ere I leave the Castle of the
Quest, save I must needs turn back on my footsteps.
Then Leonard came up with her, and she went her ways out of the hall, and
out on to the waterswale of the castle, and so to the little haven of the
water-gate. There Birdalone looked about her eagerly; then she turned to
Leonard and pointed with her finger and said: Lo thou! there yet lieth my
ferry of old time, the Sending Boat; now wot I wherefore I was drawn
hither. And her eyes glittered and her body quivered as she spake.
Yea forsooth, said Leonard, there it lieth; who of all folk in the castle
had durst to touch it? But what hath it to do with thee, O kindest lady?
Friend, she said, if this day weareth, and I am yet within these walls,
then meseemeth there must I abide for evermore; and there perchance shall
I meet that seeming of myself, maybe for this night, maybe for ever, till
I die here in this castle void of all that I love, and I over-young for
it, friend. And I know now that there is hope within me; for I bethink
me of a dear friend over yonder water of whom I have never told any, nor
will tell thee now, save this, that she is the wisdom of my life.
Wherefore now I will try this ferry and wot if the wight thereof will yet
obey the voice of the speaker of the spell, who has shed of her blood to
pay therefor. Put not forth a hand therefore nor speak a word to let me,
but take this farewell of me, with my pity and such love as I may give
thee, and let me go, and think kindly of me.
Then she went up to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders, and
kissed him, and turned about without more ado and stepped into the boat;
then she sat down and stripped her arm of its sleeve, and drew forth a
knife and let blood of her arm, and then arose and smeared stem and stern
therewith, and then sat down with her face to the stern and sang:
The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Wake then and awake
And the Northward way take:
The way of the Wenders forth over the flood,
For the will of the Senders is blent with the blood.
Then she abode a little, while Leonard stood staring on her speechless
with grief and blinded with his bitter tears, till the boat began to move
under her, and presently glided out of the little haven into the wide
lake; then she turned her face back unto him and waved her hand, and he
knelt down and blessed her, weeping. And so she vanished away from
before him.
CHAPTER IX. BIRDALONE FINDETH THE ISLE OF NOTHING GREATLY BETTERED, AND
IS KINDLY ENTREATED THERE.
NOW it was scarce noon when she departed, and the dark night came upon
her in the midst of the water; and she fell asleep in the boat ere the
night had grown very old, and woke up in the morning, not exceeding
early, maybe about six o’clock; then she looked ahead and thought
presently to see the ill-favoured blotch of the Isle of Nothing on the
bosom of the blue waters, whereas it was a fair and cloudless morning of
latter May. Sure enough she saw land ahead, and it lay low down on the
water, but she deemed from the first that it was green of hue, and as she
neared it she saw that it was verily as green as emerald. Thereat she
was a little troubled, because she thought that mayhappen the Sending
Boat had gone astray, and that if the wight thereof were not wending the
old road, maybe he was not making for the old haven. For now indeed she
told herself right out that her will was to go back again to the House
under the Wood, and see what might betide there, and if she and the
wood-mother together might not overcome the witch.
But whatever might happen nought could she do but sit in her place and
wend as the Sending Boat would; and in an hour’s space she was right
under the lee of the land, and she saw that it was shapen even as the
Isle of Nothing had been aforetime. But this made her wonder, that now
the grass grew thick down to the lip of the water, and all about from the
water up were many little slim trees, and some of them with the May-tide
blossom yet on them, as though it were a fair and great orchard that she
was nearing; and moreover, beyond all that she saw the thatched roofs of
houses rising up.
Presently then the Sending Boat had brought her to the land, and she
stepped ashore, but was wary, and gat her bow bent and set an arrow
thereto she began to go up from the water. Yet she thought within
herself, it will be nought ill if I be come amongst folk, so long as they
be peaceful, or else how might I live the journey out to all the isles
and so home to the House under the Wood?
So she turned her face to where she had seen those roofs, which now she
saw no longer because of the thick leaves of the little trees, and so
went along a narrow path, which grew to be more and more closely beset
with trees, and were now no longer apple and pear and quince and medlar,
but a young-grown thicket of woodland trees, as oak and hornbeam and
beech and holly.
At last as she went she heard voices before her, so she stole warily to
the edge of the copse, finger on shaft; and presently could see clear of
the saplings and out on to a wide space of greensward, beyond which was a
homestead of many houses and bowers, like unto that of a good yeoman in
peaceful lands, save that the main building was longer, though it were
low. But amidst the said greensward was a goodly flock of sheep that had
been but of late washed for the shearing, and along with the sheep four
folk, two carles and two queans, all of them in their first youth, not
one by seeming of over a score and two of summers. These folk were clad
but simply, man and woman, in short coats of white woollen (but the
women’s coats a little longer than the men’s), without shoon or hosen;
they had garlands of green leaves on their heads, and were wholly
unarmed, save that one of the men bore an ashen wand in his hand. As for
their bodies, they were goodly of fashion, tanned indeed by the sun’s
burning, but all sweet of flesh were they, shapely and trim, clean-made,
and light and slim.
Birdalone’s heart yearned toward them, and she stepped straightway from
out of the cover of the coppice, and the sun flamed from her sallet and
glittered in the rings of her hauberk, so that the folk might not fail to
see her; the sheep fled bundling from her past their keepers, who stood
firm, but seemed somewhat scared, and moved not toward Birdalone. She
gave them the sele of the day and stood still herself; but the man with
the ash-wand said: Hail, thou man; but we would have thee come no nearer
a while, though thy voice be sweet: for we know what things they be which
thou bearest, and that thou art a warrior. Wilt thou hurt us?
Birdalone laughed as sweetly as the blackbird sings, and she did off her
sallet and shook the plenteous hair down over her, and then drew forth
her sword and dagger and cast them to earth, and laid her bow and quiver
of arrows upon them, and said: Now will I come to you, or ye shall come
to me, whereas I am unweaponed, and no warrior, but a woman, and ye are
four to one, and two of you carles; wherefore now ye may bind me or slay
me if you will; but in any case I pray you first to give me a mouthful of
meat.
When she had done her speech, she went up to the fairest of the women and
kissed her; but the two carles made no more ado but came to Birdalone and
kissed her one after other, and that as men who needed nought to compel
them therein, and each thereafter took a hand of her and held it and
caressed it. But the other woman had run into the house as soon as
Birdalone spoke, and came back again with a treen bowl full of milk and a
little loaf, not white but brown; and there blundered about her legs as
she came a little lad of some three winters old, naked and brown, who was
shy of the gleaming new-comer, and hid him behind the woman one while,
and the other while came forth to see the new thing. But the woman said:
Dear woman, here is for thee some of the ewes’ milk, and a bite of bread,
and a little deal of cheese; the said milk is yet warm, so that it is not
yet clottered; but if thou wilt come with us thou mayest speedily drink
cows’ milk, and we be now at point to go milk them.
Birdalone thanked her with a heart full of content, and was not
ill-pleased to get her hands free from the two carles; so she sat down
and ate her breakfast while they talked with her, and told her of diverse
work of theirs; as to how their trees were waxing, and new tillage they
had done the past spring, and how it befell to the kine and the goats; of
their children also they spake, and how there were already four thereof,
and one of the women, the meat-bringer, already quickened with child once
more. So that ere we die, quoth the carle who was speaking, we look to
see many grandchildren, and shall have some stout carles and queans here.
And by that time will some of the trees be well grown, so that we may
fell timber and make us some keel that will wend the lake, and help us
a-fishing; or we may go to other lands; or whiles folk may come to us,
even as thou hast, thou dear-handed, sweet-voiced woman. But wilt thou
abide here ever?
Yea, said the other, but that is looking forward a long while, that
building of ships. What is nearer and well to think of is, that these
apple and pear trees be so well fruited, small as they be, that this
harvest we shall be able to make us cider and perry; yea, and no little
deal thereof. But art thou minded to abide with us ever? That were dear
to us; and belike thou wouldest bear us children, thou also.
Then spake the meat-fetching woman and laughed withal: Nay, thou also
lookest aloof a pretty deal; whereas what is now to do is to go milk the
kine, and to take this guest with us, so that she may drink somewhat
better than ewes’ milk though the cider be not ready to hand. But tell
me, our dear guest, art thou verily going to abide with us a long while?
that were sweet to us, and we will do all we may to pleasure thee.
Nay, said Birdalone, it will no better be but that I depart on the
morrow; and all thanks do I give you for your kindness.
The woman kissed her, and she arose, and all they went together to the
milking of the kine some half mile inland; and they passed through much
of orchard, and some deal of tillage, wherein the wheat was already
growing high; and so came they to a wide meadow through which ran a
little stream, and therein was a goodly herd of kine. So they fell to
the milking, and made Birdalone drink of the sweet cows’ milk, and then
went and lay down under the shade of the little young trees, and talked
and were merry together. But the men were both of them somewhat willing
at first to kiss Birdalone and toy with her, but when she let them know
that she desired it not they refrained them without grudging.
All this while of their talk they asked Birdalone nought of whence and
whither, and she would not ask them, lest it might stir their asking, and
then she would have to tell them some deal of her story; and telling it
was now become unto her somewhat weary work.
In a while they arose all, and the men and one woman went their ways to
deal with the acre-land, but the meat-fetcher went back with Birdalone
into the house; and she showed her all that was therein, which was for
the more part, forsooth, the four babes aforesaid. The others came back
in the eventide, bearing with them foison of blue hare-bells, and telling
joyously how they had found them anigh the coppice edge in such a place:
and thereafter they were merry, and sang and talked the evening away, and
showed Birdalone at last to a fair little chamber wherein was a bed of
dry grass, where she lay down and slept in all content.
CHAPTER X. OF BIRDALONE’S FLITTING FROM THE ISLE OF NOTHING.
ON the morrow Birdalone arose betimes, and would not tarry despite all
the kindness of that folk and the change which had come over the Isle of
Nothing; so the friends saw her down to the boat all together, and bore
down with them a deal of bread and cheese and late apples of the last
year, for her provision on the road, and a pail of milk withal; and men
and women they kissed her at departure, and the meat-fetcher said: If by
any means thou mayst find a keel which will carry thee hither, at some
time, I would thou wouldst come; for even if thou be old, and we passed
away, yet here shall be our children or our grandchildren to welcome
thee; and we will tell them the tale of thee that they remember it and
long for thee.
Then Birdalone kissed her again, and made much of her, and so stepped
into the boat, and fell to her sacrifice to the wight thereof; and those
others stared at her and wondered, and spake nought unto her till she was
gone gliding over the face of the waters; but as they walked back to the
house, they spake amongst themselves that this must be some goddess (for
of Holy Church they knew nought) who had come to visit them in her
loveliness; and in after times, when this folk waxed a many, and tilled
all the isle and made ships and spread to other lands and became great,
they yet had a memory of Birdalone as their own very lady and goddess,
who had come from the fertile and wise lands to bless them, when first
they began to engender on that isle, and had broken bread with them, and
slept under their roof, and then departed in a wonderful fashion, as
might be looked for of a goddess.
But as for Birdalone, she came not back ever, nor saw that folk again,
and now she sped over the water toward the Isle of Kings.
CHAPTER XI. COMING TO THE ISLE OF KINGS BIRDALONE FINDETH THERE A SCORE
AND TWO OF FAIR DAMSELS WHO WOULD FAIN HAVE HER COMPANY.
BIRDALONE came ashore at the said isle at the day-dawn, and saw but
little change in the isle when it grew light, and still the castle stood
looking down awfully on to the meadows. But when she had set foot on the
land, she handled her bow lest the worst might befall, and looked about
her, deeming that this time she would not go her ways to the dread show
that was arrayed in the castle, if forsooth those dead folk yet abode
there.
So now as she looked across the meadow, she saw one with light and
fluttering raiment come forth from the trees, and look toward her whereas
she stood flashing and gleaming in the sun like an image of the God of
Love turned warrior. Now Birdalone deemed for sure that this was a
woman; she saw her come a little nigher to her, and then stand looking at
her under the sharp of her hand; then she turned about and ran back to
the brake whence she came; and presently Birdalone heard the sound of
voices coming thence, and in a little while thereafter came forth from
the said brake a rout of women (one score and two as they were told
thereafter) and walked over the meadow straight unto her. She stood
where she was, so as to be nigh unto her ferry in case they willed her
unpeace; for though they were weaponless by seeming, they were a many.
When they were come near they stood about her in a half ring, whispering
and laughing each to each. Birdalone saw that they were all young, and
that none of them might be called ungoodly, and some were full fair.
They were bright and fine of array. Most bore gold and gems on fingers
and neck and arms; they were clad in light, or it may be said wanton
raiment of diverse colours, which had only this of their fashion in
common, that they none of them hid over-much of their bare bodies; for
either the silk slipped from the shoulder of her, or danced away from her
flank; and she whose feet were shod, spared not to show knee and some
deal of thigh; and she whose gown reached unsheared from neck to heel,
wore it of a web so thin and fine that it hid but little betwixt heel and
neck.
Birdalone stood gazing on them and wondering, and she had a mind to think
that they were some show sent by her old mistress the witch for her
undoing, and she loosened her sword in its sheath and nocked an arrow.
But then ran forward two of the damsels and knelt before her, and each
took an hand of her and fell to kissing it, and she felt their hands that
they were firm and their lips that they were soft and warm, and they were
doubtless alive and real. Then spake one of them and said: Hail our
lord! How can words say how we rejoice in thy coming this happy morn!
Now do all we give ourselves to thee as thy slaves to do as thou wilt
with. Yet we pray thee be merciful to us and our longings.
Therewith all the sort of them knelt down on the grass before Birdalone
and joined their hands as praying to her. And Birdalone was full ill at
ease, and wotted not where she was. But she said: Hail! and good days
and fulfilment of wishes unto you, fair damsels! But tell me, is this
the Isle of Kings, as I deemed; for strange it is for me to see ye
womenfolk here?
Said she who had spoken afore: Yea verily this is the Isle of Kings; but
long ago are the kings dead, and yet they sit dead in the great hall of
the castle yonder, as thou mayst see if thou, who art a man and a valiant
warrior, durst follow up yon mountain path thereto; but we, weak women
and little-hearted, durst not go anigh it; and we tremble when whiles
a-nights cometh down thence the sound of clashing swords and clattering
shields, and the cries of men in battle. But, praise be to the God of
Love, nought cometh down from thence unto us. Therefore do we live
peaceful lives and pleasant here, lacking nought but thee, lord; and lo
now thou hast come unto us, and we are happy in our inmost hearts.
Now was Birdalone perplexed and knew not what to do; but at last she
said: Gentle maidens, I pray you pardon me, but I must depart
straightway; for I have an errand, and life or death lieth on it. In all
else than my abiding here may ye have your will.
Therewith did she move a little way toward her ferry; but forthwith all
they brake out weeping and wailing and lamenting, and some of them came
up to Birdalone and cast themselves down before her, and clasped her
knees, and took hold of her skirts, and besought her piteously to abide
with them. But she put them aside as well as she might, and stepped
aboard the Sending Boat, and stood amidst it waiting on their departure;
but they went not, and stood along on the lip of the land crying out and
beseeching with much clamour.
Then Birdalone waxed somewhat wrath at their noise and tumult, and she
drew forth her knife and bared her arm and let blood from it. But when
they saw the whiteness and roundness of it, and how fine and sleek it
was, straightway they changed their tune, and cried out: A woman, a
woman, a fool of a woman! and they laughed in scorn and mockery. And the
speaker of them said: Now there is but one thing for thee to do, and that
is to come forth from thy boat and strip off thy stolen raiment, and we
shall make thee as fine as ourselves, and thou shalt come with us, and
with us abide the coming of our lord. Nay, thou art so fair and lovely,
that thou shalt be the Lady and Queen of us, and we will do after thy
commands, and thou mayst chastise us if we fail therein. But now if thou
wilt not come forth of the boat uncompelled, we shall pluck thee forth of
it.
And therewith she set her foot on the gunwale of the boat, and two or
three others did the like. But now had Birdalone her sword naked in her
hand, and she waxed as red as blood, and cried out: Forbear I bid you!
Yea verily I am a woman; but I will not take this offer either, whereas I
have an errand, as I told you. And so stern it is, that if ye now let my
departure I will not spare to smite with this sword whoso first cometh
aboard my ferry, and though I be not a man, yet shall ye find that in
this matter I shall be little worse, whereas I am armed and ye be naked.
Then they drew back and stood gibing and jeering at her; but she heeded
it no whit, but reddened stem and stern of the Sending Boat, and sang her
spell, and forth glided the ferry, while the damsels stood and stared
astonished. As for Birdalone, as she sped on her way she might not
refrain her laughter. Thus she wended the wet highway.
CHAPTER XII. BIRDALONE COMETH AGAIN TO THE ISLE OF QUEENS, AND FINDETH A
PERILOUS ADVENTURE THEREIN.
IT was not yet daybreak when Birdalone came ashore again, and the moon
was down, and it was dark; wherefore she durst not go up on the land, but
lay down in the ferry and fell asleep there. When she woke again it was
broad daylight, the sun was up, and a little ripple was running over the
face of the water. She stepped ashore straightway, and looked up the
land and to the right hand and the left, and saw at once that it was
indeed the Isle of Queens, and the house stood trim and lovely as of old
time; then she longed somewhat to tread the green meadow a little, for
yet young was the day, and she saw nought stirring save the throstle and
a few small beasts. However, she said to herself that she would go
nowhere nigh to the goodly house wherein abode those images of death.
Yet her body longed so sore for the springtide freshness of the grass,
and was so bewooed of the flowery scent thereof, that though she durst
not go unarmed, she did off her footgear and went stealing softly
barefoot and with naked legs over the embroidered greensward, saying
aloud to herself: If run for the ferry I needs must, lighter shall I run
so dight.
Nonetheless, she had gone but a little way ere a terror took hold of her,
though she saw no child of Adam anigh, and she turned and ran back
swiftly to her old place and sat down under a twisted oak-tree hard by
the Sending Boat, and abode there panting and quaking, and scarce daring
to look up from the grass for a while. Then her heart came back to her,
and she laughed, and said to herself: I am a fool, for I need fear nought
on this Isle of Queens save women like myself.
Yet she sat there a little while longer without stirring; then she stood
up and looked keenly around, and, as aforesaid, exceeding far-sighted she
was; but still she saw neither man nor maid nor suckling child.
Then her eyes sought the lips of the lake, and rested on a little bight
some stone’s throw ahead of the Sending Boat, where, a little back from
the water, slim willows made a veil betwixt the water of the meadow; and
she looked, and saw how pleasant a place it were for a one to stand and
look on the ripple just left, while the water dripped from the clear body
on to the grass. And her bare feet fell to telling her clad sides of the
sweet coolness of the water, and waited for no naysay, but lightly bore
her toward the willowy bight. And when she was there, she did off her
sallet and ungirt her, and laid her sword on the grass, and did off her
surcoat and hauberk, and so was a woman again in one white coat above her
smock. Then she looked heedfully betwixt the willow-boughs, and saw no
more than before, nought but a little whitethorn brake, now white indeed
with blossom, some fifty yards landward from where she stood. So she
laughed, and did off her other raiment, and slid swiftly into the water,
that embraced her body in all its fresh kindness; and as for Birdalone,
she rewarded it well for its past toil by sporting and swimming to her
full.
Then she came forth from the water, and clad herself in no great haste,
and did on her hauberk and sallet and sword, and so went back to her
place, and sat down and began to do on her foot-gear.
But as she looked up from her work a moment, lo! a tall man coming toward
her, and just about the willows whereby she had bathed. Her heart beat
quick and her face changed, yet she hastened, and was shod and stood up
in knightly array by then he stayed his steps some five paces from her,
and gave her the sele of the day in courteous wise; and she strove to
think that he had not seen her, or at least noted her otherwise dight;
yet her heart misgave her.
He was a grizzled-haired man of over fifty summers by seeming, but goodly
enough and well-knit; he was clad in a green coat more than a little
worn, but made after the fashion of knighthood; he had nought on his head
but an oak-chaplet, and no weapons but a short sword by his side and a
stout staff in his hand.
