Part 47 (1/2)
”Lieth the goldsmith deep?”
”Above the water-dungeons, my lord.”
”And she wept, say you? Methinks the goldsmith shall go free to-morrow!”
So saying, Sir Gui went on into the city, and as he went, his smile was back again, and his tongue curved red betwixt his lips. And presently the tall miller hoisted his burden and went on into the city also; turned aside down a narrow pa.s.sage betwixt gloomy houses, and so at last out into the square that hummed with a clamour hushed and expectant. But my lord Seneschal, unheeding ever, came unto a certain quiet corner of the square remote and shady, being far removed from the stir and bustle of the place; here he paused at an open doorway and turned to look back into the square, ruddy with sunset--a careless glance that saw the blue of sky, the heavy-timbered houses bathed in the warm sunset glow, the which, falling athwart the square, shone red upon the smock of a miller, who stooping 'neath his burden, stumbled across the uneven cobble-stones hard by. All this saw Sir Gui in that one backward glance; then, unheeding as ever, went in at the doorway and up the dark and narrow stair. But now it chanced that the miller, coming also to this door, stood a while sack on shoulder, peering up into the gloom within; thereafter, having set down his burden in stealthy fas.h.i.+on, he also turned and glanced back with eyes that glittered in the shadow of his hat: then, setting one hand within his smock, he went in at the door and, soft-footed began to creep up that dark and narrow stair. She sat in a great carven chair, her arms outstretched across the table before her, her face bowed low between, and the setting sun made a glory of her golden hair. Of a sudden she started, and lifting her head looked upon Sir Gui; her tears, slow-falling and bitter, staining the beauty of her face.
”My lord--ah, no!” she panted, and started to her feet.
”Dear and fair my lady--fear not. Strong am I, but very gentle--'tis ever my way with beauty. I do but come for my answer.” And he pointed to a crumpled parchment that lay upon the table.
”O, good my lord,” she whispered, ”I cannot! If thou art gentle indeed --then--”
”He lieth above the water-dungeons, lady!” sighed Sir Gui.
”Ah, the sweet Christ aid me!”
”To-morrow he goeth to death, or lieth in those round, white arms.
Lady, the choice is thine: and I pray you show pity to thy husband who loveth thee well, 'tis said.” Now hereupon she sobbed amain and fell upon her knees with arms outstretched in pa.s.sionate appeal--but lo! she spake no word, her swimming eyes oped suddenly wide, and with arms yet outstretched she stared and stared beyond Sir Gui in so much that he turned and started back amazed--to behold one clad as a dusty miller, a mighty man whose battered hat touched the lintel and whose great bulk filled the doorway--a very silent man who looked and looked with neck out-thrust, yet moved not and uttered no word. Hereupon Sir Gui spake quick and pa.s.sion-choked:
”Fool--fool! hence, thou blundering fool. For this shalt be flayed alive. Ha!--hence, thou dusty rogue!” But now this grim figure stirred, and lifting a great hand, spake hoa.r.s.e and low:
”Peace, knight! Hold thy peace and look!” The wide-eaved hat was tossed to the floor and Sir Gui, clenching his hands, would have spoken but the harsh voice drowned his words: ”How, knight, thou that art b.l.o.o.d.y Gui of Allerdale! Dost thou not know me, forsooth? I am Waldron, whose father and mother and sister ye slew. Aye, Waldron of Brand am I, though men do call me Walkyn o' the Dene these days. Brand was a fair manor, knight--a fair manor, but long since dust and ashes--ha! a merry blaze wherein father and mother and sister burned and screamed and died--in faith, a roguish blaze! Ha! d'ye blench? Dost know me, forsooth?”
Then Sir Gui stepped back, drawing his sword; but, even so, death leapt at him. A woman, wailing, fled from the chamber, a chair crashed to the floor; came a strange, quick tapping of feet upon the floor and thereafter rose a cry that swelled louder to a scream--louder to a bubbling shriek, and dying to a groaning hiss, was gone.
And, in a while, Walkyn, that had been Waldron of Brand, rose up from his knees, and running forth of the chamber, hasted down the dark and narrow stair.
CHAPTER x.x.xVI
HOW THE FOLK OF BELSAYE TOWN MADE THEM AN END OF TYRANNY
The market-place was full of the stir and hum of jostling crowds; here were pale-faced townsfolk, men and women and children who, cowed by suffering and bitter wrong, spake little, and that little below their breath; here were country folk from village and farmstead near and far, a motley company that talked amain, loud-voiced and eager, as they pushed and strove to see where, in the midst of the square beyond the serried ranks of pike-men, a post had been set up; a ma.s.sy post, grim and solitary, whose heavy chains and iron girdle gleamed ominous and red in the last rays of sunset. Near by, upon a dais, they had set up a chair fairly gilded, wherein Sir Gui was wont to sit and watch justice done upon the writhing bodies of my lord Duke's enemies. Indeed, the citizens of Belsaye had beheld sights many and dire of late, wherefore now they blenched before this stark and grisly thing and looked askance; but to these country folk such things were something newer, wherefore they pushed and strove amid the press that they might view it nearer--in especial two in miller's hooded smocks, tall and l.u.s.ty fellows these, who by dint of shoulder and elbow, won forward until they were stayed by the file of Sir Gui's heavy-armed pikemen.
Thereupon spake one, close in his fellow's ear:--
”Where tarries Walkyn, think you?” said Beltane below his breath.
”Master, I know not--he vanished in the press but now--”
”And Eric?”
”He watcheth our meal-sacks. Shall I not go bid him strike flint and steel? The time were fair, methinks?”
”Not so, wait you until Sir Gui be come and seated in his chair of state: then haste you to bold Eric and, the sacks ablaze, shout 'fire;'
so will I here amid the press take up the cry, and in the rush join with ye at the gate. Patience, Roger.”
And now of a sudden the throng stirred, swayed and was still; but from many a quivering lip a breath went up to heaven, a sigh--a whispered groan, as, through the shrinking populace, the prisoner was brought. A man of Belsaye he, a man strong and tender, whom many had loved full well. Half borne, half dragged betwixt his gaolers, he came on stumbling feet--a woeful s.h.i.+vering thing with languid head a-droop; a thing of noisome rags that told of nights and days in dungeon black and foul; a thing whose shrunken nakedness showed a mult.i.tude of small wounds, slow-bleeding, that spoke of teeth little yet vicious, bold with hunger in the dark; a miserable, tottering thing, haggard and pinched, that s.h.i.+vered and shook and stared upon all things with eyes vacant and wide.