She gave back his greeting in a quavering voice; and he said: Welcome
again, young man. Art thou come to dwell with us? Truly thou art trim
now, but ere some few months thine attire will be not so much fairer than
ours, and thine hauberk will be rusted, for here be no joyous tiltings
nor deeds of arms, and no kind ladies to give the award of honour, so
that if we fight amongst ourselves it will be because we have fallen out,
and spitefully. Yet (and he laughed, mockingly, as she thought) thou
mayst bring us luck, and draw some fair damsels unto us, for that is what
we await in this isle, which is barren of their fair bodies, despite of
its deceitful name.
Thereat Birdalone reddened, deeming that he divined her womanhood, but
she enforced her to speak hardily, and as manly as she might, and said:
Yea, fair sir, and if I be the God of Love, as thou deemest, and not
merely a poor squire (Louis Delahaye, at thy service), how many damsels
shall I send thee if there must needs be one to each man of you? Quoth
he: Thou must make up the tale to a score or more, or some of us must
lack. Sooth to say, at this time thou needest not haste overmuch for all
the tale, whereas there is but one other of the company near at hand, a
mere foolish young man; the others are gone to the leeward side of the
isle, to fetch us venison and fish, both of which are more plenty there
than here; wherefore are we two somewhat lonesome in this stead, all the
more as we be over-nigh to the sorcery in the great house, which we durst
not enter; for though nought cometh out thence down unto us, yet hear we
a-night-tides, first songs, and then cries and shrieking, come out
therefrom.
Then he stayed his speech, and drew a little nigher to Birdalone, and
then grinned, and said: Forsooth we can spare him, we twain. And he
looked on her hard, and the colour came into her cheeks, and she laughed
uneasily, as a dainty lady when she heareth some unmeet tale.
But again the old carle drew nigher to her, and said: Thou seemest to
have a good bow and store of arrows; if thou wouldst lend them to me for
a little, and come with me into the wood hard by, I might shoot thee some
venison with little toil to thee; whereas, forsooth, thou lookest scarce
like one who is meet for over-much toil. Again she reddened, and spake
nought this time; and he said: Deem not there be no deer this end of the
isle because I said that the others were gone to fetch home venison; only
the deer be tamer there and more, and we have but evil shooting-gear,
whereas thou art well found therein. Wilt thou not come? we shall have
merry feast after the hunt.
Now had Birdalone come to her wits again, and she answered like a merry
youth, with a flavour of mockery in her speech: Fair sir, thou shalt not
deem that I need much help in slaying the dun deer; for I do thee to wit
that I shoot not ill in the bow; neither am I heavy-footed. But I will
not hunt in your park to-day, for I have an errand which calleth me away,
so that I shall depart hence presently. Besides, wise elder, there is
thine errand to see to; and if I be the God of Love, as thou sayest, I
must not keep thee and thy valiant fellows languishing mateless; so with
thy leave I will now depart, that I may send you a score of fair damsels
for your company.
And she turned about and made a step toward her boat; but the carle drew
nearer, laughing; and he said: Truly sayest thou that thou art not
heavy-footed, for never saw I feet lighter or fairer than glided over the
meadow e’en now; nor a fairer body than came like rosy-tinted pearl fresh
out of the water while I lay hidden in yonder thorn-brake that while.
Wherefore trouble not thyself to bring any more damsels than thyself,
fairest Goddess of Love, for thou art enough for me.
And therewith he ran forward, and stretched out a hand to her; but in
that nick of time had she her sword naked in her hand, and the carle drew
back before the glitter thereof, and cried out: Ho, ho! is it to be
battle, my mistress? Deemest thou that thou wilt slay me as lightly as
the dun deer, and thou with thy bow unstrung at thy back? Now shall I
show thee a trick of fence; but fear not that I shall hurt thee to spoil
thee.
He advanced on her with his staff aloft, and her heart failed her, and
she quaked, and lightly he beat down her guard and did the sword out of
her hand; and again he turned on her to take her, but she sprang aside
and ran from him, but ran landward perforce, as he was betwixt her and
the boat; and he followed heavily, and had nought to do in the race.
But she had not gone a two-score yards ere she heard a great shout, and
another man came running over the meadow; a slim young man was this, and
worse of attire than the old carle, for so tattered was his raiment that
he was half naked; but he was goodly of fashion, fresh-coloured and
black-haired. Birdalone stayed her feet when she saw him, for though she
doubted not to outrun him, yet whither should she run, since her ferry
was behind her?
So the young man came up to her, and the old carle met him all panting,
and the young man said: How now, Antony! what battle is this? and
wherefore art thou chasing this fair knight? And thou, fair sir, why
fleest thou this grey dastard?
Said Antony: Thou art but a young fool, Otter, this is no man, but a
woman, and I have taken her, and she is mine.
Well, said Otter, I say she is as much mine as thine; nay, more, if she
will give herself unto me. But if she will not, she shall go whither she
will in thy despite. Or art thou a woman?
Yea, yea, said Birdalone; and I pray thee, by thy mother’s head, suffer
me to depart; for heavy and full of need is the errand that I am about.
Go thou shalt then, said Otter; lead back to thy place, and I will walk
with thee. So did they: and Birdalone went beside the young man quaking;
but he put out no hand unto her; and sooth to say, she deemed that she
had seldom seen so fair a young man, but it were Arthur or Hugh.
Now he, as Antony, was girt with a short sword, but he let it be in its
sheath; and as they went, Antony drew his blade again, and hove it up to
smite Otter, but as it befell Birdalone saw him, and turned round sharp
upon him and gat hold of his wrist, and therewith Otter turned also, and
caught the old carle by the nape as he turned away, and put a foot before
his and shoved mightily, so that he went noseling to the earth.
Then turned Otter about again, laughing, and he said to Birdalone: By
Saint Giles! thou art well-nigh too valiant for a woman, and I would that
we two might be together; and then between us we might achieve the
adventure of the dead ladies up yonder. She hung her head, and said:
Fair sir, it may not anywise be; yet I thank thee, I thank thee.
So came they to the water-side and the Sending Boat, and Birdalone stayed
her feet there, and the young man said: What is this keel, that seemeth
unto me as if it were a ferry for malefactors wending to a death of
torment, so grey and bleared and water-logged and sun-bleached as it is,
and smeared over with stains of I know not what?
Said Birdalone: Such as it is, it is my ferry over the water to where I
would be. Strange! said Otter; to my mind it is like to our fortunes on
this isle, we who were once knights and merry squires and are now as
gangrel men, and of ill conditions, thinking of nought save our first
desires, even those which we share with the wolf and the kite.
She said: But art thou of evil conditions, thou who hast just delivered
me from trouble? He smiled grimly: Damsel, said he, I have not delivered
thee yet from me, though I have from him. But tell me, art thou a
sorceress? Not a black one, said Birdalone; but I will tell thee at once
that I have been bred by a witch most mighty, and some deal of lore have
I learned. And therewith she told him of the Sending Boat, and how she
would have to speed it on the way.
He looked on her a little and then turned away, and saw her sword lying
on the grass; so he went to it and picked it up and brought it to her,
and said: Thou mayst yet need this keen friend. So she took it and
thrust it back into the scabbard, quaking somewhat because of him; so
feeble and frail as she felt before him. Then he said: If thou deemest
thou hast somewhat to reward me for, I have a boon to ask of thee, and
granting that, we shall be quits again. Yea, she said faintly, and what
is the boon? He said: Art thou pressed to depart now, this minute? Nay,
said Birdalone, not for an hour if there be no peril here from other men,
and . . . and . . . And if I be true to thee and will let thee go? said
he, laughing; hah! is that not thy word? fear not, I swear by thine eyes
that thou shalt depart whenso thou wilt. Now then, the boon I crave is,
that thou wilt sit down here beside me and tell me the tale of thy life
that has been. Said she: It wearies me to think thereof; yet hast thou a
right to crave somewhat of me, and this is not hard to grant.
And she sat down by him; but he said: Do this also for me, take off thine
headpiece, since now that we know thee for a woman it serveth thee
nought. So did she, and began her tale straightway, and told him all
thereof, save as to the wood-wife, and he sat hearkening and watching her
face; and when she had made an end, he said: Now shall I ask none other
boon of thee, though I long sore for it; but best it is that we sunder
straightway, else maybe I might yet be for hindering thee.
Therewith he stood up, and Birdalone also, and he looked on her eagerly,
and said: I am now to bid thee farewell, and it is most like that I shall
never see thee again, wherefore I will ask thee yet to let one thing come
from thy mouth; for I deem thee the dearest of all women I have ever
seen. What shall I say? said Birdalone, smiling on him kindly; must thou
needs put the word in my mouth? Thou hast been friendly with me here
when need was to me of friendliness; wherefore I say, I would I might see
thee again, and thou better bestead than now thou art.
The young man’s face brightened, and he said: Spake I not that thou wert
the dearest of all? This was even the word I would have put in thy
mouth. But now see thou, one goeth on from one thing to another, and I
must now ask thee, is there aught which thou hast a mind to give me ere I
depart, some keepsake which I durst not ask for?
She flushed red and said: I will with a good heart give thee my bow and
arrows for a keepsake; whereas the old carle told me that ye be ill
furnished of shooting-gear.
And she would have taken her bow from her back, but he laughed aloud, and
said: Nay, nay, I will not have that; for there be those who gird them to
a sword and know not how to use it, but few will cumber their shoulders
with bow and quiver who cannot shoot therewith; I deem it like that thou
art a fell bowman. Keep thy bow therefore, and if thou wilt go without
any other gift, even so be it.
And he made as if he would turn away; but she put forth both her hands
and took his in them, and lifted up her face and kissed him kindly, and
then turned away to her ferry; while Otter stood still and said in a
merry voice: Now is it better than well, for thou art in all ways what I
would have thee, and there is nought like unto thee. And therewith he
turned away and departed ere Birdalone had stepped into the Sending Boat,
and she blushing like a rose the while. Then she did due sacrifice to
the wight of the witch-ferry, and sped on her way without any hindrance.
CHAPTER XIII. COMING TO THE ISLE OF THE YOUNG AND THE OLD, BIRDALONE
FINDETH IT PEOPLED WITH CHILDREN.
MIDST all this had worn some hours, but yet it was barely noon; wherefore
it was yet dark by then Birdalone made the Isle of the Young and the Old;
so she stepped out of the boat, and lay down on the grass and abode the
dawn sleeping. And she awoke with the clatter of shrill voices, and she
rose up and looked, and lo a multitude of children all about her, both
men and women children, and, as it seemed, from five years old upward to
fifteen. They cried and crowed merrily when they saw her stand up, and
pressed on her to see her the nearer and to touch her hands or her
raiment. They were but little clad, and the younger ones not at all, but
were goodly younglings and merry. So great was the noise they raised,
that loud were the thunder which had not been hushed thereby; and
Birdalone stood looking on them, smiling, and knew not what to do. Anon
she turned to a tall thin lad of some fifteen winters, and said unto him:
Wilt thou now take me unto the house, and the place where dwelleth the
old man? Quoth he: I neither know of an old man, nor rightly what it
means, the word. Am not I old enough for thee? I am the oldest of these
here. But belike thou art hungry; wherefore if thou come to the place
where we sleep a-nights, and where we shelter us from the storm and the
rain when need is, I will give thee to eat; for we have both bread and
milk and cheese, and raisins of the sun.
So he took her hand and led her along, and asked her by the way
concerning her armour and weapons, and of the fashion of battle, and she
told him thereof what she would.
Thus came they to the place where erst had been the cot under the ruin of
the great ancient house; but now was gone all that ruin and the great
grey walls, though the cot was left; and all about it were low bowers
built of small wood and thatched undeftly. But the lad smiled when he
saw it, as if the sight thereof made him happy; and he said: All these
have we made since I have dwelt here, and no other home have I known.
And he led her into the cot, and set her down to eat and to drink, and
through the open door she could see the children swarming, and they that
were nighest thrusting each other this way and that to catch a sight of
her.
Now she said: Fair child, how gattest thou this victual if there be no
older folk to help you? Said he: We dig the ground and sow it, and the
wheat comes up, and we reap it in harvest, and make bread of it; and we
have goats and kine, and we milk them, and turn the milk with a little
blue flower, which is fair to see. And there are in this isle little
hills where the grapes grow plenty; and some we eat and some we dry for
store. Lo thou, such be our ways for victual. But tell me, said he,
thou sayest old, and I know not the word; art thou old? She laughed: Not
very, said she, yet older than thou.
Said the lad: Thou art fair and dear to look on, and thy voice is sweet;
wilt thou not abide with us, and teach us what it is to be old? Nay,
said she, I may not, for I have an errand which driveth me on; wherefore
I must be gone within this hour.
Forsooth, she was growing eager now to be done with her journey and come
to the House under the Wood, whatever should befall her there. Moreover
she deemed it would not be restful to her to abide among all these
restless children, with their ceaseless crying and yelping: if rest she
might, she would rest, she deemed, in the Isle of Increase Unsought, if
there were no ill things abiding there.
Wherefore now she arose, when she had sat hearkening the sound of the
lad’s prattle for a while, for as to the sense thereof she might not heed
it over-much. The youngling would not leave her, but led her, holding
her hand, down to her ferry again; she kissed him in thanks for his meat,
and he reddened thereat but said nought. All the whole rout of little
ones had followed her down to the water, and now they stood, as thick as
bees on a honeycomb, on the bank, to watch her departure. But if they
were keen to see her doings before, how much keener were they when it
came to the baring of her arm and the smearing of the Sending Boat. To
be short, so keen were they, and pushed and shoved each other so
sturdily, that more than one or two fell into the water, and Birdalone
was frighted lest they should drown; but they swam like ducks, and got on
to the land when they would, which was not so very soon, for some of them
hung unto the gunwale of the boat, and hove their faces up to look over
into it, and left not hold till the ferry was fairly under weigh and
beginning to quicken its speed.
So left Birdalone the isle, and nought befell her on the way to the Isle
of Increase Unsought.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SENDING BOAT DISAPPEARETH FROM THE ISLE OF INCREASE
UNSOUGHT, AND BIRDALONE SEEKETH TO ESCAPE THENCE BY SWIMMING.
IT was as before that Birdalone came to the shore of the isle while it
was yet night; but the wizard keel was so loathsome to her, that she
stepped out of it and laid her down on the land for what was left of the
night; yet hard she found her bed, and neither grassy nor flowery.
For all that, she slept, for she was weary, and it was broad day and not
very early when she awoke. She stood up trembling, for she foreboded
evil, so near as she was to the dwelling of her old mistress; and she
looked up to where in time past was the fair and wicked house, and saw
that all was changed indeed; for no longer was the isle goodly with
meadow and orchard and garden, but was waste and bare, and nought grew on
it save thin and wiry grass, already seeding even ere June was born, and
here and there hard and ugly herbs, with scarce aught that might be
called a flower amongst them. Trees there were yet, but the most of them
stark dead, and the best dying fast. No beasts she saw, nor fowl;
nothing but lizards and beetles, and now and again a dry grey adder
coiled up about a sun-burned stone. But of great carrion flies, green
and blue, were there a many, and whiles they buzzed about her head till
she sickened with loathing of them. All this she found on her way as she
went up toward the place where erst was the great perron. But when she
came to the top there was no sign either of the stairs or the house, or
aught that ever was builded; there was nought but the bare bent top,
ungrassed, parched by wind, scorched by sun, washed by rain.
She wandered about the isle, to places where she had not been herself,
but which she deemed she might have known by the telling of the Green
Knight’s tale, had there been no change since those days; but now was all
changed, and the whole isle was a mere waste, and withal poisonous of
aspect to her mind, as if many corpses lay underneath the wretched stones
of it. Nevertheless, though it seemed so evil unto Birdalone, she
lingered on it, wandering about till she was to-wearied, for she had no
will to depart at such time as she would be like to come to her old
abiding-place by night and cloud; wherefore she dallied with the time,
and came not back to the haven of her ferry till it was nigh sunset, and
the westering sun was in her eyes when she came there; and she said to
herself that this was the cause why she might not see the Sending Boat.
So she cleared her eyes and looked on the thin grass awhile, and then
down over the edge of the land, and still she saw not her boat. She
turned pale, and a pang of anguish went to her heart; but she walked a
little east, deeming that perchance she had erred as to the place of the
haven on that dull and empty shore; but yet there was no boat. Then she
turned back wild with terror, and sought where erst she had missed it,
and found neither boat nor the world’s end. And she deemed that there
might be some devilish malice of the wight of the Sending Boat, to
torment her with fear, and she walked along the land’s edge up and down,
and down and up, further each time, and still there was no boat.
Then she stood still and strove to think, and might not, nor might she do
aught, but spread abroad her hands and moaned in her agony; for now
indeed she felt herself in the trap; and she said that all her past life
of hope and desire and love and honour was all for nought, and that she
was but born to die miserably in that foul ruin of an isle envenomed with
the memories of bygone cruelty and shame.
But in a little while she came somewhat to herself, and she said: At
least this hideous land shall not mock my dying anguish; I will give
myself to the water and let it do with me as it will.
Therewith she cast off her helm and hauberk first, and her weapons, and
her pouch with the treasure that could buy nought for her now, and
thereafter all her raiment, till she was as naked as when she first came
aland there that other time. Again she moaned, and put up her hand to
her bosom and felt a little gold box lying there betwixt the fragrant
hills of her breasts, which hung to a thin golden thread about her neck;
and a thought came into her mind, and she stooped adown and drew from her
pouch flint and fire-steel, and then opened the said golden box and drew
thence the tress which Habundia the wood-wife had given to her those
years agone, and all trembling she drew two hairs from it, as erst she
did on the Isle of Nothing, and struck fire and kindled tinder and burnt
the said hairs, and then hung the golden box with the tress therein about
her neck again; and she said: O wood-mother, if only thou couldst know of
me and see me, thou wouldst help me!
Thereafter she sought along the bank for bread which she had taken from
her store that morning, and she found it, and compelled herself to eat of
it for the strengthening of her body, and then she stood and abode
tidings; and by then the sun had just sunk below the rim of the lake, and
the stars began to twinkle, for the night was cloudless, and exceeding
fair, and very warm.
No visible token came to her, but her heart grew stronger, and she seemed
to see herself yet alive and in hope on the other side of the water; and
she said: Who wotteth what Weird may do, or where the waters may bear me?
and there is no swimmer stronger than I.
So then without more ado Birdalone slipped into the water, which lay
before her as calm and plain as a great sheet of glass, and fell to
rowing with her arms and her legs as though she were but swimming from
Green Eyot to the mainland, as so oft she had done in the other days.
CHAPTER XV. BIRDALONE LACKETH LITTLE OF DROWNING, BUT COMETH LATTERLY TO
THE GREEN EYOT.
ON swam Birdalone, not as one who had a mind to drown her for the
forgetting of troubles, but both strongly and wisely; and she turned over
on to her back, and looked on the stars above her, and steered herself by
them thitherward whereas she deemed was the land under the wood. When
she had been gone from the evil isle for an hour or so, there rose a fair
little wind behind her, which helped her forward, but scarce raised the
water more than a little ripple.
Still she swam on, and it was some three hours she began to weary, and
then she floated on her back and let the wind and water have its way with
her; and now the night was as dark as it would be ere dawn.
Thus it went for another hour, that whiles she swam on and whiles she
floated; and now her heart began to fail her, and the great water was no
longer unto her a wet highway, but a terrible gulf over which she hung
fainting.
Nevertheless she did not give up doing what she might: she floated supine
a long while, and then, when she had gathered a little strength, turned
over again and struck out, still steering her by the stars. But she had
scarce made three strokes ere her arms met something hard and rough; and
at first in her forlornness she deemed she had happened on some dread
water monster, and for terror of it she sank down into the deep, but came
up presently blinded and breathless, and spread abroad her arms, and
again they came on the thing aforesaid, and this time found that it was
nought alive, but the bole of a tree sitting high out of the water. So
she clomb up on to it with what might she had left, and sat her down, and
saw in the dim light that it was big, and that there was a fork betwixt
two limbs reaching up into the air, and she thrust herself in between
these two limbs and embraced one of them, so that she might scarce tumble
off; and a great content and happiness came over her that she had thus
escaped from the death of the deep; but therewithal weariness overcame
her, and she slept, whether she would or not; and the bole went on over
the waters no slower than might have been looked for, whether it were by
the pushing on of the south wind, or by the hand of Weird that would not
have her die.
Long she slumbered, for when she awoke it was broad day and the sun was
shining high in the heavens, and she cleared her eyes and looked around,
and saw before her the land, but yet blue in the offing. And the
tree-bole was yet speeding on towards the shore, as if it were being
drawn there by some bidding of might.
Now indeed grew Birdalone happy, and she thought if any had helped her it
must have been the wood-mother once again; and she said to herself that
she should soon meet with that helper; nor heeded she that she was naked
and unfurnished of any goods, whereas she deemed indeed that it was but
to ask and have of her friend.
For a while indeed she knew not whither she was wending, and if her face
were verily turned toward the land under the wood; but as the morning
wore the blue distance began to grow green, and then she saw that a great
wood was indeed before her, and thereafter, as it cleared yet more, she
knew the land she was nearing for the meadows of the House under the
Wood, and it was not long thence ere she saw clear and close Green Eyot
and Rocky Eyot, though the house was yet hidden from her by the green
shores of the first of those two isles.
Shortly to tell it, her tree-bole floated with her past the outer ness of
Green Eyot, and came ashore in that same sandy bight where erst she was
wonted to make her body ready for the water. She stepped ashore all glad
to feel the firm warm sand underneath her foot-soles, and as one drunk
with joy she was when the tall flowery grass of the latter May was
caressing her legs as they shook the seed-dust off the bents, and smote
the fragrance out of the blossoms; and she might scarce at first lift her
eyes from their familiar loveliness. Glad she was indeed, but exceeding
worn and weary with the long voyage, and all the longing and fear and
hope which had encompassed her that while. She lifted up her eyes but
once, and saw the witch’s house standing where it was wont, but no shape
of man moving about it; then she turned aside to a little brake of thorn
and eglantine in the meadow hard by, and laid her down on the grass in
the shade thereof, and almost before her head touched the ground she fell
asleep, and slept there long and peacefully.
CHAPTER XVI. BIRDALONE FINDETH HER WITCH-MISTRESS DEAD.
IT was some while after noon when she wakened, and the sun was shining
bright and hot. Somewhat she felt the burden of fear upon her, even
before she was fully come to herself, and knew not what it was that she
feared; but when she called to mind that it was even the meeting with her
old mistress, her flesh quaked indeed with the memory of bygone anguish,
but valiantly she arose and faced the dwelling of the witch despite her
naked helplessness. As she went she looked up unto it, and saw no smoke
coming from the chimney, but marvelled little thereat since it was not
yet cooking-time and the weather hot. She drew nigher, and saw someone
sitting on the bench without the door whereas the witch was wonted; and
her heart beat quick, for she saw presently that it was none other than
her mistress. Moreover, near to her stood three of the milch-kine lowing
uneasily and as in reproach, even as such beasts use when their udders be
full and they desire to be milked.
Birdalone stayed a minute, and her legs nigh failed her for fear, and
then because of the very fear she hastened on till she came within ten
paces of the said witch; and sore she missed her bow and arrows, and the
cutting blade of her feigned squirehood, lest the carline should arise
and come raging and shrieking at her.
Then spake Birdalone in no feeble voice, and said: Dame, I am come back
unto thee, as thou seest, in even such plight as I fled from thee; and I
have a mind to dwell in this land: what sayest thou? The witch neither
moved nor spake at her word; and the kine, who had held silence when she
first came up, and had turned from her, fell to their peevish lowing
again.
Birdalone drew a step nigher, and said: Dost thou hear me, dame, or art
thou exceeding wroth with me, and art pondering what vengeance thou wilt
take on me? Still no answer came from the carline, and the kine kept on
lowing now and again. Once more Birdalone drew nigher, and spake loudly
and said: Tell me at least, is it peace between us or unpeace?
But now when she looked she saw that the eyes of the witch were open and
staring, and her lips white, and her hands hard writhen; and she cried
out and said: Is she dead? or will she waken presently and beat me?
surely she is dead. And she put forth her hand and touched her face, and
it was stone-cold; and she found that she was dead beyond any question.
Then was a great weight lifted off her heart, and she turned about and
looked on the meadows and up to the trees of the wood and down to the
rippling stream before her, and fair and sweet and joyous were they
gotten unto her; and she looked at the kine who were drawing up towards
her, and she laughed merrily, and went to the out-house hard by and took
forth a milking-pail and a stool and fell to milking them one after the
other, and the beasts went off down the meadow lowing in a changed voice,
for joy to wit, this time. But Birdalone knelt down and drank a long
draught of the sweet warm milk, and then arose and went swiftly into the
house, and saw nought changed or worsened so far as she could see. There
was her own bed in the corner, and the mistress’s, greater and much
fairer, over against it; and the hutch by the door wherein the victual
was kept: she opened it now, and found three loaves there on the shelf,
and a meal-tub down below, and she took a loaf and broke it and fell to
eating it as she walked about the chamber. There was her bow standing in
a nook beside the hutch, and the quiver of arrows hanging on the wall
above it. There was the settle lying athwart from the hearth; and she
smiled, and fitted her wrists to the back of the carven bear which made
its elbow, whereto the witch was wont to tie them when she chastised her.
Then she went to the coffers that stood against the wall behind it, and
threw up the lid of one of them, and found therein a smock or two of her
own, yellowed by the lapse of time, and her old grey coat, ragged as it
was when last she wore it, and now somewhat moth-eaten withal; and she
drew forth both smocks and coat and laid them on the settle. Then she
opened another coffer, and therein were gay and gaudy gowns and gear of
the witch’s wear; but lying amongst them, as if the witch had worn them
also, her green gown and shoon which her own hands had broidered. But
she said: Nay, ye have been in ill company, I will wear you not, though
ye be goodly, at least not till ye have been fumigated and hallowed for
me.
Therewith she turned back to the settle and did on her her old smock and
her ragged grey coat, and said: To-day at least will these be good enough
for to-day’s work. And she knit her brow withal, and walked with a firm
step out-a-doors and stood a while gazing on the dead corpse of her
enemy; and she thought how that here was that which once was so great a
thing unto her for the shaping of her life-days, and which so oft came to
her waking thoughts after she had escaped from her hands, (though, as
aforesaid, she seldom dreamed of her a-night-time), and moreover an hour
ago she yet feared it so sore that she scarce might stand for the fear of
it; and now it was nought but a carven log unto her.
But she told herself that the work was to be done; so she dragged the
body away thence, and across the brook, and a little way into the meadow,
and then she went back and fetched mattock and spade from the outhouse,
where she knew they lay, and so fell to digging a grave for the corpse of
her dead terror. But howso hard she might toil, she was not through with
the work ere night began to fall on her, and she had no mind to go on
with her digging by night. Wherefore she went back into the house, and
lighted candles, whereof was no lack, and made her supper of the bread
and the milk; and then sat pondering on her life that had been till the
passion arose in her bosom, and the tears burst out, and long she wept
for desire of others and pity for herself. Then she went to the bed she
had been erst wont to, and laid her down and fell asleep.
And her mistress walked not, nor meddled with her peace; nor did
Birdalone so much as dream of her, but of her mother and Master Jacobus
in the fair city of the Five Crafts; and in her sleep she wept for
thinking of them.
CHAPTER XVII. BIRDALONE LAYETH TO EARTH THE BODY OF THE WITCH, AND
FINDETH THE SENDING BOAT BROKEN UP.
WHEN morning was, Birdalone awoke, and felt a weight upon her heart, and
called to mind the task which lay before her. So she arose and clad
herself, and went straight to the grave begun, and toiled hard till she
had digged it out deep, and sithence she dragged the witch thereinto and
heaped the earth upon her. Then she bathed her in the nighest pool of
the brook, and went back into the house and made her breakfast on the
bread and milk, and it was then about mid-morning. Thereafter she went
about the house, and saw to the baking of bread, and so out to the meadow
to see to the kine and the goats, and then stored the milk for making
butter and cheese, and did in all wise as if she were to dwell long in
that stead; but thereafter she rested her body, whiles her thought went
wide about. But she said to herself that she would not go up to the Oak
of Tryst to meet the wood-mother that day, but would abide the night, in
case aught befell that she should tell her.
But when the sun was getting low she roused herself and went out, and
walked about the meadow, and hearkened to the birds’ song, and watched
the kine and the goats as they fed down the pasture; and now a soft
content came over her, that all this was free unto her to hold in peace,
and to take her pleasure in, as much as one lone child of Adam might do.
At last she wandered down to the sandy bight of the lake and stood gazing
on Green Eyot, where the osiers and willows were grown wild and long in
all these years, and she said that she would swim over to it on the
morrow. But now her feet took her eastward thence toward the haven of
the Sending Boat amongst the alders; for in her heart she would fain know
if there were any tidings for her.
So she went softly along the path by the water, where she had sped so
swiftly that last time, and came at last to the creek-side, and looked
down on to the water somewhat timorously. There then she saw what she
deemed was the very boat itself lying as she had known it; but when she
looked again she saw that it lay from stem to stern all loose staves with
the water betwixt, and the thwarts and ribs all sundered and undone, so
that never again might it float upon the waves. Then she said in a soft
voice: Art thou dead then, as thy mistress is dead? was it not so that
thou wert at the point of death, and she also, when thou failedst me at
the Isle of Increase Unsought? No voice came to her as she spake; and
she said again: Must I then bury thee as I have buried thy mistress?
Nay, that will I not until thou compellest me; belike in a short while
little of the staves of thee shall be left now that the life is out of
thee. Let thy ghost and hers foregather if ye will.
As she spake the last word, she saw a stir about the stern which lay
furthest in up the creek, and while she quaked with failing heart, lo! a
big serpent, mouldy and hairy, grey and brown-flecked, came forth from
under the stern and went into the water and up the bank and so into the
dusk of the alder-wood. Birdalone stood awhile pale and heartsick for
fear, and when her feet felt life in them, she turned and stole away back
again into the merry green mead and the low beams of the sun, pondering
whether this evil creature were the fetch of the wight who drave the
ferry under the blood of the sender.
So she hastened back again to the house, and lit a fire on the hearth,
and fell to cooking her somewhat of grout to her supper; and she watched
the fire, thinking withal: Now if some poor soul be abroad, they may see
the smoke and seek hither, and I may comfort them with food and shelter
and converse; or when night darkens, they may see the litten windows and
come to me; wherefore shall the fire burn yet and the candles be lighted,
for as warm as is the evening, even as if it were Yule-tide and the snow
deep without, and the wind howling in the woodland trees. And therewith
she wept for longing of them that she loved.
But in a little she dried her tears, and reproached herself for her much
softness; and she ate her supper when she had lighted a candle (for it
was now dark), and again sat looking at the hearth, till she said: Now am
I getting soft again, and who knows but my softness may tempt the ghosts
to come in to me. I will give my hands somewhat to do.
Therewith her eye caught sight of the rents and rags of her old grey
gown, and she smiled somewhat ruefully as she called to mind her gallant
knight’s array, which lay now on the shore of the evil and ruined isle;
and her goodly attire of the days of the Five Crafts; and the rich
raiment wherein her friends of the Castle of the Quest had clad her.
Then she arose and sought needle and thread and some remnants of green
cloth, and did off the ragged coat and fell to patching and mending it,
and so sat at her work in smock-sewing till the night was old and she was
weary and sleep overcame her, and she lay down in her bed and slept
dreamlessly till the sun was high next morning.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE WOOD-MOTHER COMETH TO BIRDALONE AND HEARETH HER
STORY.
NOW Birdalone arose and bathed her and broke her fast, and then went
about her work with the beasts and the dairy; but all that time seemed
long to her till she had bow in hand and quiver on back, and was wending
her way to the Oak of Tryst; and swift were her feet and her heart beat
quick with hope of pleasure.
Forsooth no long tarrying had she, for scarce had she set her down
beneath the oak, ere the wood-mother came forth from the thicket even as
the first time when Birdalone saw her, and presently she had her arms
about Birdalone and was kissing and clipping her. Then they sat down
together in the shade of the great tree, and the wood-mother made much of
her friend with few words and those but simple, while Birdalone wept for
joy.
At last spake Birdalone: Wood-mother, my dear, I look in thy face, and I
see thee that thou art nowise changed, so that thou callest to my mind
the Birdalone that met thee here when she was straying from the House of
Captivity like to a bird with a string to its leg.
Habundia smiled on her and said: So it is that now thou lookest older
than I. Rounder and fuller is thy body, and thy limbs greater and
fairer, and thy flesh sleeker; lovelier art thou in all wise, and such as
I have thought of thee during these years, save that thy face is grown
wiser and sadder than might be looked for. Mother, she said, I am grown
older than I should be by the tale of the years, for I have had joy and
grief, and grief and joy, and grief again; and now that the years have
worn, the grief abideth and the joy hath departed, save this joy of thee
and the day of the meeting I have so often thought of.
Said the wood-wife: Were I to hear the story of thee, I deem it most like
that I would fain buy thy joy with thy grief, both that which has been
and that which is to come. And now I will ask thee right out to tell me
all thy tale, as much as thou canst; and all thou canst tell to me, who
am thine other self: and I wot moreover that thou hast not told of me to
any whom thou hast met in the world since we were last together: is it
not so? In faith and in troth so it is, said Birdalone. Said Habundia,
after she had looked hard on Birdalone a while: Now there is this I find
in thee, that though thou callest me wood-mother still, thou art not my
daughter as thou wert erewhile, nor I thy mother; and I know not whether
to be glad or sorry thereof, since thou art even as much my friend as
ever thou wert. But much do I rejoice herein that thou hast not told any
one soul of me.
Said Birdalone: I must tell thee that part of the tale I shall tell thee
is how I have found my mother in the flesh, and loved her sorely; and
then I lost her again, for she is dead.
Quoth the wood-wife, smiling on her lovingly: Then should I be even more
thy mother than erst I was: there will be something else in thy tale,
sweetling.
Then Birdalone flushed very red, and she smiled piteously in Habundia’s
face; but then she put up her hands to hide the change therein which the
anguish of longing wrought, and her shoulders shook and her bosom heaved,
and she wept bitterly; but the wood-wife still looked on her smiling, and
said softly at last: Yea, how sweet it were to be grieved with thy pain.
But in a while Birdalone grew calm again and the very smile blossomed out
in her face, and they kissed together. Then Habundia rose up and looked
on her, and said at last and laughed out withal: One thing I must needs
say, that thou hast not fetched thee raiment of price from the knighthood
and the kings’ houses; or have I not seen thy grey coat of old time,
while thou wert living amidst the witch’s cruelty? Yea forsooth, said
Birdalone; thou needest not to ask this. Verily not, said Habundia, nor
why thou art not clad in the fair green gown which thou didst broider;
for whiles I have seen the witch flaunting it on the wooden ugly body of
her, and thou wouldst not wear it after she had cursed it with her
foulness. Is it not so? Yea, it is even so, said Birdalone; dost thou
love me the less therefor? Habundia laughed again: Were I a man of
Adam’s sons, said she, I might make thee many words on the seemliness of
thy short coat, and the kindness of it, that it will be for ever slipping
off one or other of thy shoulders. But now am I at least enough thy
mother, and thou art dwelling even so much in my house, that the next
time we meet (and that shall be to-morrow) I shall fetch thee raiment
which shall make us forget that thou camest back again to this land as
naked as thou didst depart thence.
Birdalone reddened and hung down her head, but the wood-mother sat down
beside her and kissed her and said: But now forget all save thy tale, and
tell all as closely as thou mayest, for I would lose nought thereof.
Yea, said Birdalone; and where shall I begin? Said Habundia: I know
nought thereof save the beginning, that thou fledst away naked and
escaped the witch; and the ending, to wit, that the Sending Boat failed
thee at the last of the Wonder Isles, and that thou calledst on me not
wholly in vain, whereas the witch was dead, and therefore there was
nought to stay me from sending thee one of my trees and the wight thereof
(whom belike I may show to thee one day) to save thee from the bottom of
the deep water.
At that word Birdalone threw herself on the wood-wife and clipped and
kissed her, and thanked her for the helping with all the dearest words
she might. But the wood-mother laughed for joy, and stroked her cheeks
and said: Now I deem thee my daughter again, whereas thou thankest me
with such sweet passion for doing to thee as a kind mother needs must
without any thought thereof. And I bid thee, my dear, never again to go
so far from me as that I may not easily help thee and comfort thee from
out of my realm wherein I am mighty. And now tell me all in thy dear
speech.
Therewith Birdalone began her story without more ado, even as ye have
heard it afore. Yea and many more things than we can set down did she
tell, for full filled she was with the wisdom of the wood. And between
whiles the wood-mother fed her with dainty meat and drink, such as
Birdalone had never erst tasted the like of. And by then she had got so
far as her flight from the Isle of Increase Unsought, the sun was set and
the twilight begun. And the wood-wife said: Now shalt thou go home to
thine house; and have no fear of witch or evil thing, for I am not far
from thee and will watch over thee. Sweet is thy tale, my daughter, and
dear are thy she-friends; and if ever it may be that I may do them any
pleasure, fain were I; and that especially to thy Viridis, who meseemeth
is both sweet and wise even as thou thyself art. Nay, dost thou begrudge
my loving her? Nay, nay, said Birdalone, laughing; but I rejoice in it.
And hereafter when I tell thee how sorely they paid for helping me, I
will bid thee to love them yet more than now thou dost. Therewith they
parted, and Birdalone came to her house; and on the way she made as it
were a feigned tale in mockery of her old trouble, that there would be
the witch-mistress awaiting her to whip her. So that when she came to
the door she was half frighted with her own mock, lest the witch might
now at last have taken to walking.
But all was quiet when she entered with the last of the twilight, and she
rested that night in all peace, as in the best of her days in the Five
Crafts.
CHAPTER XIX. HABUNDIA HIDETH BIRDALONE’S NAKEDNESS WITH FAERY RAIMENT.
NEXT morning Birdalone tarried about the house as little a while as she
might, and then went hastening up to the wood; and when she came within
sight of the Trysting Tree, lo! there was Habundia before her, and the
hands of her busy turning over goodly raiment, so that it was well-nigh
as if the days had gone back to the time of the Captivity, and the sitter
under the oak was Birdalone herself dealing with her half-finished gown.
Joyously they met and embraced each other, and then spake the wood-wife:
Now, thou darling of the world, I have been no worse than my word, and if
thou durst wear web of the Faery thou shalt presently be clad as goodly
as ever thou wert down there amongst the knighthood; and then thy tale,
my dear, and, if it may be, the wisdom of the barren wood-wife set
thereto.
And therewith she laid on Birdalone’s outstretched arms the raiment she
had brought with her, and it was as if the sunbeam had thrust through the
close leafage of the oak, and made its shadow nought a space about
Birdalone, so gleamed and glowed in shifty brightness the broidery of the
gown; and Birdalone let it fall to earth, and passed over her hands and
arms the fine smock sewed in yellow and white silk, so that the web
thereof seemed of mingled cream and curd; and she looked on the shoon
that lay beside the gown, that were done so nicely and finely that the
work was as the feather-robe of a beauteous bird, whereof one scarce can
say whether it be bright or grey, thousand-hued or all simple of colour.
Birdalone quivered for joy of the fair things, and crowed in her speech
as she knelt before Habundia to thank her: then in a twinkling had she
done off her beggar’s raiment, and then the smock clung about her darling
nakedness, and next the gown was shimmering all over her, and the golden
girdle embraced her loins as though it loved them worthily; and Birdalone
looked to the wood round about her and laughed, while Habundia lay in her
place and smiled upon her with gentle loving-kindness.
But in a little while was Birdalone sobered; for the thought of how fair
she should look to the eyes of her beloved when she was shown unto him on
the day of days, thrust her light and eager pleasure aside; and she took
up her shoes from the ground (for she had not done them on), and sat down
beside the wood-wife and fell a-toying with the marvel of them; and thus
without more ado began her tale again, whereas she had left it last even,
when she had told of how the Sending Boat was speeding her over the
waters toward the Isle of the Young and the Old.
CHAPTER XX. BIRDALONE TELLETH HABUNDIA OF HER LOVE FOR ARTHUR, AND
GETTETH FROM HER PROMISE OF HELP THEREIN.
LONG they sat there that day, and until the sun was down, and by then had
Birdalone little to tell of her story, for she was gotten therein to the
days of the Five Crafts. Many times had she wept and turned to Habundia
for solace as she told, not without shame, but without any covering up,
all the tale of her love for Arthur the Black Squire, and how she was
surprised by the love of him, and of his wisdom and grace and loveliness.
And the wood-mother was ever as sweet and kind unto her as could be; yet
might another than a lover have seen that much of all this was strange
unto her, and she looked upon Birdalone as a child who has broken her
toy, and is hard to comfort for the loss of it, though there be a many
more in the world. But when it grew dusk as aforesaid, and it was time
to part, she spake to Birdalone, and said: True it is, my child, that
thou hast lived long in these six years time; neither do I wonder at the
increase of thy beauty, and the majesty thereof; for fair is the life
thou hast lived, although thou hast been grieved and tormented by it at
whiles. And now I know what it is for which thou longest; and herein
again will I play the mother unto thee, and seek about to fetch thee that
thou wouldst have; so be not over-anxious or troubled; and thou mayest be
good herein, as my fair child should be; for this I have noted in thee,
that Love is not so tyrannous a master but that his servants may whiles
think of other matters, and so solace their souls, that they may live
despite of all.
Now was Birdalone arisen, and stood before her friend confused and
blushing. But Habundia put her two hands on her shoulders and kissed
her, and said: Go home now and sleep, and come again to-morrow and let us
hear the last of thy tale; and when that is done, maybe I shall be able
to do something for thine avail.
So they parted, and on the morrow Birdalone came again and told the
remnant of her story, which was not so long now that the Black Squire was
out of it. And when she had done, Habundia kept silence awhile, and then
she said: One thing I will tell thee, that whereas erewhile it was but
seldom indeed that any son of Adam might be seen in the woodland here, of
late, that is, within the last three years, there be many such amongst
us; and to our deeming they be evil beasts, more pitiless and greedy than
any bear; and but that we have nought to do with them, for they fear us
and flee from us, we should have destroyed them one and all. And now
that I have heard all thy story, it seemeth unto me not so unlike but
these may be the remnants of the bands of the Red Hold, and that they
have drifted hither fleeing before the might of thy friends of the
knighthood. Wherefore now, trust me that I will look into this, but I
must needs be away from here for a little; so hold thy soul in patience
though hear thou nought of me, and dwell quietly at home for seven days’
space, and then come hither and find me, farewell now, my child!
So they kissed and departed; and Birdalone went home to the house, and
wore the days thereafter doing what was needful about the stead, and
wandering through the meadows, and swimming the waters about Green Eyot;
and the days were not unrestful unto her.
CHAPTER XXI. HOW THE WOOD-WIFE ENTERED THE COT, AND A WONDER THAT BEFELL
THEREON.
BUT when it was the sixth day since those two had met, Birdalone arose in
the morning and stood in the door of the house, and she looked toward the
bent which went up to the wood and saw one coming down it, and knew it
for Habundia clad in her huntress’ raiment and bearing something over the
left arm, for her bow was in her right hand. So Birdalone ran to meet
her, and embraced and kissed her, and was merry over her, and said: Dear
mother, thou farest far from thy fastness to-day. Said Habundia: There
is nought in the meadows now save the neat and the goats and thou; of
none of that folk am I afraid. But mayhappen thou shalt be afraid to
come with me into the depths of the wildwood, for thither would I lead
thee. I will be afraid of nought with thee beside me, said Birdalone.
But come now and look upon the house that I have won for me. And she
took her hand and led her along; and the wood-wife said no more till they
were across the brook and standing by the porch.
Then said Birdalone: Thou hast a green gown over thine arm; is that also
for me? Yea, certes, said Habundia; the old rag which thou hast on thee,
and which thou lovest so sore, is not fine enough for my company; and the
glitter-gown I gave thee may be too fine for the thorns and the briars,
and moreover thou mayst be over-easily seen if thou bear that broidered
sunshine mid the boughs. Wherefore go in now and do on this other coat,
though the faery have made it, and then come out to me with thy bow and
thy quiver, and I shall find thee sandal-shoon and girdle withal.
Nay, wood-mother, said Birdalone, hallow my house by entering it, and eat
a morsel with me and drink the wine of the horned folk ere we go our
ways.
Habundia shook her head and knit her brows somewhat as she looked hard on
the house; then she said: I know not, Adam’s daughter; I have little to
do with houses, and doubt if a house be safe for me. And this one that
the witch builded! and belike she buried some human being at one of its
four corners. Tell me, fair child, sawest thou ever here at night-tide
the shape of a youngling crowned with a garland straying about the house?
Nay, never at all, said Birdalone. Said the wood-wife: Then maybe thou
hast hallowed it with the wisdom and love of thee, and I may venture; and
moreover I note that it is all builded of trees and the grass of the
earth; and thou art free to use them by my leave. But if aught befall of
my coming under thy roof, heed it not too much, but think, whatsoever my
aspect may be, I am thy wood-mother and wisdom-mother that loveth thee.
And I bid thee also wish with all thy might that my aspect may not change
to thee. Also, if I eat, thou wert best not to sign the meat as Adam’s
sons are wont. Lead in then; for now am I grown wilful, and will enter
whatever betide.
Birdalone marvelled at those words, but she fell to wishing strongly that
her friend might not lose her lovely youthful shape either then or ever,
and she took her hand, which trembled somewhat, and led her over the
threshold; and when they were under the roof herseemed that the
wood-mother dwindled in a wondrous way, though her face was as sweet and
her limbs as shapely as ever; and she laughed shrilly yet sweetly, and
spake in a thin clear voice: Birdalone, my dear, wish strongly, wish
strongly! though thou shalt see nothing worse of me than this. And she
was scarce three feet high, but as pretty as a picture.
Thereat indeed was Birdalone affrighted, but she wished all she might,
and stooped down to kiss this little creature; and therewith again the
wood-wife seemed to wax again as great and tall as ever she was, and her
voice came full and strong again, as she laughed and said: Now is it all
over for this time, and I see how well thou lovest me; and I pray thee
love me no less for this wonder thou hast seen in me. But now it were
better that I never go under a roof again. And she took her arms about
Birdalone and clipped her lovingly; and glad was Birdalone to feel her so
strong and solid again.
Then they sat to the board and ate a simple meal of bread and cheese and
wood-berries, and drank milk withal; and the wood-mother was merry, and
the smiles danced over her face as she looked on Birdalone with all
loving-kindness, so that Birdalone wondered what was toward; but so
light-hearted and happy she grew, that she deemed it might be nought save
good.
But when they had eaten, then Birdalone did off her old coat, which she
said was meet enough for her daily toil, and did on the fair green
hunting-gown and the sandal-shoon, and girt her with the fair girdle
which Habundia had fetched her, and drew up the laps of her gown
therethrough till her legs were all free of the skirts. And Habundia
looked on her, and laughed and said: Now are these white and smooth legs
as bad as the gleam-gown for the lying hid; but it may no better be, and
thou must draw thy skirts down and stumble, if needs must be, when we
come to the ambushment.
Birdalone reddened as she laughed at the word, and took down her bow and
hung her quiver at her back and thrust her sharp knife into her girdle,
and forth they went both of them, and were presently past the bent which
went up from the meadows and in amongst Habundia’s trees.
CHAPTER XXII. BIRDALONE WENDETH THE WILDWOOD IN FELLOWSHIP WITH
HABUNDIA.
NOW as they went their ways lightly through the wood, spake Habundia and
said: Birdalone, my child, fair is the gold ring with the sapphire stone
that the third finger of thy right hand beareth; seldom have I seen so
fair a stone as that deep blue one; hangeth any tale thereby? Said
Birdalone: Did I not tell thee thereof, wood-mother, how that my beloved
who is lost gave it unto me the very last time I saw him, woe worth the
while? Nay, said Habundia, I mind not the tale. But deemest thou he
would know it again if he saw it? Yea, surely, said Birdalone, hanging
her head; for when first he gave it, the gift was not to me, but to
another woman. And she held her peace, and went on with hanging head and
all the glee faded out of her a while.
At last she turned to Habundia, and said: I have now bethought me to ask
thee whither we be going and on what errand; for at first I was so glad
at heart, I know not why, and it was so merry to be wending the wood with
thee freely, that I had no thought in me as to whither and wherefore.
But now wilt thou tell me?
Said the wood-wife: How if I were to tell thee we were going a-hunting?
Birdalone said: Then I should ask thee what like the quarry were. And
suppose it were men? said the wood-wife. Birdalone turned somewhat pale.
My mother, she said, if we be going against some of those men of the Red
Bands, I am not happy over it. I am no warrior, and fear strokes. Said
Habundia, laughing: Yet art thou a fell archer; and thou mayest shoot
from an ambush of the thick leaves, since June is in to-day. But neither
would I slay or hurt any man, said Birdalone, but it were to save me from
present death.
Habundia looked on her with a sly smile and said: Well maybe though we
take cover and get within wind of our quarry thou shalt not need to speed
an arrow to him. Have patience therefore. For this is a strange beast
which I have marked down; he is not ill to look on, and his voice, which
we may well hearken, for whiles he singeth, is rather sweet than surly.
What meanest thou, mother? said Birdalone, growing red and then paler
yet; what man is it? since thy calling him a beast is a jest, is it not?
Nay, said Habundia, I neither name him nor know him; only I deem him by
no means to be one of the Red Band. For the rest, he may be a man in a
beast’s skin, or a beast in a man’s skin, for aught I know; whereas he
seems, so far as I have seen him, to be not wholly man-like or wholly
beast-like. But now let us hold our peace of him till we be come nigher
to his haunt.
So they went on their way, and Birdalone said but little, while the
wood-wife was of many words and gay. They made all diligence, for
Birdalone was not soon wearied, and moreover as now she was anxious and
eager to see what would befall, which she might not but deem would be
something great.
They went without stay till past noon, when they were come to a little
shady dale wherethrough ran a clear stream; there they rested and bathed
them, and thereafter sat under the boughs and ate the dainty meat which
the wood-wife provided, howsoever she came by it; and when they had
rested a while, the wood-wife turned the talk once more unto Arthur the
Black Squire, and would have Birdalone tell her all nicely what manner of
man he was; and Birdalone was nothing loth thereto; for had she her will
she had talked of him day-long.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOOD-WIFE BRINGETH BIRDALONE TO THE SIGHT OF ARTHUR
IN THE WILDWOOD.
NOW they go on again, no less speedily than before, and rest but little,
until it was hard on an hour before sunset. And now Habundia began to go
warily, as if they were come anigh to their journey’s end and the thing
that they sought. They were come by now to a long bent of the forest
well grown with big-boled oak-trees, not very close together, so that
short fine greensward was all underneath them; and Habundia went
heedfully from bole to bole, as if she would be ready to cover herself if
need were; and Birdalone went after her, and was now flushed of face, and
her eyes glittered, and her heart beat fast, and her legs trembled under
her, as she went running from tree to tree.
So came they nigh to the crown of the bent, and before them were the
oak-trees sparser and smaller as they went down the further side, which
seemed by their sudden shortening to be steeper than the hither side; and
betwixt them showed the topmost of thorn and whitebeam and logwood,
intertwined with eglantine and honeysuckle and the new shoots of the
traveller’s joy. There the wood-wife put forth her hand to bid Birdalone
stay, who came up to her friend and stood before her eager and quivering:
and anon came the sound of a man’s voice singing, though they could hear
no words in it as yet amidst the rustle of the trees and the tumult of
song which the blackbirds and throstles raised in the dale below them.
Then spake the wood-wife softly: Hearken, we are right and the time is
good, our beast is giving tongue: now below us is the bent-side steep,
and goeth down into a very little dale with a clear stream running
amidst; and therein is the very lair of the thing that we are hunting.
Wherefore now let us slip warily down between the bushes till we get
close to the bottom, and then belike we shall see the very creature quite
close, and we shall then consider and think what we shall do with him.
Birdalone had no voice wherewith to answer her, but she stole quietly
along by her side till they came to the bank of the dale and plunged into
the thicket that flourished there, and fell to threading it, making them
as small as might be. But ere they had gone but a little way the
wordless song of what was below had ceased, and they heard the sweet
tingle of the string-play, and the wood-wife stayed her to hearken, and
the smiles went rippling over her face and she beat time with her
fingers; but Birdalone, she stared wildly before her, and would have
scrambled down the bank straightway at all hazards, for that string-play
was a melody of the Castle of the Quest, but Habundia withheld her by the
arm. And then suddenly the music died, and there came up a voice of
wailing and lamenting, and Birdalone put her hands and held the palms
tight against her ears, and was at point to cry out aloud herself; but
Habundia drew a hand of her down and whispered into her ear: Child,
child, make thyself strong and forbear, and then perchance joy may come
to thee; hold thy peace and come softly along with me!
So Birdalone forbore, and strove with her passion, though the sobs rent
her bosom for a while; and by then the loud lamenting waned and was done,
and the sound of sobbing came up from below, as it had been an echo of
Birdalone’s grief.
Then Habundia drew her on again till they saw the level of the dale and
its stream piecemeal betwixt the leaves, and they had a glimpse of a man
on the hither side of the stream; and again they went lower, till they
were well-nigh on a level with the greensward of the dale; and as
Birdalone knelt with head bent low, and her hands covering her eyes, the
wood-wife put away from before her the thick leaves of a hazel-bush, and
whispering said: Child, child! look forth now and see what is before
thee, and see if thou knowest him, or if he be strange to thee, and thy
mother hath done nought for thee when all is said.
Birdalone looked up, pale and wild-eyed, and into the dale, and saw a man
sitting on the grass by the stream-side with his head bowed down on to
his knees and his face covered with his hands; he was clad but in two or
three deerskins hung about him, with a strip of skin for a girdle,
wherein was thrust a short sword; his brown hair hung down long and
shaggy over his face. Close by his side lay a little harp, and further
off a short spear roughly hefted with an ash-staff. He was beating the
earth with his feet and writhing him about over them. And Birdalone
looked, and her breath well-nigh failed her. For presently he sat more
quietly, and lifted up his head, and she saw his face that it was Arthur,
her beloved; and now she durst not move lest he should spring up and flee
away; and the mingled pain and longing within her was sweet indeed, but
well-nigh deadly.
Now his hand sought round to his harp, and he took it in his arms and
fondled it as it were, and his fingers went among the strings, and anon
the voice of it came forth, and it was nought changed from the last time
it spake, and Birdalone hearkened breathlessly, till the melody died
again and Arthur looked about him and raised his face as a dog when it
fares to howl.
Then Birdalone gave a great cry, and leapt forth out of the thicket and
stood on the greensward with nought betwixt them two, and she stretched
out her arms to her beloved and cried out: O! no, no, no! do it not, I
beseech thee, lest I deem that thou art all changed, and that the man and
the dear heart beloved of thee has gone out of thee and left thee but a
beast in a man’s shape!
He leapt up as she spake, and thrust forward his head and looked fierce
at her, and cried out: What! art thou come again? This is the second
time I have seen thee, thou image of her that hath tormented me so long;
of her that left me in my most need and hid herself away from me. Hah! a
man, sayest thou? Did I not strive with it, and hold my manhood so long
as I might; and at last it might no longer be, and I became a beast and a
man-slayer? But what avails it to talk with thee, since thou art but the
image of her that hath wasted my life. Yet perchance of the image I may
make an end since I may not lay hand on the very destroyer herself; and,
woe’s me, how I loved her! yea, and do still; but not thee, O false
image!
And forthwith he drew the blade from his girdle and sprang forward at
Birdalone; and she cowered and cringed, but moved not else. But
therewithal the wood-wife came leaping through the bushes, and she nocked
an arrow on her bended bow, and threatened him therewith, and cried out:
Thou man-beast, I will slay thee if thou hurt my child and my dear; so
forbear! Nay, I tell thee more, unless thou make her as glad at the
sight of thee as I meant her to be, I will in the long run slay thee; so
look to it.
He laughed and said: What! there is another image of the love that wasted
me, is there! Nay, but by the Hallows, this new-comer is the first one,
and the one who chattered at me is the second. Or is it this, that all
women now have the semblance of the evil one that has undone me, and
there is nought else left?
And he stood staring at Birdalone and moved not a while; and she stood
with her hands before her face cringing before him. Then he raised his
arm and cast the weapon far into the bushes of the bank-side, and then
came forward and stood before Birdalone, and drew down her hands from her
face and stared in the eyes of her, holding her by the two arms; and he
said: Thou hast forgotten now, belike, how fair a life we two might have
lived if thou hadst not fled from me and spoiled me.
And thou! by the looks of thee, for thou art sleek and fair, though this
moment thou art pale for fear of me, thou hast lived a happy life through
all these years, with many a merry thing to think of: and dost thou deem
that my life was happy, or that I thought of any merry thing, or of
anything save my sorrow? Dost thou doubt it? go ask the good spears of
Greenford, or the Riders of the Red Hold, and the field of the slaughter!
If there was little joy there, less was there elsewhere.
He left go of her therewith and stood trembling before her, and she bowed
down and put palm to palm and held them out to him as one who prays; and
she knew not what she did.
Then he cried out with a lamentable cry and said: O woe’s me! for I have
frighted her and scared the wit out of her, so that she knows not who I
am nor what I would; and I would pray to her and beseech her to pity me,
and not depart from me again or mock me with images of herself.
Then he went down on his knees to her, and he also joined his hands to
pray to her; but it seemed as if she was stricken to stone, so wholly she
moved not. But for him, he sank his forehead to earth, and then he
rolled over and his limbs stretched out, and his head turned aside and
blood gushed out from his mouth. But Birdalone shrieked out and cast
herself on his body, and cried: I have found him, and he is dead! he is
dead, and I have slain him, because I was a timorous fool and feared him;
and he was coming to his right mind and knew me for what I was!
But Habundia came and stood over them, and drew up Birdalone, and said:
Nay, nay, be comforted! for now he is thus, and the strength is gone out
of him for a while, we may deal with him. Abide, and I will fetch the
blood-staunching herb and the sleepy herb, and then we will heal him, and
he will come to his right mind and be a man again.
Therewith she hastened away and was gone but a little; and meanwhile
Birdalone knelt down by her love and wiped the blood from him, and
caressed his sword-hardened hands and moaned over him. But when the
wood-wife came back she put Birdalone aside once more, and knelt down by
the squire and raised his head, and laid the blood-stauncher to his mouth
and his heart, and muttered words over him, while Birdalone looked over
her shoulder with her pale face; then the she-leech fetched water from
the stream in a cup which she drew from her wallet, and she washed his
face, and he came somewhat to himself, so that she might give him drink
of the water; and yet more he came to himself. So then she took the
sleepy herb and bruised it in her hands and put in his mouth and again
said words over him, and presently his head fell back and his eyes closed
and he slept peacefully.
She stood up then and turned to Birdalone and said: Now, my child, have
we done all that we may do, save that we shall bring him to a place where
the dew and the sun shall not torment him and sicken him; for he shall
lie thus till the sun comes up to-morrow, or longer; and fear nor, for
when he awaketh he shall be in his right mind, and shall know thee and
love thee. This I swear to thee by the earth and the sun and the
woodland.
Said Birdalone, trembling yet: O mother, but may I kiss him and caress
him? Yea, surely, said the wood-mother, smiling in her face, but be not
too long over it, for lo! the last of the sun, and it were better that he
be under cover ere the twilight falls.
Birdalone knelt down by her love quietly at that word, and fell to
kissing him softly, and laid her cheek to his, and called him gentle
names such as none can tell again without shame, till the wood-wife laid
her hand on her shoulder and said kindly and sweetly: Rise up now, for
thou must make it enough for this present; thou shalt have time enough
hereafter for more and much more.
So Birdalone arose and said: How shall we bear him to his place? Shall I
not take him by the shoulders and thou by the legs? For I am stronger
than thou after all these years.
Laughed the wood-wife: Nay, little one, said she; thou knowest me not
utterly as yet. Thou shalt not bear him at all, nor any part of him; I
am strong enough for more than that; see thou! And she stooped down and
took him up in her arms as if he were a little child, and stepped off
lightly with him; but looked back over her shoulder and said to
Birdalone: But thou mayest walk by me and hold a hand of him as we go,
though it will hinder me somewhat; but I know thine heart and would
pleasure thee, my child.
Birdalone ran up to her and thanked her and kissed her, and took Arthur’s
left hand, while Habundia bore him on down the dale and out of it, and
still along the stream till they came to a place where it was narrow on
either side thereof, and a sheer rock came down so near to the water that
there was but a strip of greensward three yards wide betwixt water and
rock; and in the face of the rock was a cave wide enough for a man to
enter by stooping somewhat. Therein the wood-wife lightly bore Arthur,
and Birdalone followed; and they found the cave dry and roomy within;
there was a bed therein of dry heather and bracken, and thereon Habundia
laid her burden, and said: Now, my child, there is nought to do but abide
till he comes to himself again, which may be some time to-morrow; and be
of good cheer, for he will come to his right self, but he will be weak
and humble; but I shall have meat and drink ready for him. Now if thou
wilt be ruled by me, thou wilt keep out of the way when he awakens;
moreover, be thou not scared if I meet his awakening with another shape
than that which thou hast known of me; for sure it is that it will
trouble his wits over-much if again he seeth the two of us alike. But
fear not; for thy sake, my child, I will take no ugly shape, though it
may well be less beauteous than thine.
I will do what thou wilt, mother, said Birdalone, for I see that thou art
helping me all thou mayest; yet I beseech thee let me sit by him till the
time of his awakening draweth nigh.
The wood-wife smiled and nodded yeasay on her, and they sat down, both of
them, beside the sleeping man, and the day died into the night as they
sat hearkening to the ripple of the brook and the song of the
nightingales.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WOOD-MOTHER CHANGETH HER FORM TO THAT OF A WOMAN
STRICKEN IN YEARS.
WHEN the morrow came, there yet lay Arthur sleeping peacefully, and
Birdalone awoke from the slumber which had at last fallen on her, and
looked about her and saw not Habundia in the cave; so she arose and bent
over Arthur and kissed him, and so went forth and stood in the door and
looked about her. And she was still dim-eyed with her just departed
slumber and the brightness of the morning sunlight, and she scarce knew
whether it were a part of a dream, or a sight that was verily before her,
that she seemed to see one coming across the brook toward her, stepping
heedfully from stone to stone thereof: a woman stricken in years, but
slim and trim and upright, clad in a gown of green cloth, with a tippet
of some white fur. When she was come on to the greensward she spake to
Birdalone in a sweet voice, but thin with eld, and gave her the sele of
the day; and Birdalone was somewhat afraid to see a newcomer, but she
greeted her, drawing back a little from her shyly. But the old woman
said: What maketh thee here, my daughter? Dost thou not know that this
is my land and my house, and that I am said not to be unmighty in these
woods?
I pray thee pardon me if I have done amiss, said Birdalone; but here have
I a sick friend, a young man, and I would pray thee suffer him to abide
here in this cave a little longer; for there hath been also another
friend, a woman, but she hath gone out while I slept, belike to gather
simples, for she is wise in leechcraft, and is tending the sick man. I
pray thee humbly to suffer us lest we lose our friend.
As she spake, she heard the carline chuckle softly, and at last she said:
Why, Birdalone, my dear, dost thou not know me after all these years?
Look on me again, look! and thou shalt see that I am not so much changed
from what thou sawest me last night. I am still thine image, my dear,
only I was the image of what thou wert, and now I the image of what thou
shalt be when two score years and ten of happy life have worn for thee.
Tell me, am I now aught like to thy mother in the flesh?
How hast thou frighted me, mother, said Birdalone; I thought that my
friend had forsaken me, and that perchance the new-comer was another
witch like unto the old one, and that I was never to be at rest and
happy. But as to my mother in the flesh, nay, thou art not now wholly
like unto her; and sooth to say I shall be fainer when thou hast thine
own shape of me young back again, for I love thee not so much as now thou
art.
The wood-wife laughed: Well, she said, thou shalt not see over-much of me
in this shape; and that the less because of something I shall now tell
thee, to wit, that I have been thinking the matter over, and I would have
thee leave us twain together alone before the young man awaketh. I would
have thee get thee home and abide him there; it shall not be long I
promise thee; and this also, that he shall come home to thee sound in
body and whole in limb.
Birdalone’s countenance fell, and she said: Why this second mind, mother?
why, I pray thee? Said Habundia: I fear for thy love lest he be not
strong enough to open his eyes upon thy face; but after he hath been a
day in the woods, and I have spoken to him diversely and cheered him with
the hope of meeting thee, he may well be strong enough to seek thee for a
mile’s length, and find thine house first and then thee. So now wilt
thou obey me? Nay, if thou must needs weep, I will be gone into the
thicket till thou hast done, thou wilful! Birdalone smiled through her
tears, and said: I pray thee pardon my wilfulness, mother, and I will
depart without turning back into the cave. Nay, said Habundia, there is
no need for so much haste as that: I will in now, and do my leechdoms
with the sick man. But do thou go across the stream, thou barefoot, and
thou wilt find on the other side, by the foot of the quicken-tree yonder,
honeycombs and white bread and a bicker of wild goats’ milk. Bathe thee
then if thou wilt, and bring those matters over hither; and then shalt
thou go in and kiss thy mate’s sick face with thy fresh one, and
thereafter shall we sit here by the ripple of the water and break our
fast; and lastly, thou shalt go in and kiss again and then take to the
road. But tell me, deemest thou surely that thou canst find it again?
Yea, surely, mother, said Birdalone; I am wood-woman enough for that; and
now I will do all thy will. And therewith she stepped out lightly on to
the greensward and sought up the stream till she found a smooth-grounded
pool meet for her bath, and when that was done, she fetched the victual
and came back to the wood-wife; then they two sat down together, and ate
and drank while the water rippled at their feet. But when they were
done, Birdalone gat her into the cave again, and kissed the sleeping man
fondly, and came forth lightly and stood a moment before the wood-wife,
and said: Tell me this at least, mother, when shall he be there?
To-morrow quoth the wood-wife; and, for my part, I would keep thee within
doors and abide him there, lest there be trouble; for he may not yet be
as strong as the strongest. Birdalone hung down her head and answered
not, but said presently: Farewell, wood-mother, and be thou blessed.
Then she took up her bow and betook her lightly to the woodland way, and
the wood-wife stood looking at her till the thicket had hidden her, and
then turned back and went into the cave.
CHAPTER XXV. THE WOOD-WIFE HEALETH AND TENDETH THE BLACK SQUIRE.
SHE stood over Arthur for a minute or two, and then stooped down and
whispered a word in his ear, and presently he stirred on the bed and half
opened his eyes, but straightway turned on his side, as if to gather
sleep to him, but she took him by the shoulder and said in a clear voice:
Nay, knight, nay; hast thou not slept enough? is there nought for thee to
do? He sat up in the bed and rubbed his eyes, and his face was come to
its wholesome colour, and his eyes looked out quietly and calmly as he
looked about the cave and saw the wood-wife standing by him; and he spake
in a voice which was somewhat weak, but wherein was no passion of rage or
woodness: Where am I then? and who art thou, dame? She said: Thou art in
a cave of the woodland, and I am for one thing thy leech, and meseemeth
thou desirest to eat and to drink. He smiled and nodded his head; and
she fetched him the milk, and he drank a long draught, and sighed
thereafter, as one who is pleased; and she smiled on him, and fetched him
the bread and the honey, and he ate and drank again, and then lay down
and fell fast asleep. And she suffered his slumber for two hours or so,
and then awoke him again; and again he asked where he was and what was
she, but she said as before. And said she: The next thing thou hast to
do is to arise, as thou well mayest, and take this raiment, which is fair
and clean, and go wash thee in the brook and come back to me; and then we
will talk, and thou shalt tell me of how it was with thee, and
peradventure I may tell thee somewhat of how it shall be with thee. As
she spoke she went to a coffer which stood in a nook of the cave, and
drew forth from it a shirt and hosen and shoon, and a surcoat and hood of
fine black cloth, and a gilded girdle and a fair sword, red-sheathed, and
said: These may serve thy turn for the present, so take them and don
them, and thou shalt look like a squire at least, if not a knight.
So he arose as one in a dream and went out; but as he passed by her she
saw something gleaming on his breast, and noted that it was Birdalone’s
fair sapphire ring which hung about his neck; so she smiled, and said
under her breath: Crafty is my dear daughter! But that shall save me
some words at least. And she abided his return.
Anon he cometh back clad in the fair raiment, with the sword by his side;
and the wood-wife smote her palms together and cried out: Now indeed thou
art fair and well-liking, and a fair lady might well take pleasure in
beholding thee.
But his brow was knit, and he looked sullen and angry, and he said: What
is all this play? and where gattest thou this ring which I found e’en now
about my neck? And who art thou, and why have I been brought hither?
His eyes looked fiercely on her as he spake, holding out his palm with
the ring lying thereon. But the wood-wife answered: Many questions, fair
youth! but I will tell thee: the play is for thine healing and pleasure,
whereas both sick hast thou been and sorry. As to the ring, it is thou
hast got it and not I. But I will tell thee this, that I have seen it on
the finger of a fair damsel who haunteth the woodland not far hence. As
to what I am, that were a long tale to tell if I told it all; but believe
this meanwhile, that I am the lady and mistress of hereabouts, and am not
without power over my folk and my land. And as to why thou wert brought
hither, I brought thee because I had no better house handy for a sick man
to lie in.
Then Arthur stood a long while considering the ring that lay on his palm,
and at last he put his hand on the wood-wife’s shoulder, and looked into
her face beseechingly, and said: O mother, if thou be mighty be merciful
withal, and have pity on me! Thou callest me a youth, and so I may be in
regard to thee; but I tell thee it is five long years and there hath been
no other thought in my heart but what was loathsome to me, and it hath
worn and wasted my youth, so that it waneth and withereth and is nought.
O, if thou be mighty, bring me to her that I may see her at least one
time before I die. And therewith he fell down on his knees before her,
and kissed the hem of her gown, and wept. But she drew him up and looked
on him with the merry countenance of a kind old woman, and said: Nay,
nay, I am not so hard to be won to thy helping that thou needest pray so
sore and weep: here need we tarry no longer, and if thou wilt come with
me we shall go seek the damsel who bore this ring, though how it should
come to thee why should I know? Neither do I know if the said
ring-bearer be the one woman whom thou needest. But I will tell thee at
once that she is a dear friend of mine.
Then Arthur threw his arms about her, and kissed her cheeks and blessed
her, while she laughed on him and said: Nay, fair sir, if thou wilt do so
much with the withered branch, what wilt thou with the blossom of the
tree? And he was abashed before her, but hope made his heart to dance.
So the wood-wife took up her bow, slung her quiver at her back, and girt
her short sword to her, and then led him forth, and so into the thicket
out of the dale and forth into the oaken bent, and lightly she led him
thereafter through the woodland.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE BLACK SQUIRE TELLETH THE WOOD-WIFE OF HIS DOINGS SINCE
BIRDALONE WENT FROM THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.
AS they went Habundia said to Arthur: Now shalt thou talk and tell for
the shortening of the way, and let us know somewhat of thy story. But
first I must tell thee, for thou mayest not know it, so witless as then
thou wast, that yesterday we found thee down in the dale yonder, playing
the string-play sweetly indeed, but otherwise dight like a half beast
more than a man, so that we wondered at thee and pitied thee.
Arthur knit his brows as if he strove with some memory and might not
master it; then he said: Thou sayest We, who then was the other? Said
Habundia: I had a dear friend with me. Quoth he: And did she pity me
also? Yea, said the wood-wife, else scarce had she been a friend to me.
O let us on swiftly, said Arthur, so long as the time may be! And they
quickened their pace and ate up the way speedily.
Presently spake the wood-wife again: Now for the tale of thee, fair sir;
yet will I shorten it somewhat by telling thee that I know thy name, that
thou art Arthur the Black Squire of the Castle of the Quest. He stared
at that word, and said: How knewest thou this? how couldst thou guess it,
who hast never seen me erst? A friend told me, said she; too long it
were as now to tell thee thereof. Rather do thou tell me how thou didst
fare when ye found thy friend gone from the castle that time ye came home
from the winning of the Red Hold.
Arthur stared astonished, and said: What is it? Dost thou verily know my
love? or art thou a sorceress and knowest somewhat of me by spell-work?
I am somewhat more than a sorceress, may-happen, said the wood-wife; but
heed it not, since I am thy friend to-day, but tell me what I ask, that I
may have all the tale of thee; it will serve for the shortening of the
way. Said Arthur: And who but I needeth it as short as may be? so stand
we not loitering here, and I will talk as we wend on speedily.
On they sped therefore, and said Arthur: How did I fare? as one stunned,
mother, and knew not what had happened; and when I heard their babble of
how she had done wrong here and right there, I was driven half mad by it,
so that I hastened back to the Red Hold, and became the captain of
Greenford, to hunt down their scattered foemen; for I said to myself that
needs must I rage and slay, and that were worser amongst my friends than
mine unfriends. What then? that business came to an end; though all the
ill men were not slain, but all were driven away from the parts of
Greenford; and sooth to say they durst not come anywhere nigh where they
heard of me. Then became each day like every other, and the thought of
my hope and my despair ate mine heart out, and I was of no avail unto
any. Now it so happened, amidst my many battles and chases, I had hunted
the bands of the Red Hold into the northwest marches of the woodland; and
I noted that even they, howsoever hard bestead, and the worst of men to
boot, would scarce at the first be driven into the thickets thereof,
though at last, whether or no they have made covenant with the devils,
there I know not, they have betaken them to the depths of the wood and
have borne off women from the dwellings and got children on them, and are
like to breed an evil folk. That then I noted that this Evilshaw was a
dwelling loathed and desert, and little like it was that any would meddle
with me there. Three years had worn since I was cast away at the Castle
of the Quest by her that loved me, who must needs sacrifice both her and
me to the busy devil of folly; and I also deemed that if I sought for her
I should not find her; and yet more forsooth, that if I found her she
would be as hard unto me as when she fled from me. And as for me, I was
gotten hard and crabbed, and no man, if his heart would let him, would
have aught to say to me. So I gat me away from the Red Hold, as I had
from the Castle of the Quest, and I gave out that I would enter into
religion, and forbade any man to follow me. Neither did any desire it.
First of all I set me down at the very outskirts of the woodland, and
raised me a bower there, rude and ill-shapen. Few folk came anigh me,
and yet some few, charcoal-burners, and hunters of the edges of the wood,
and suchlike. These deemed me a holy man, whereas I was but surly.
Somewhat also they feared me, whereas in some of their huntings or goings
and comings after prey I had put forth all my strength, eked out by the
lore of knighthood, which was strange to them. One man there was of them
who was fashioned of the minstrel craft by nature, and who forgathered
with me specially, till we became friends, and he was a solace to me,
with his tales and his songs of a rougher people than I had been wont to
deal with. But when I had been in that place for two years he died of a
sickness, and I was left lonely, and my soreness of heart fell upon me
till I scarce knew what next I should do. So I fared away yet deeper
into the wildwood, taking with me the harp which my friend had given me
before he died. It was summer, and I wandered about ever deeper into the
wood, until belike I had scarce been able to win out of it if I had
tried. At last, when the autumn came, I built myself again some sort of
a bower in a clearing of the wood wherein was water, and the resort of
plenteous venison.
What befell next? My mind is not over-clear concerning it all, for I was
now becoming more of a beast than a man. But this I know, that some men
of the bands whom I had chased happened on me. They knew me not for
their old foeman, but of their kind it was to torment and slay any man
whom they might lightly overcome. Yet was not the battle so over-light
but that I slew and hurt divers of them ere they got me under and
stripped me and bound my hands and tormented me, after the manner that
the devils shall do with them when they shall go to their reward. Yet
somehow I lived, though they deemed me dead, and I crawled away thence
when they were gone; and somehow I was healed of my body, but I was
confused of my wit thereafter, and now can call to mind but little of
what befell me as I strayed from place to place, save that I remember I
was hapless and heart-sore ever: and also meseemeth that I saw visions at
whiles, and those who had been in my life before these things, their
images would come before me to mock me as I sat singing whiles and whiles
playing the string-play (for my harp I bore ever with me); and whiles I
bewailed me, and called for help on them that would not or might not help
me. And now I may not even tell the years of my abiding in the desert,
how many they be. But I pray thee let us on more swiftly yet.
Said the wood-wife: Thou hast told me but little of thy life, Black
Squire, but it is enough maybe; and I see that thou mayst not tell me
more because thou hast thy mind set on what may betide thee when this day
is over. But thou must know that thou hast come into the wood of
Evilshaw, wherein, besides those savage men who quelled thee and their
like, there be uncouth things no few, and wights that be not of the race
of Adam; wherefore no great marvel is it that thou sawest visions, and
images of them that were not by thee. Yea, said he, but one vision had I
that confused and overcame me more than all others, and meseemeth that
came to me not long ago. For first I saw the shape of her that my soul
desireth ever, and it wept and lamented for me; and then for a little I
seemed as if I were coming forth from my confusion of wit; when lo! there
issued from the thicket another image of my beloved and blamed me and
threatened me. God wot good cause there was of the blame. But tell me,
mother, since thou callest thyself wise, what may this portend?
The wood-wife laughed: Since I am wise, said she, I will foretell thee
good days. And now we will talk no more of thee or thy love or thy
sorrow, but since thou wilt so fiercely devour the way, I will tell thee
a tale or two of this wood and its wights to save us from over-much
weariness.
So did she, talking and telling as they went; and she went on a pace
before him, and howsoever long or hardly he might stride he might not
overgo her. And so fast they went, that they were within a little way of
the Oak of Tryst a good while before the sun had set, though they had set
out from the cave three hours after the hour when Birdalone and the
wood-wife had left the House under the Wood on the yesterday. They had
come to a steep rock that rose up from a water’s side, and the wood-wife
bade stay, whether Arthur would or no, and she made him eat and drink,
bringing the victual and wine from out of a cleft in the said rock. And
she held him there till the night was come and there was a glimmer of the
rising moon in the east, and he was ill at ease and restless; but still
she held him there till the moon rose high and shone upon them, and the
shadows of the oak-boughs lay black all around.
Then she bade him arise, and let him on to the Oak of Tryst, yea and
somewhat beyond it toward the great water. Then she spake to him: Black
Squire, I am now come home, and will lead thee no further; I was deeming
that we should have slept in the wood a good way from this, and then
would I have brought thee on thy way to-morrow morning; but the eagerness
of thine heart hath made thy feet so speedy, that we be here somewhat
rathe, and yet I am not ill-pleased therewith. Then she turned him about
and said: Look down the bent and tell me what thou seest. He said: I see
the boles of goodly trees, and betwixt them the gleaming of a great
water. She said: Go thitherward then while the moon is yet at her
brightest, and thou shalt presently come to wide meads lying along the
water, and a stream running through them. Enter then into the meads and
look about thee, and thou shalt see a little house (there is none other
nigh) standing just across the said stream; go up thither boldly and
crave guesting from whomsoever thou shalt find there, and maybe things
shall go after thy mind. More than this I may not do for thee. Farewell
then, and if thou wilt thou mayst meet me again; that is to say, that
which is verily me: but it is like that this shape which hath been
striding on with thee daylong thou shalt not see any more.
He looked on her wondering, for she seemed to grow goodly and stately
before his eyes. But even as he stretched forth his hand to take hers,
she turned about suddenly and fared into the wood out of his sight,
wending full as swiftly as might have been looked for. Then he drew his
sword and turned his face from the wood, and went down toward the water.
CHAPTER XXVII. SIR ARTHUR COMETH TO THE HOUSE UNDER THE WOOD.
SO came Arthur into the meadows, and went eagerly but warily over the
dewy grass. And here and there a cow rose before him and went bundling
down the mead a little way, and the owls cried out from behind him, and a
fox barked from the thicket’s edge. Then he found himself on the
stream-side, and he stayed and looked from side to side, and lo! on the
other side of the stream a little house that looked familiar to him as a
yeoman’s dwelling in the builded lands, and the thatch thereon shone
under the moon and its windows were yellow with candle-light; and so
homely it seemed to him, that he thrust his sword into the sheath and
lightly crossed the brook, and came to the door and laid his hand upon
the latch and lifted it and shoved the door, and all was open before him.
His eyes, coming from the night, dazzled with the bright light of the
candles, but he saw a fair woman rising up in her place, and he said: May
a traveller in the woodland be welcome here to-night, dealing with all in
all honour?
But the woman came toward him holding out her two hands, and ere he could
cry out that he knew her, she had thrown herself upon him, and had cast
her arms about him and was kissing his face, and murmuring: O welcome
indeed! welcome, welcome, and welcome! And so sore did his past grief
and his desire move him, that he was weak before her, and held down his
hands and let her do. And both those were breathless with wonder and joy
and longing; and they stood aloof a little in a while and looked on each
other, she with heaving bosom and streaming eyes, and he with arms
stretched forth and lips that strove with his heart’s words and might not
utter them; but once more she gave herself to him, and he took her in his
arms strongly now, so that she was frail and weak before him, and he laid
his cheek to her cheek and his lips to her lips, and kissed her eyes and
her shoulders and murmured over her. And then again they stood apart,
and she took him by the hand and led him to the settle, and set him down
by her, and herself by him; and a while they said nought. Then she spake
as one who had come to herself and was calm, though her heart was aflame
for love: Tell me, love, when thine hand was on the latch didst thou look
to find me here in this house? for thine hand it was that waked me; I
heard not thy foot before the threshold, for I was weary and slumbering.
Alas! that I lost the sound of thy feet! He spake, and his voice sounded
false unto him, as if it came from another’s mouth: I wot not; the woman
that led me nearby seemed to bid me hope. Then he said: Nay, the sooth
is that I should have died if I had not found thee here; I have been sick
so long with hoping.
Again were they silent till she said: I would that I had heard thee
crossing the brook. But the wood-wife bade me look for thee no earlier
than to-morrow; else had I time enough; and I would have made the house
trim with the new green boughs, and dighted our bed with rose blooms; and
I would have done on me my shining gown that the wood-wife gave me. For
indeed she was but clad in her scanty smock and nought else.
But he laid his head on her bosom and kissed her all about, and said:
Nay, my own love, it is well, it is better. And she murmured over him: O
friend, my dear, think not that I had will to hide me from thee. All
that is here of me is thine, and thine, and thine.
And she took his hand and they arose together, and she said: O friend, I
fled from thee once and left thee lonely of me because I deemed need
drave me to it; and I feared the strife of friends, and confusion and
tangle. Now if thou wilt avenge thee on me thou mayest, for I am in thy
power. Yet will I ask thee what need will drive thee to leave me lonely?
He said: The need of death. But she said: Mayhappen we shall lie
together then, as here to-night we shall lie.
CHAPTER XXVIII. FAIR DAYS IN THE HOUSE OF LOVE.
ON the morrow it was sweet times betwixt those twain, and what was hard
and fierce of their love they seemed to have put behind them. A dear joy
it was to Birdalone that day to busy herself about the housekeeping, and
to provide whatsoever seemed now, or had seemed to her in her early days,
to be dainties of their meadow and woodland husbandry, as cream and
junkets and wood-fruit and honey, and fine bread made for that very
occasion.
Withal she was careful as a mother with a child that he should not
over-weary himself with the sun of the early summer, but rather to follow
the brook up into the wood and lie adown in the flecked shadow and rest
him wholly, as if there were nought for him to do but to take in rest all
that was done for his service, both by the earth and by the hands and
nimble feet of Birdalone. And as she was wilful in other ways of her
cherishing, so also in this, that for nought in that daylight would she
go anywise disarrayed, nay not so much as to go barefoot, though he
prayed her thereof sorely, and told her that fairer and sweeter she was
in her smock alone than in any other raiment. For in the morning she
went in her woodland green let down to her heels, and when the day wore
towards evening, and the wind came cool from over the Great Water, then
she did on her wonder-raiment which the wood-wife had given her, and led
Arthur over the meadows here and there, and went gleaming by the side of
the black-clad man along the water’s lip. And they looked forth on to
Green Eyot and Rock Eyot, and stood by the shallow bight where she had
bathed those times; and they went along to the dismal creek where the
Sending Boat was wont to lie, and where yet lay the scattered staves of
it; and then along the meadow-land they went from end to end, resting oft
on the flowery grass, till the dews began to fall and the moon cast
shadows on the greensward. Then home they fared to the house; and again
on the way must Birdalone feign for their disport that the witch was come
back again, and was awaiting her to play the tyrant with her; and Arthur
fell in with her game, and kissed her and clipped her, and then drew his
sword and said: By All-hallows I shall smite off her head if she but lay
a finger on thee.
So they played like two happy children till they came to the door of the
house, and Birdalone shoved it open, and they two looked in together and
saw nought worse therein save the strange shadows that the moon cast from
the settle on to the floor. Then Birdalone drew in her love, and went
about lighting the candles and quickening a little cooking fire on the
hearth, till the yellow light chased the moon away from the bed of their
desire.
CHAPTER XXIX. THOSE TWAIN WILL SEEK THE WISDOM OF THE WOOD-WIFE.
AGAIN next day was their life such as it had been the day before; and as
they lay in cool shadow of a great oak, Birdalone fell to telling Arthur
all the whole story of her dealings with the wood-wife, and how that she
had so loved her and holpen her, that through her love and her help she
had escaped the witch and her snares, who would have turned her into a
half-devil for the undoing of manfolk. And how that the said wood-wife
had never appeared to her but as an image and double of herself, save on
the time when she played the leech to him. Then she told him how all had
gone when the wood-wife had sought him out for the fulfilment of their
love, and of the dreadful day when they had come upon him out of his wit
and but little manlike.
Then she asked, would he, within the next day or two, that they should go
see the wood-wife together and thank her for her help, and bring him
within the ring of her love and guarding; and he yeasaid it with a good
will.
After this she would have him tell her of how things had gone with him
since that evil day when he had come home from the Castle of the Quest
and found her gone. So he told her somewhat, and of his dole and misery,
and his dealings with the foemen of Greenford; but yet scantly, and as
one compelled; and at last he said:
Dear love, since thou art cossetting me with all solace of caresses, I
pray thee remember my trouble and grief, how sore they were, and do with
me as with a sick man getting well, as I wot surely thou wouldest do; and
do thou that which is at this present the softest and merriest to me, and
that forsooth is, that thou shouldest talk and tell, and I should hearken
the sweetness of the music, and only here and there put in a word to rest
thee and make thy tale the sweeter.
She laughed with love on him, and without more ado fell to telling
everything she might think of, concerning her days in the House of
Captivity, both when she was but a bairn, and when she was grown to be a
young woman; and long was she about the tale, nor was it all done in one
day; and a multitude of things she told him which are not set down in
this book.
In the evening when they were going again to and fro the meads, it was
other talk they fell on, to wit, of their fellows of the Quest, both of
Sir Hugh and the three lovely ladies: and now was Arthur nought but kind
when he spake of Atra, nor spake Birdalone otherwise; but she said: I
shall now say a hard word, yet must thou bear it, my loveling, since we
twain are now become one, and have but one joy together and one sorrow.
Deemest thou that Atra is yet alive? Sooth it is, said Arthur, it may
well be that I have slain her. And what may we do by her if ever we fall
in with her alive? said Birdalone. I wot not, said Arthur; some would
say that we have done penance for our fault, both thou and I; and what
other penance may we do, save sundering from each other? And by God
above I will not. By thine head and thine hands I will not, said
Birdalone.
So said they; but therewith their eyes told tales of the fair eve and the
lovely meadows, and the house, the shrine of the dear white bed no less
sweet to them than erst; but then presently Birdalone stayed her love,
and took her arms about him, and each felt the sweetness of the other’s
body, and joy blossomed anew in their hearts. Then fell Arthur to
telling of the deeds and the kindness of Baudoin, whom never again they
should see on the earth; and they turned back home to the house, and on
the way spake Birdalone: This is what I would we should do: whereas I
have sought thee and thou me, and we have found each other, whereas ye
sought me when I went astray in the Black Valley of the Greywethers, and
before, when ye three sought your own loves, now I would that we should
seek our fellows and have joy in them, and thole sorrow with them as in
days gone by.
Spake Arthur: Dear is the rest with thee in this wilderness; yet were it
a deed of fame, and would bring about a day of joy, might we find our
friends again, and knit up the links of the fellowship once more. But
thou the wise and valiant! belike thou hast in thine head some device
whereby this might be set about.
Birdalone said: Simple is my device, to wit, that we ask one who is wiser
than I. Let us tarry not, but go to-morrow and see the wood-wife and
talk with her concerning it. Then she smiled upon him and said: But when
thou seest her, wilt thou be aghast if she come before us in my shape of
what I was five years agone, or six?
Nay, nay, he said, thou art not so terrible as that; not very far do I
run from thee now. And therewith they kissed and embraced, and so
entered the House of Love.
CHAPTER XXX. THEY HAVE SPEECH WITH HABUNDIA CONCERNING THE GREEN KNIGHT
AND HIS FELLOWS.
WHEN the morrow was they arose and went their ways toward the wood, and
Birdalone in her hunter’s coat, quiver at back and bow in hand. They
came to the Oak of Tryst, and Birdalone was at point to call on the
wood-wife by the burning of a hair of hers, when she came lightly from
out the thicket, clad as Birdalone, and her very image. She stood before
them with a glad countenance, and said: Welcome to the seekers and
finders. But Arthur stepped forth and knelt before her, and took her
right hand and kissed it, and said: Here I swear allegiance to thee, O
Lady of the Woods, to do thy will in all things, and give thee thanks
from my heart more than my tongue can say.
Quoth the wood-wife: I take thine allegiance, fair young man, and mine
help shalt thou have henceforward. Then she smiled and her eyes danced
for merriment, and she said: Yet thy thanks meseemeth for this while are
more due to the wise carline who brought thee through the woods two days
ago, and only left thee when the way was easy and clear to thee.
Lady, said Arthur, I know now how great is thy might, and that thou canst
take more shapes than this only; and humbly I thank thee that for us thou
hast taken the shape that I love the best of all on the earth.
Said the wood-wife: Stand up, Black Squire, and consider a little what
thou wouldst have me do for thee, while I have speech with mine image
yonder. And therewith she came up to Birdalone, and drew her a little
apart, and fell to stroking her cheeks and patting her hands and
diversely caressing her, and she said to her: How now, my child, have I
done for thee what I promised, and art thou wholly happy now? O yea,
said Birdalone; if nought else befell us in this life but to dwell
together betwixt the woodland and the water, and to see thee oft, full
happy should we be.
Nevertheless, said Habundia, art thou not come hither to ask somewhat of
me, that ye may be happier? So it is, wise mother, said Birdalone;
grudge not against me therefor, for more than one thing drives me
thereto. I will not grudge, said the wood-wife; but now I will ask thy
mate if he has thought what it is that he will have of me. And she
turned to Arthur, who came forth and said: Lady, I have heard thee, and
herein would we have thee help us: There were erst six fellows of us,
three caries and three queans, to whom was added this sweetling here; but
one of them, to wit the Golden Knight, was slain, and for the rest . . .
Yea, I know, said the wood-wife; my child here hath told me all; and now
ye wot not where they are or if they be yet alive, all or any of them.
Now is it not so that ye would seek these friends, if it were but to
greet them but once, and that ye would ask of the wise wood-wife help to
find them? Is there any more of the tale? Nay, lady, said Arthur.
Said she: Well then, that help shall ye have, were it but for the sake of
that little Viridis whereof my child hath told me. Wherefore abide
tidings of me for a fourteen days, and seek not to me ere then; and
meantime fear not, nor doubt me, for many messengers I have, and ever may
I do somewhat if the end of the tale is to be told in these woodlands:
and I deem these friends will not be hard to draw hither, for it is most
like that they be thinking of you and longing for you, as ye for them.
And now I will depart on my business, which is yours, and do ye be happy
to-day in the woodland, and to-morrow in the meadows and by the water;
and let no trouble weigh down your happy days.
Therewith she flitted away from them, when she had kissed them both. But
when she was gone they fared away together deep into the wood, and were
exceeding merry disporting them, and on their return they gat them
venison for their meat, and so came back to the House of Love when the
moon was up and shining brightly.
CHAPTER XXXI. HABUNDIA COMETH WITH TIDINGS OF THOSE DEAR FRIENDS.
WORE the days thenceforth merrily; and one day it was delight in the wide
meads, and another they went a long way west along the water-side, and so
into another meadow-plain, smaller than their home-plain, which Birdalone
had never erst come into; and three eyots lay off it, green and
tree-beset, whereto they swam out together. Then they went into the wood
thereby in the heat of the afternoon, and so wore the day, that they
deemed themselves belated, and lay there under a thorn-bush the night
through.
Another day Birdalone took her mate over on to Green Eyot and Rock Eyot,
and showed him all the places she was used to haunt. And they had their
fishing-gear with them, and angled off the eyots a good part of the day,
and had good catch, and swam back therewith merrily. And Birdalone
laughed, and said that it seemed to her as if once again she were
ransoming her skin of the witch-wife by that noble catch.
Divers times also they fared into the wood, and thrice they lay out the
night there in some woodlawn where was water; and on one of these times
it happed that Arthur awoke in the grey dawn, and lay open-eyed but not
moving for a little; and therewith he deemed he saw the gleam of war-gear
in the thicket. So he kept as still as he might, but gat his sword out
of its sheath without noise, and then leapt up suddenly, and sprang
thitherward whereas he had seen that token, and again saw armour gleam
and heard some man crashing through the underwood, for all was gone in
one moment. So he woke up Birdalone, and they bended their bows both of
them, and searched the thicket thereabouts heedfully, arrow on string,
but found nought fiercer than a great sow and her farrow. So came the
full day, and they gat them back to their meadows and their house; but
thereafter were they warier in going about the woodland.
In all joyance then wore the days till the fifteenth, and in the morning
early they went their ways to the Oak of Tryst, and had no need to call
Habundia to them, for presently she came forth out of the thicket, with
her gown gathered up into her girdle and bow in hand. But she cast it
down and ran up to Birdalone, and kissed her and clipped her, and then
she took a hand of Arthur and a hand of Birdalone, and held them both and
said: My child, and thou dear knight, have ye still a longing to fall in
with those friends of yours, and to run all risk of whatsoever contention
and strife there may be betwixt you thereafter? Yea, certes, said
Arthur; and even so said Birdalone. Well is that then, said the
wood-wife; but now and for this time, ere I help you, I shall put a price
upon my help, and this is the price, that ye swear to me never wholly to
sunder from me; that once in the year at least, as long as ye be alive
and wayworthy, ye come into the Forest of Evilshaw, and summon me by the
burning of a hair of mine, that we may meet and be merry for a while, and
part with the hope of meeting once more at least. And if ye will not pay
the price, go in peace, and ye shall yet have my help in all other
matters that may seem good unto you, but not in this of joining your
fellowship together. How sayest thou, Birdalone, my child? How sayest
thou, Black Squire, whom, as meseemeth, I have delivered from a fate
worse than death, and have brought out of wretchedness into bliss?
Spake Birdalone: Had I dared, I would have bidden thee to swear to me
even such an oath, to wit, that thou wouldst never wholly sunder thee
from me. How then may I not swear this that thou biddest me, and that
with all joy and trustiness?
Spake Arthur: Lady, had I no will to swear oath for thy sake, yet with a
good will would I swear it for my true-love’s sake who loveth thee. Yet
verily of mine own will would I swear it joyfully, were it for nought
else save to pleasure thee, who hast done so kindly by me, and hath given
me back my manhood and my love, which else I had miserably lost.
Spake the wood-wife: It is well again. Join hands then, and swear as I
have bidden you by the love ye bear each other.
Even so they did, and then the wood-wife kissed them both and said: Now
do I deem you earth’s very children and mine, and this desire of yours is
good, and it shall be done if I may bring it about; yet therein the
valiance and wisdom of you both may well be tried. For this have I found
out by my messengers and others, that your friends are alive, all of
them; and they have thought of you in their inmost hearts, and have long
determined that they must needs go seek you if they are to live lives
happy and worthy. Furthermore, their quest hath drawn them hither to
Evilshaw (nor say I that I have been nothing therein), and they are even
now in the wood. But ye shall know that peril encompasses them; for they
fare but a few, and of those few be there two traitors who are minded to
deliver them to the men of the Red Company, unto whom three women as fair
as your she-friends were a prize indeed. Wherefore the Red Folk are
dogging them, and will fall upon them when they find the occasion. But I
shall see to it that the occasion shall be in time and place where they
shall not be unholpen. Now what ye have to do for your parts, is to
waylay the waylayers, and keep watch and ward anigh the road they must
needs take, and to fall on when need is. But this again I shall see to,
that your onset fail not.
But now ye may say: Since thou art mighty, why shouldst not thou thyself
take our friends out of the hands of these accursed, as thou couldst well
do, and we to take no part therein? My friends, this might indeed well
be; but thou, Birdalone, hast told me the whole tale, and how that there
be wrongs to be forgiven which cannot be made right, and past kindness to
be quickened again, and coldness to be kindled into love, and
estrangement into familiar friendship; and meseems that the sight of your
bodies and your hands made manifest to the eyes of them may do somewhat
herein. Yet if otherwise ye think, then so let it be, and go ye back to
the House under the Wood, and in three days’ time I will bring you your
friends all safe and sound.
Now they both said that they would not for aught that they should have no
hand in the deliverance of them; so the wood-wife said: Come with me, and
I shall lead you to the place of your ambush.
Then all they went on together, and fared a long way west, and toward the
place where erst they two had found Arthur; and at last, two hours before
sunset, they came to where was a glade or way between the thickets, which
was as it were a little beaten by the goings of man-folk. And the
wood-wife did them to wit, that the evil folk aforesaid had so used it
and beaten it, that it might just look as if folk were wont to pass that
way, whereas it was not very far from their chiefest haunt and
stronghold. A little on the north side of this half-blind way, and some
ten yards through the thicket, the ground fell away into a little dale,
the bottom whereof was plain and well grassed, and watered by a brook.
Thither the wood-wife brought the twain; and when they all stood together
on the brook-side, she said to them: Dear friends, this is your woodland
house for this time, and I rede you go not forth of it, lest ye happen
upon any of those evil men; for nought have ye to fear from any save
them. Here amidst these big stones, which make, see ye, as it were a
cavern, have I stowed victual for you; and armour therewithal, because,
though both of you are in a manner armed, yet who knoweth where a shaft
drawn at a venture may reach.
And from the said stones she drew forth two very fair armours, helm and
hauberk, and leg and arm wards; and they were all of green, and shone but
little, but were fashioned as no smith of man-folk could have done the
like.
This is thine, Sir Arthur, said the wood-wife, and thou wilt wear it like
as it were silk; and this thine, my child, and thou art strong enough to
bear such light gear. And I charge you both to do on this gear
presently, nor do it off till ye have achieved the adventure. And now
this is the last word: here is a horn of oliphant which thou shalt wear
about thy neck, Birdalone; and if thou be sore bestead, or thy heart
faileth thee, blow in it, yet not before the onfall; and then, whether
thou blow much or little, thou shalt be well holpen.
Now be not downcast if nought befall to-night or to-morrow, or even the
day after; but if the third day be tidingless, then at sunset burn a hair
of my head, Birdalone, and I will come to you. And now farewell! for I
have yet to do in this matter.
With that she kissed Birdalone fondly and embraced Arthur, and went her
way; and those twain abode in the dale, and slept and watched by turns,
and all was tidingless till the morrow’s dawn; neither was there aught to
tell of on that day and the night that ended it.
CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST AND THE RESCUE OF THOSE
FRIENDS FROM THE MEN OF THE RED COMPANY.
LIGHT was growing on the dawn of the next day, and the colours of things
could be seen, when Birdalone, who was holding this last watch of the
night, stood still and hearkened, deeming that she could hear some noise
that was neither the morning wind in the tree-boughs nor the going of the
wild things anear them in the wood.
So she did off her helm to hear the better, and stood thus a little; then
she turned about and stooped down to Arthur, who was yet sleeping, and
put forth a hand to rouse him. But or ever she touched him, broke forth
a sound of big and rough voices and laughter, and amidst it two shrieks
as of women.
Arthur heard it, and was on his feet in a moment, and helmed, and he
caught up his bended bow and cast on the quiver (for Birdalone was
already weaponed), and without more words they went forth swiftly up the
bank and through the thicket till they were looking on the half-blind
way, but under cover, and there was nothing before them as yet.
There they stayed and hearkened keenly. There were no more shrieks of
women, nor heard they any weapon clash, but the talking and laughter of
men went on; and at last they heard a huge and grim whoop of many men
together; and then thereafter was less sound of talking, but came the
jingle as of arms and harness; and Arthur whispered in Birdalone’s ear:
Stand close! they have gotten to horse, and will be coming our way. Nock
an arrow. And even so did he.
Therewith they heard clearly the riding of men, and in less than five
minutes’ space they saw three big weaponed men riding together, clad in
red surcoats, and they were so nigh that they heard the words of their
speech. One said to the other: How long shall the knight hold out, think
ye? Oh, a week maybe, said the other. Meseems it was scathe that we
stayed not a while to pine him, said the first man. Nay, said the
second, we be over-heavy laden with bed-gear to tarry. And they all
laughed thereat, and so went on out of hearing.
But then came four on together, whereof one, a gaunt, oldish man, was
saying: It is not so much how long we shall be getting there, but what
shall betide when we get there. For this is not like lifting a herd of
neat, whereof sharing is easy, but with this naked-skinned, two-legged
cattle, which forsooth ye can eat and yet have, there may well be strife
over the sharing. And look to it if it hath not begun already: we must
needs dismount three of our best men that these white-skinned bitches
forsooth may each have a horse to herself, or else would they be fighting
as to which should have a damsel of them before him on the saddle: curse
the fools!
Laughed out they who were about him, and one young man cast a jeer at him
the meaning whereof they might not catch, and again they laughed; and
that deal passed on. And next came a bigger rout, a half score or so,
and they also laughing and jeering; but amidst them, plain to see riding
a-straddle, their ankles twisted together under the horses’ bellies,
their hands bound behind them, first Atra, black-clad as erst; then
Aurea, in a gown of wheat-colour; then Viridis, green-clad. Atra rode
upright, and looking straight before her; Aurea hung her head all she
might, and her long red hair fell about her face; but Viridis had
swooned, and was held up in the saddle by one of the caitiffs on each
side of her. They were but little disarrayed, save that some felon had
torn the bosom of Viridis’ gown, and dragged down the cloth so that her
left shoulder was bare.
Arthur looked, and drew at the caitiff who went afoot beside Atra, and
Birdalone at him who went by Viridis, for she wotted whitherward Arthur’s
shaft would be turned. The loose of the two bows made but one sound;
both men fell stark dead, and the others huddled together a moment, and
then ran toward the thicket on either hand, and they who ran north, two
of them saw not Arthur, because of his green armour, ere they felt the
death which lay in his sword. And then he brake out amidst them, and
there were three of them on him, yet for no long while, whereas their
weapons bit not on the armour of the Faery, and his woodland blade
sheared leather and ring-mail to the flesh and the bone: mighty were his
strokes, and presently all three were wallowing on the earth.
Even therewith the seven who had passed on had turned back and were come
on him a-horse-back; and hard had it gone with him, despite of his might
and his valour and the trustiness of Habundia’s mail. But meanwhile
Birdalone had run to Viridis, who had fallen a dead weight aside of her
horse, and lay half hanging by the bonds of her ankles. Birdalone
swiftly cut the cords both of her feet and her hands, and drew her off
her horse as best she might, and laid her down on the grass; and then ran
to Arthur sword aloft, just as his new battle was at point to begin.
But as she ran it came into her mind in a twinkling that her sword would
be but weak, and the horn hung about her neck. Then she stayed her feet,
and set the horn to her lips and blew; and the oliphant gave forth a long
singing note which was strange to hear. But while it was yet at her lips
one of the caitiffs was upon her, and he cried out: Hah the witch, the
accursed green witch! and fetched her a great stroke from his saddle, and
smote her on the helm; and though his sword bit not on that good
head-burg, she fell to the ground unwitting.
Yet was not the wood-wife’s promise unavailing, for even while the voice
of the horn was in the air, the way and thickets were alive with
men-at-arms, green-clad as those twain, who straightway fell on the
caitiffs, and with Arthur to help, left not one of them alive. Then went
some to Viridis, and raised her up, and so dealt with her that she came
to herself again; and the like they did by Birdalone, and she stood, and
looked about confusedly, but yet saw this, that they had gotten the
victory. Some went withal to Aurea, and cut her bonds and took her off
her horse and set her on the ground; and she was all bewildered, and knew
not where she was.
But Arthur, when he saw Birdalone on her feet, and unhurt by seeming,
went to Atra, and cut her bonds and loosed her, and set her on the earth,
all without a word, and then stood before her shyly. Came the colour
back into her face therewith, and she flushed red, for she knew him
despite his outlandish green war-harness, and she reached out her hand to
him, and he knelt before her and took her hand and kissed it. But she
bent over him till her face was anigh his, and he lifted up his face and
kissed her mouth. And she drew aback a little, but yet looked on him
earnestly, and said: Thou hast saved my life, not from death indeed, but
from a loathsome hell; I may well thank thee for that. And O, if my
thanks might be fruitful to thee! And her bosom heaved, and the sobs
came, and the tears began to run down her cheeks. And he hung his head
before her. But in a while she left weeping, and turned about her face
and looked round the field of deed; and she said: Who is yonder slim
green warrior who hath even now knelt down by Viridis? Is it not a
woman? Arthur reddened: Yea, said he; it is Birdalone. Thy love? she
said. He said swiftly: Yea, and thy friend, and this time thy deliverer.
So it is, she said. It is five years since I beheld her. My heart
yearns for her; I shall rejoice at the meeting of us.
She was silent, and he also a while; then she said: But why tarry we here
in idle talk when he is yet bound, and in torment of body and soul; he
the valiant, and the kind and the dear brother? Come, tarry for no
question. And she stepped out swiftly along the green road going
westward, and Arthur beside her; and as they went by Viridis, lo! Aurea
had wandered unto them, and now was Birdalone unhelmed and kissing and
comforting her. Then cried out Atra: Keep up thine heart, Viridis! for
now we go to fetch thee thy man safe and sound.
So they went but a little way on the green road ere they came to Sir Hugh
bound hard and fast to a tree-bole, and he naked in his shirt, and hard
by lay the bodies of two stout carles with their throats cut; for these
honest men and the two felons who had betrayed them were all the
following wherewith the Green Knight had entered Evilshaw. And as it
fell, the traitors had been set to watch while the others slept; and
sleeping the caitiffs found them, and slew the said men-at-arms at once,
but bound Hugh to a tree that he might be the longer a-dying; since none
looked for any but their own folk to pass by that way. All this they
heard afterwards of Hugh.
But now the said Hugh heard men going, and he opened his eyes, and saw
Atra and a man-at-arms with her; and he cried out: Hah, what is this now,
sister? a rescue? Yea, she said, and look thou on the face of the
rescuer; and there is another hard by, and she is a woman.
Therewith was Arthur on him and cutting his bonds, and when he was loose
they fell into each other’s arms, and Hugh spake: Now then at last doth
life begin for me as I willed it! And hast thou my sweet she-fellow,
Birdalone, with thee? Yea, said Arthur. How good is that! said Hugh.
And yet, if it might but be that Baudoin were yet alive for us to seek!
Then he laughed and said: These be but sorry garments wherewith to wend
along with dear and fair ladies, brother! Nay, said Arthur, that may
soon be amended, for yonder, where sword met sword, lieth raiment
abundantly on the grass. Fie on it! said Hugh, laughing; shall I do on
me the raiment of those lousy traitors? Not I, by the rood! Thou must
seek further for my array, dear lad! So they all laughed, and were glad
to laugh together. But Atra said: It is easier even than that, for thine
own fair garments and weapons shall we find if we seek them. Sooth to
say there was none left to bear them off, save it were this man, or
Birdalone his mate.
With that word she looked kindly on Arthur, and again they laughed all
three; though forsooth they were well-nigh weeping-ripe; one for joy, and
that was Hugh; one for memory of the days gone by; and one for the
bitterness of love that should never be rewarded; albeit dear even unto
her was the meeting of friends and the glory of forgiveness and the end
of enmity.
CHAPTER XXXIII. VIRIDIS TELLETH THE TALE OF THEIR SEEKING.
NOW came they back to where were the three others, and Viridis was quite
come to herself and ran to meet her man, and he took her in his arms and
caressed her sweetly; and then he turned to Birdalone, and spared no sign
of friendly love to her; and Arthur, for his part, did so much for Aurea
and Viridis. No long tale there was between them for that while, for
they would busk them to be gone. But first they dug a grave for those
two poor men who had been slain by the felons, and prayed for them. As
for the caitiffs who lay slain there, one score and two of them, they
left them for the wolves to devour, and the tearing of the kites and
crows; nor meddled they with any of their gear or weapons. But they
speedily found Hugh’s raiment, and his pouch, wherein was money good
store; and they found also rings and ouches and girdles, which had been
torn from the damsels in the first rage of their taking.
First though, when they had gathered together such horses as they needed,
and let the rest run wild, Birdalone brought her she-friends down into
the dale, and did them to bathe in a pool of the stream, and tended them
as if she were their tire-woman, so that they were mightily refreshed;
and she made garlands for them of the woodland flowers, as eglantine and
honeysuckle; and herself, she bathed her, and did not on her battle-gear
again, but clad her body in her woman’s array.
Then she brought forth victual and wine from Habundia’s store, and set it
out on the stream-side; and thereafter she went up the bent to the green
way and fetched down Hugh and Arthur, and brought them to the ladies, and
bade them note how trim and lovely they were gotten again, and again it
could scarce be but that kisses and caresses were toward; and in all
content and love they took their breakfast, though bitter-sweet unto Atra
had been the holding of her hand by Arthur and the kissing of her cheek,
albeit not for worlds had she foregone it.
So there they abode merrily for some three hours, whereas the day was yet
young; and they asked and told each other much, so that the whole tale,
both of the seekers from the world and of the seekers from the
water-side, came out little by little. Now of the last ye have heard
what there is to tell, but for the others Viridis took up the tale, as
erst she did with the dealings of the Knights of the Quest in the Isle of
Increase Unsought; and it seemed by her tale that Hugh and the ladies,
though they were living happily and prosperously in the land of the Green
Mountains, wherein Hugh had wealth enow, yet the thought both of Arthur
and of Birdalone would not out of their minds, and often it was that they
thought of them, not as friends think of friends of whom they are content
to know that they are yet alive and most-like thriving, but as friends
think of friends whose absence cuts a shard out of their lives, so that
they long to see them day by day. Wherefore it came to this at last,
after much talk hereof, that Hugh left his possessions and his children
(for he had two women-bairns born of Viridis) in the keeping of trusty
folk, and took with him Viridis his wife, and Aurea and Atra, and they
set out to seek those twain the world over till they should find them.
And first by the rede of Atra they fared to Greenford, and there tarried
a month, and sought tidings of many, and heard a word here and there
whereby they deemed that Birdalone had passed therethrough some little
time before. So they went thence to the Castle of the Quest, and found
it in such plight as ye have heard, and it went sore to their hearts to
behold it and to be there. But therewithal they happed upon Leonard the
priest, and he was rejoiced beyond measure to see them, and told them all
that ye have heard concerning Birdalone’s coming thither and departing
thence; and he told them therewith about those hauntings and sendings in
the hall of the castle, and that they came to an end the very day that
Birdalone departed thence in the Sending Boat. Yet for the last three
days there had been visions therein; but being questioned he was loth to
tell thereof, so they forbore him a while.
At these tidings they were sore moved, and they talked the matter over
betwixt themselves (and Leonard also was in their redes), and they must
needs deem that either Birdalone was cast away, or that she had come to
her old dwelling, the House under the Wood, and belike had fallen into
the hands of the witch once more, and thereat were they sore downcast;
and yet somewhat it was, that they had heard sure tidings of her; though
meanwhile of Arthur had they heard nought.
While they talked this over, Atra, who had been somewhat silent, spake
and said: Here are we brought to a stop with the first tidings which we
have heard, whereas we know no manner of wending the Great Water. This
seemeth evil, but let us not be cast down, or die redeless. Ye have
heard of what sayeth Sir Leonard of these hauntings in the hall, and how
that they have come back again, wherefore why should we not sleep in the
hall this night, those of us at least who have not so much fear as not to
note them well, to see if we may draw any avail from them? How say ye?
For my part I will try the adventure, whatever may come of it.
Now they all yeasaid it, though Aurea was somewhat timorous, albeit she
would not be parted from the others; so when night came there they made
their beds and lay down; and the end of it was, that a little before
midnight Atra waked the others, and did them to wit that by her deeming
something was toward; and presently they were all four as wide awake as
ever they were in their lives; and next, without any sound that was
strange, there came the image of a woman on to the dais, clad in green
like to an huntress of ancient days, her feet sandalled, her skirts
gathered up into her girdle, so that her legs were naked; she had a
quiver at her back, and a great bow in her hand.
Now to all of them save Atra this appearance seemed to be the image of
Birdalone; but she told her fellows afterwards, that to her it seemed not
to be altogether Birdalone, but rather some other one most like unto her,
as it were her twin-sister.
Gazed the image kindly and sweetly on them, so that they beheld it
without fear; and it seemed to them that it gave forth speech; yet not so
much that the sound of words was in the air about and smote their ears,
as that the sense of words reached the minds of them. And this was the
tale of it: Ye, who are seeking the lost, have done well to come hither,
and now shall ye do well to wend the straightest way to the dwelling of
the wildwood, and that is by way of the western verge of Evilshaw the
forest. Greenford is on the way. Way-leaders ye shall get; be wise, yet
not prudent, and take them, though they be evil, and your luck may well
avail.
Therewith the image vanished away as it had come, and Leonard, who with
the others took the appearance for an image of Birdalone, said that it
was such as he had seen it the three last days. So they lay not down
again, but departed for Greenford without tarrying, and rode the other
end of the short night through till they came to Greenford. But Leonard
would not with them; and Hugh behight him, if he lived and did well, to
come back somehow to the Castle of the Quest, and so redo it that it
should be no longer desolate. So to Greenford they came, and spared not
to do folk to wit that they would ride a pilgrimage in Evilshaw, and were
fain of way-leaders; and there they dwelt a day or two, and many would
let them of that journey, which, said they, was rather deadly than
perilous only. But on the third day came to Sir Hugh two stout carles
well weaponed, who said that they knew well all the ways that led to
Evilshaw, and the ways that went therethrough, and they offered
themselves for a wage to Sir Hugh. Now these said carles were not over
fair of favour, but seemed somewhat of ribalds, nor would Sir Hugh have
taken them to service in his house at home; but he called to mind that it
were more prudence than wisdom to spoil his journey and lose the occasion
of finding his dear friends for the hasty judgment of a man’s face and
demeanour, wherefore he waged these two men, and they set out for the
western edges of Evilshaw.
Many towns and thorps they passed through, and everywhere, when men knew
whither they were bound, they letted them all they might in words; but
little heed they paid thereto, whereas they were all fixed in their rede
that nought was to be done save the finding of their friends, and that
their life-days were spoiled if they found them not. And moreover, each
one of them, but especially Atra and Viridis, had dreams of the night
from time to time, wherein they seemed to see the green-clad woman, were
she Birdalone or another, beckoning and bidding them to enter the Wood of
Evilshaw.
As to those two way-leaders withal, whether it were that they got used to
their faces, or that their ways and manners were nought uncourteous or
fierce, they doubted them less and less as time wore; all save Viridis,
whose flesh crept when they drew anigh her, as will betide one who comes
across an evil-looking creeping thing. As for Atra, she now began to
heed little the things about her, as if her heart were wholly set on the
end of the journey.
But now at last were they come so far that they had no choice but to use
the said way-leaders, for they were gotten to the edge of Evilshaw. So
they entered it, and those two led them by half-blind ways and paths
amongst the thickets, and fumbled never with the road.
Five days they went thus, and on the fifth evening they lay down to sleep
in the wood, and it was the turn of those two hirelings to keep watch and
ward, and they woke not the next morn save with the hands of the Red
Felons at their throats, so that Hugh was bound, and his two trusty men
who came with him from the Green Mountains were slain before a stroke
might be struck.
This was the end of Viridis’ tale, save that she told how that it was she
that had uttered those two shrieks which Arthur and Birdalone had heard
from the thicket; and that she had so done when the two false way-leaders
laid hold of her to drag her away from her man, who stood there before
her bound to a tree that he might perish there, whereon the two caitiffs
had smitten her into unwit that they might have no more of her cries.
Now when all this had been told, and they had abided awhile in the fair
little dale, and had said many kind endearing words of friendship, they
went up on the green way again, and took what of the horses they needed
and trussed their goods thereon (and Birdalone would not leave that brave
armour which Habundia had given her), and they dight others for their
home-riding, and the rest they turned loose into the woods, and so rode
their ways, Birdalone going ever with Atra, and Arthur by Aurea; but
Viridis must needs have Hugh within reach of her hand all the way.
Good speed they made, so that ere the night had fallen on them, though
the sun was set, they ‘had come to the House under the Wood; and there
again was joy and wondering of the new-comers, and merry feasting on such
simple victuals as were there, and good-night and rest in all contentment
in the house where erst had Birdalone tholed so many griefs and fears.
* * * * *
Here ends the Sixth Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called The Days of Absence, and begins the Seventh Part, which is called
The Days of Returning.
THE SEVENTH PART: THE DAYS OF RETURNING.
CHAPTER I. SIR HUGH ASKETH BIRDALONE WHERE SHE WOULD HAVE THE ABODE OF
THEIR FELLOWSHIP TO BE.
ON the next day, they arose and were glad, and it was to them as if the
sun of the early summer had arisen for nought save to shine on their
happy day. And they went about from place to place whereas tidings had
befallen Birdalone; and she served them one and all as if she were their
handmaid, and they loved her and caressed her, and had been fain to do
all her will did they but know it.
In this wise wore day after day till June began to wane, and then on a
time came Hugh unto Birdalone, and spake unto her and said: All we have
been talking together, and I am sent to ask thee what is in thy mind as
to abiding here or going elsewhither. For now that we be come together
again, not for all the kingdoms of the world would we sunder again; and
above all, none of us would leave thee, O my sister. But if thou wilt
come with me to our land under the Green Mountains, there is for thee a
pleasant place and a fair dwelling, and honour from all folk, and our
love that shall never leave thee; and I, and Arthur my brother, we shall
win fame together amongst the knighthood, and thou shalt be proud and
glad both of him and of me.
She said: And if I may not go with thee thither, what other way is there
to escape the sundering? Said Hugh: This, that thou choose in the world
what land liketh thee for a dwelling-place, and we will go with thee and
leave thee never, and thou shalt be our lady and queen. Then he laughed
and said: Yet, our lady, I have left behind me under the Green Mountains
certain things which I love, as two fair women-children, and a squire or
two whose fathers served my fathers, and whose children I would should
serve my children. And moreover I have left there certain matters of
avail, my wealth and livelihood to wit. Wilt thou begrudge it if I must
needs go fetch these, and bring them to the land where thou dwellest,
through whatever peril we may have to face?
Dear art thou, she said, and my very friend, but tell me: how sorry
wouldst thou be to leave thine own land and follow after me for the sake
of one who is neither thine own true love nor of thy kindred? Said he:
Not so sorry that I should grudge against thee thereafter. Moreover if
that much of sorrow came to me, I should deem it not ill, lest I grow so
over-happy that the luck rise up against me and undo me.
She said, smiling on him kindly: Meseems that I am over-happy, whereas I
have such dear cherishing of noble friends. But now I will tell thee
all, and maybe thou wilt love me the less for the telling. In these
woods here, and lady and mistress of them, dwelleth one who is not of the
race of Adam. And she helped and cherished me and gave me wisdom when I
was tormented and accursed, and she it was who saved me from the evil
witch, and gave me the good hap to meet your loves and to fetch you to
their helping; and twice hath she saved me from mortal peril otherwise.
And she hath found me my love, thy brother Arthur, and delivered him from
unwit and wanhope; and she it is who drew all you hither unto us, and who
delivered you from the felons who had mastered you. And I have sworn
unto her that I would never wholly sunder me from her; and how shall I
break mine oath and grieve her, even had I the will thereto, as God wot I
have not? And she wept therewith.
But Hugh kissed her and said: Birdalone, my dear, why weepest thou?
Didst thou not hear my word, that thy people should be my people, and thy
land my land, and that whither thou goest I will go? Dost thou not trow
me then? Or how deemest thou I may tear thy friend Viridis from thee,
when she hath just found thee? But tell me, hast thou in thy mind any
dwelling-place other than this?
Yea, she said: I may not depart very far from this forest of Evilshaw
lest I grieve my wisdom-mother overmuch. But if one go westward through
the wood, he shall happen at last, when he cometh forth of it, on a good
town hight Utterhay, which lieth on the very edge thereof. There was I
born, and there also I look to find three dear and trusty friends to whom
I owe return of their much kindness. It is a noble town in a pleasant
land, and thou and my lord Arthur may well win both honour and worship
and lordship there. And wholly I trust in thy word that thou wilt not
grudge against me for dragging thee thither.
Therewith she gave him her hand, smiling on him, though there was yet
trouble in her face. But he took the hand and held it, and laughed
merrily and said: Lo now! how good it is for friends to take counsel
together! What better may we do than go with thee thither? And how
greatly will Viridis rejoice when she heareth of this. Now will I go and
tell her and the others.
Go then, dear lad, she said; but as to the matter of thy fetching thy
children and livelihood hither, that may be not so hard nor so perilous
as thou deemest; and thou shalt go about it whenso thou wilt, and the
sooner the better, and we shall abide thee here as long as need may be.
And therewith he went his ways to tell Viridis and the others of this
rede which they had come to between them.
CHAPTER II. BIRDALONE TAKETH COUNSEL WITH HER WOOD-MOTHER CONCERNING THE
MATTER OF SIR HUGH.
ON that same day went Birdalone to the Oak of Tryst and called her
wood-mother to her, and she came glad and smiling, and kissed and
embraced Birdalone, and said unto her: Now I see that thou art well
content with this last matter I have done for thee, whereas thou art come
to crave a new gift of me. How knowest thou that? said Birdalone,
laughing. Said Habundia:
Wouldst thou have come to me so soon otherwise from out of all that
happiness? I have come to tell thee of my rede, said Birdalone, and to
ask thee if thou art like-minded with me thereon. Said the wood-wife:
And what is thy rede, my child? Wood-mother, said Birdalone, we deem
that it were good for us all to go down into Utterhay where I was born,
and to take up our abode therein.
Said the wood-wife: This rede I praise, and even so would I have
counselled you to do; but I abided to see if it should come from out of
thy breast, and now even so it hath done; wherefore I understand thy
wisdom and rejoice in thee. And now crave thy boon, my child, and thou
shalt have it without fail.
Yea, said Birdalone, that will I, and the more that it is a simple one
and easy for thee to do. Thou knowest that Hugh the Green Knight hath
come with my she-friends seeking us all the way from under the Green
Mountains, and he hath left there goods that he needs must have and folk
whom he loves; and now he would go back thither, and fetch all that away
hither, and see to his matters as soon as may be. And I would have thee
counsel us what to do, whether to build a barque, as perchance we may get
it done, and sail the lake therein to the Castle of the Quest or
thereabout, and thence to ride to his land; or else to take thy guidance
and safe-conduct through the wood, and to bring his folk back the same
way.
Said the wood-wife: As to the way by water, I may help you little
therein, and meseemeth that way be many traps and wiles and many perils.
Wherefore I bid you try it not, but let the Green Knight come up hither
to this tree to-morrow before noon, all horsed and armed and arrayed, and
there shall he find three men armed in green gear, horsed well, and
leading two sumpter-beasts with them; and they shall be his until he
giveth them back unto me. But if he doubteth any thing betwixt the
wood’s end and under the Green Mountains, let him wage what folk he will
besides, for these my men will have money enough of his with them. But
by no means let him send them away till he hath done with the wood
altogether, both betwixt here and the western dwelt-land, and here and
Utterhay, save thou be with him. But while these be with him, both he
and whatsoever money he bringeth shall be sure from all peril whiles they
be in the wood. Now, my child, was not this the boon thou camest up
hither to ask of me?
Yea verily, said Birdalone; yet also I came up hither to praise thee and
thank thee and love thee. And she threw herself into Habundia’s arms and
kissed and caressed her, and Habundia her in like wise.
Spake the wood-wife: Thou art the beloved child of my wisdom; and now I
see of thee that thou wilt be faithful and true and loving unto me unto
the end. And I think I can see that thou and thy man shall do well and
happily in Utterhay; and the Green Knight also and thy she-friends. And
whatsoever thou wilt of me that I may do for thee or thy friends, ask it
freely, and freely shalt thou have it. But this I will bid thee, that
the while the Green Knight shall be gone about his matter, thou shalt
come hither to me often; and thy friends also thou shalt bring to me,
that I may see them and talk to them and love them. And specially shalt
thou bid Atra unto me; for meseems she is so wise already that I may
learn her more wisdom, and put that into her heart which may solace her
and make her to cease from fretting her own heart, and from grief and
longing overmuch. And I were fain to reward her in that she hath
forborne to grudge against thee and to bear thee enmity. For I know, my
child, not from mine own heart, but from the wisdom I have learned, how
hardly the children of Adam may bear to have that which they love taken
away from them by another, even if they themselves might in the long last
have wearied of it and cast it away their own selves. Go now, my child,
and do thy friend to wit what I will do for him.
Therewith they parted, and Birdalone fared home to the house, and found
the fellowship of them all sitting by the brookside, and talking sweetly
together in all joy and hope of what their life should be in the new land
whereto Birdalone would lead them. Straightway then she told them of
Hugh and his journey, and how well he should be guarded in the wood both
coming and going. And they thought that right good, and they thanked her
and praised her, and took her into their talk, and she sat down by them
happily.
CHAPTER III. OF THE JOURNEYING THROUGH THE FOREST OF EVILSHAW UNTO THE
TOWN OF UTTERHAY.
ON the morrow in due time Birdalone, going afoot, led Sir Hugh, all-armed
and horsed, to the Oak of Tryst, and there they found the three
men-at-arms, well-weaponed and in green weed, abiding them. They did
obeisance to Sir Hugh, and he greeted them, and then without more ado he
kissed Birdalone and went his ways with his way-leaders, but Birdalone
turned back to the house and her friends.
Next day Birdalone brought her three she-friends unto the Trysting Oak,
and showed them to the wood-mother, and she was kind and soft with them;
and both Aurea and Viridis were shy with her, and as if they feared her,
but Atra was frank and free, and spake boldly. And thereafter when
Birdalone went to meet her wood-mother, Atra would go with her if she
were asked, and at last would go alone, when she found that Habundia was
fain of her coming, so that there were not many days when they met not;
and the wood-wife fell to learning her the lore of the earth, as she had
done aforetime with Birdalone; and Atra waxed ruddier and merrier of
countenance, whereof was Birdalone right glad, and Arthur yet more glad,
and the others well content.
So wore the time till Hugh had been gone for twenty and three days, and
as they walked the meadows anigh the house about undern, they saw a
knight riding down the bent toward them, and presently they knew him for
Hugh, and turned and hastened to meet him, so that he was straightway
amidst them, and on foot. Dear then were the greetings and caresses
betwixt them, and when it was over, and Birdalone had led away his horse
and dight it for him, and had gotten him victuals and drink, and they
were all sitting on the grass together, he told them how he had fared.
He had done all his matters in the Land under the Green Mountains, and
had given over his lands and houses to a man of his lineage, his cousin,
a good knight, and had taken from him of gold and goods what he would.
Then he had taken his two bairns and their nurse, and an old squire and
five sergeants, whereof one was his foster-brother, and the others men
somewhat stricken in years, and had departed with them. Sithence he had
come his ways to Greenford, and had held talk therein with the prior of a
great and fair house of Black Canons, and had given him no little wealth
wherewith to re-do the Castle of the Quest what was needed, and for
livelihood of four canons to dwell there, and Leonard to be their prior,
that there they might remember Sir Baudoin their dear friend daily in the
office, and do good unto his soul. Sithence he had ridden to the Castle
of the Quest with the said Prior of St. Austin of Greenford, and had
found Leonard, and had settled all the business how it was to be done.
Thereafter he had returned to Greenford, and gathered his folk, and got
him gone, under the guidance of Habundia’s folk, by castles and thorps
and towns the nearest way to the edge of Evilshaw. And they had come to
the forest, and ridden it six days without mishap; and when they had come
to the Oak of Tryst once more, the way-leaders said that it were well if
all they together tarried not much longer in the forest; wherefore they
had brought them to a fair wood-lawn, and there they encamped, and were
there as now. And, said Hugh, there are they abiding me, and it is in my
mind that this very eve we go, all of us, and meet them there, if ye may
truss your goods in that while; but as to victuals, we have plenty, and
it needeth not. And then to-morrow shall we wend our way as straight as
may be toward the good town of Utterhay.
All they yeasaid it, though in her heart maybe Birdalone had been fain of
abiding a little longer in her own land; but she spake no word thereof.
And they all set to work to the trussing up of their goods, and then
turned their backs on the Great Water, and came up into the woodland, and
so to the camp in the wood-lawn. And there had Viridis a joyful meeting
with her babes, and she gladdened the hearts of Sir Hugh’s men-at-arms by
her kind greeting; and they rejoiced in meeting Aurea and Atra again, and
they wondered at Birdalone and her beauty, and their hearts went out to
her, both the old men’s and the young ones. But Habundia’s men looked on
it all like images of warriors.
There then they feasted merrily that evening. But when the morrow was
come they were speedily on the way toward Utterhay; and the way-leaders
guided them so well and wisely, that by noon of the fifth day they were
come forth of the wood and on to the bent that looked down upon the town
of Utterhay. There turned to Hugh the three way-leaders, and spake:
Lord, we have done thee the service which we were bidden; if thou hast no
further need of us, give us leave.
Said Hugh: Leave ye have, and I shall give you a great reward ere ye go.
Said the chief of them: Nay, lord, no reward may we take, save a token
from thee that thou art content with us. What token shall it be? said
Hugh. Quoth the way-leader: That each of us kiss the Lady Birdalone on
the mouth, for she it is that is verily our mistress under our great
mistress.
Laughed Hugh thereat, but the men laughed not; then spake Hugh: This must
be at the lady’s own will. Even so, said they.
Then Hugh brought Birdalone thither and told her what was toward, and she
consented to the kiss with a good will, and said to each of the men after
they had kissed her: Herewith goeth my love to the mistress and queen of
the woods; do ye bear the same unto her. And thereafter those
way-leaders fared back into the woods.
Now they gather themselves together and go down toward Utterhay, and make
a brave show, what with the sumpter-horses, and the goodly array of the
four ladies, and the glittering war-gear of the men-at-arms; and Sir Hugh
and Sir Arthur displayed their pennons as they went.
All this saw the warders on the wall of Utterhay; and they told the
captain of the porte, and he came up on to the wall, and a man with him;
and when he saw this bright company coming forth from the wood, he bade
men to him, two score of them, all weaponed, and he did on his armour,
and rode out-a-gates with them to meet those new-comers; and this he did,
not because he did not see them to be but few, but because they came
forth out of Evilshaw, and then doubted if they were trustworthy.
So he met them two bowshots from the gate, and rode forward till he was
close to the wayfarers; and when he beheld the loveliness of the women,
and especially of Birdalone, who wore that day the gleaming-glittering
gown which Habundia had given her, he was abashed, and deemed yet more
that he had to do with folk of the Faery. But he spake courteously, and
said, turning to Hugh, who rode the foremost: Fair sir, would ye tell
unto the man whose business it is to safeguard the good town of Utterhay
what folk ye be, and on what errand ye ride, and how it is that ye come
forth from Evilshaw safe, in good case, with pennons displayed, as if the
said wood were your very own livelihood? For, sooth to say, hitherto we
have found this, that all men dread Evilshaw, and none will enter it
uncompelled.
Thereto answered Hugh: I hight Sir Hugh the Green Knight, and am come
from under the Green Mountain; and this is Sir Arthur, called the Black
Squire, but a knight he is verily, and of great kindred and a warrior
most doughty. And he hath been captain of the good town of Greenford
west away through the wood yonder a long way, and hath done the town and
the frank thereof mickle good service in scattering and destroying the
evil companies of the Red Hold, which hold we took by force of arms from
the felons who held it for the torment and plague of the country-side.
Now as to our errand, we be minded to dwell in your good town of
Utterhay, and take our part with your folk, and we have wealth enow
thereto, so as to be beholden to none; and as time goes on we may serve
you in divers wise, and not least in this maybe, that with a good will we
shall draw sword for your peace and the freedom of them of Utterhay.
When the captain heard these words, he made obeisance to Sir Hugh, and
said: Fair sir, though we be here a long way from Greenford, yet have we
heard some tale of the deeds of you, and surely the porte and all the
folk shall be fain of your corning. Yet I pray thee be not wrath; for
there is a custom of the good town, that none may enter its gates coming
from out of this Forest of Evilshaw, save he leave some pledge or caution
with me, be it his wealth, or the body of some friend or fellow, or, if
nought else, his very own body. Wherefore if thou, Sir Green Knight,
wilt but give us some sure pledge, then will I turn about and ride with
you back and through the gate into Utterhay; and doubtless, when the
mayor hath seen you and spoken with you, the said pledge shall be
rendered to you again.
Ere Hugh might answer, came Birdalone forth and said: Sir captain, if I,
who am the lady of the Black Squire here, be hostage good enough, then
take me, and if need be, chain me to make surer of me. And she drew near
unto him smiling, and held out her hands as if for the manacles.
But when the captain saw her thus, all the blood stirred in his body for
joy of her beauty, and he might but just sit his horse for his wonder and
longing; but he said: The saints forbid it, lady, that I should do thee
any hurt or displeasure, or aught save the most worship I may. But thy
hostage I will take, Sir Knight if thou be content to yield her, whereas
in an hour belike she shall be free again. And now fare we all gateward
again.
So then they all rode on together, Birdalone by the captain’s left hand;
and as they passed by the poor houses without the wall, she looked and
saw the one which had been her mother’s dwelling, so oft and so closely
had she told her all about it.
Thus then they entered Utterhay, and the captain led them straight to the
mote-house whereas the mayor and the porte were sitting; and much people
followed them through the streets, wondering at them, and praising the
loveliness of the women, and the frank and gallant bearing of the
men-at-arms.
So they lighted down at the mote-house and were brought to the mayor, and
when he had spoken them but a little, and had come to himself again from
the fear and abashment that he had of them, he showed himself full fain
of their coming, and bade them welcome to the good town, and took them
into his own house to guesting, until folk might dight a very goodly
house which the porte did give unto them.
But some two hours afterwards, when they were housed in all content, as
they sat in the hall of the mayor, which was great and goodly, talking
and devising with worthies of Utterhay, there entered two fair and
frank-looking young men, who went straight up to Birdalone, and the first
knelt down before her and kissed her hand, and said: O our lady, and art
thou verily come to us! O our happiness and the joy of this day!
But when she saw him and heard him and felt the touch of his hand, she
bent down to him and kissed him on the forehead, for she knew him that it
was Robert Gerardson.
Then the other man came up to her as if he also would have knelt to her,
but his purpose changed, and he cast his arms about her body and fell to
kissing her face all over, weeping the while, and then he drew off and
stood trembling before her and she, all blushing like a red rose and
laughing a little, and yet with the tears in her eyes, said: O Giles
Gerardson, and thou, Robert, how fain I am to see you twain; but tell me,
is your father well? Yea, verily, our dear lady, said Robert, and it
will be unto him as a fresh draught of youth when he wotteth that thou
art come to dwell amongst us; for so it is, O lady beloved, is it not?
said he. Yea, forsooth, or even so I hope, said Birdalone. But here be
other friends that ye must needs know, if we come to dwell together here
in peace; and then go and fetch me hither your father.
Therewith she presented them unto Arthur and Hugh and the three ladies of
the Quest, and all they greeted them kindly and in all honour; and the
Gerardsons loved and worshipped them, and especially the lovely ladies,
the she-friends of their lady.
And whiles they were about this, in cometh old Gerard himself, and when
Birdalone saw him at the door, she arose and ran to meet him, and cast
her arms about him as if she were his own daughter; and most joyful was
the meeting betwixt them.
CHAPTER IV. OF THE ABIDING IN UTTERHAY IN LOVE AND CONTENTMENT.
NOW when seven days were worn, the mayor made a great feast at his house,
and thither were bidden all the men of the porte and other worthies, and
great merchants who had come into their town; and the said feast was
given in honour of these new-comers, and that day they sat on the dais,
and all the guests worshipped them and wondered at their beauty; and
nought was spoken of for many days save the glory and hope that there was
in this lovely folk.
But the next day after the feast were they brought to their house in all
triumph; and it was as fair as might be thought of, and there they dwelt
a while in rest and peace, and great recourse there was there of Gerard
and his sons.
But ere the winter was over, were Hugh and Arthur and Gerard and his sons
taken to the freedom of Utterhay; and thereafter spake the chief men of
the porte and the masters of the crafts unto the two knights by the mouth
of the mayor; and he told them, what already they partly knew, that the
good town had of late gotten many enemies, whereas it was wealthy and not
very strong, and that now two such warriors having come amongst them,
they were minded to strengthen themselves, if only they two would of
their gentleness and meekness become their war-dukes to lead them against
the foemen. But the two friends answered that it was well their will to
dwell there neighbourly, and do them all the help they might, and that
they would not gainsay the worship they offered them nor the work that
should go with it.
With that answer were all men well content and more: and then the mayor
said that the mind of the porte it was to strengthen the walls and the
gates, and to build a good and fair castle, meet for any earl, joining on
to the wall by the face that looked west, that is to say, on to Evilshaw;
and that liked the war-dukes well.
So when spring came it was set about, but it was five years adoing, and
before it was all finished the war-dukes entered into it, and dwelt there
with their wives and their friends in all honour. And a little
thereafter, whether they would or no, the men of Utterhay had to handle
weapons and fare afield to meet the foe with the valiant men of the
crafts, and what of waged men they might get. And well and valiantly
were they led by their dukes, and they came to their above, and gained
both wealth and honour thereby; and from that time forward began the
increase of Utterhay under those two captains, who were unto them as in
old time the consuls had been unto the Roman folk, save that they changed
them not year by year as the Romans were wont.
So wore the days, and all those friends dwelt together in harmony and
joy; though the wearing of time wrought changes amongst them. For Robert
Gerardson began in no long while to look on Aurea with eyes of love; and
at last he came to Birdalone and craved her leave to woo the said lady,
and she granted it with a good will, and was fain thereof, whereas she
saw that Aurea sorely lacked a mate; and scarce might she have a better
than was Robert; so in process of time they two were wedded and dwelt
together happily.
Forsooth Birdalone had been fainer yet might she have seen Giles
Gerardson and Atra drawn together. But though they were dear friends and
there was much converse betwixt them, this betid not, so far as we have
heard.
The old Gerard dwelt happily amongst them all for fifteen years after
they had come to Utterhay, and then fell asleep, a very old man.
As to the wood of Evilshaw, it was not once a year only that Birdalone
and Arthur sought thither and met the wood-mother, but a half-score of
times or more, might be, in the year’s circle; and ever was she kind and
loving with them, and they with her.
But of all those fellows it was Atra that had longest dealings with the
wood-wife; for whiles would she leave Utterhay and her friends and fare
lonesome up into Evilshaw, and find Habundia and abide with her in all
kindness holden for a month or more. And ever a little before these
departures betid would she fall moody and few-spoken, but she came back
ever from the wood calm and kind and well-liking. Amidst all these
comings and goings somewhat wore off the terror of Evilshaw; yet never
was it accounted other than a daring deed to enter it alone without
fellowship; and most had liefer that some man of religion were of their
company therein, or they would bear about them something holy or blessed
to hold the evil things.
Now when all this hath been said, we have no more to tell about this
company of friends, the most of whom had once haunted the lands about the
Water of the Wondrous Isles, save that their love never sundered, and
that they lived without shame and died without fear. So here is an end.
* * * * *
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