"Excellent for "horse," sire."
"To our advantage?"
"Half a mile further towards Geraint there lies a gra.s.s valley, a league long, four furlongs from wood to wood. The rebels will march through it, or I am a dotard. There stands your chance, sire. We can roll down on them like a torrent."
Flavian took time by the throat, and called on his man of the tabard.
"Make me this proclamation," quoth he: ""Gentlemen of Gambrevault, strike for King and chivalry. Let vengeance dye your swords. As for the lady riding upon the white horse, mark you, sirs, let her be as the Virgin out of heaven. We ride to take her and her banner. For the rest, no quarter and no prisoners. We will teach this mob the art of war.""
The man of the tabard proclaimed it as he was bidden. The iron ranks thundered to him like billows foaming about a rock. Modred claimed silence with uplifted sword.
"Enough, gentlemen, enough. No bellowing. Muzzle your temper. We make our spring in silence, that we may claw the harder."
A line of hills lay before them, heights crowned with black pine woods, save for one bare ridge like a great scimitar carving the sky. Flavian advanced his companies up the slopes, halted them in a broad hollow under the brow of the hill. A last galloper had ridden in with hot tidings of the rebels. The Lord of Gambrevault, with Sir Modred and Longsword, cantered on to reconnoitre. They drew to a thicket of gnarled hollies on the hilltop, and looked down upon a long gra.s.s valley bounded north and south by woods.
Half a mile away came the rebel vanguard, a black ma.s.s of footmen plodding uphill, their pikes and bills shining in the sun. Pennons and gonfalons danced here and there, while in the thick of the column flew the red banner of the Forest, girt about by the spears of Yeoland"s guard. She could be seen on her white horse in the midst of the press.
The Gerainters were split into three columns, the second column half a mile behind the first, the third somewhat closer upon the second. They were marching without outriders, as though thoroughly a.s.sured of their own safety.
Modred chuckled grimly through his black beard, and smote his thigh.
"Fools, fools!"
"Devilish generalship," quoth Longsword under his beaver. "We can crush their van like a wheatfield before the rest can come up. What say you, sire, fewtre spears, and at them?"
Flavian had already turned his horse.
"No sounding of trumpets, sirs," he said; "we will deal only with their van. Call up our companies. G.o.d and St. Philip for Gambrevault!"
Over the bare ridge, with its barriers of sun-steeped trees, steel shivered and spears bristled, rank on rank, wave on wave. With a ma.s.sed rhythm of hoofs, the flood crested the hill, plunged down at a gallop with fewtred spears. Knee to knee, flank to flank, a thousand streaks of steel deluged the hillside. Their trumpets throated now the charge; the iron ranks clashed and thundered, rocked on with a rush of glittering shields.
As dust rolling before a March wind, so the hors.e.m.e.n of Gambrevault poured down on the horde of wavering pikes. The storm had come sudden as thunder out of a summer sky. Before the hurtling impact of that bolt of war, the palsied ranks of foot crumbled like rotten timber. The Gerainters were too ma.s.sed and too amazed to squander or give ground, to stem with bill and bow the rolling torrent of death. They were rent and trampled, trodden like straw under the stupendous avalanche of steel that crushed and pulverised with ponderous and invincible might.
"G.o.d and Gambrevault, kill, kill!"
Such was the death-cry thundered out over the rebel van. The column broke, burst into infinite chaos. Yeoland"s guards alone stood firm, a tough core of oak amid rotten tinder. Over the trampled wreckage the fight swirled and eddied, circling about the knot of steel where the red banner flapped in the vortex of the storm.
Yeoland sat dazed on her white horse, as one in the grip of some terrific dream. Nord was at her side, snarling, snapping his jaw like a wolf, his great iron mace poised over his shoulder. The red banner flapped prophetic above their heads. Around them the fight gathered, a whirlwind of contorted figures and stabbing steel.
Yeoland"s eyes were on one figure in the press, a man straddling a big bay horse, smiting double-handed with his sword, his red plume jerking in the hot rush of the fight. She saw horse and man go down before him; saw him buffet his way onward like a galley ploughing against wind and wave. His leaping sword and tossing plume came steady and strenuous through the girdle of death.
Fear, pride, a hundred battling pa.s.sions played like the battle through the woman"s mobile brain. She watched the man under the red plume with an intensity of feeling that made her blind to all else for the moment.
Love seemed to struggle towards her in bright harness through the fight.
She saw the last rank of the human rampart pierced. The man on the bay horse came out before her like some warrior out of an old epic.
None save Nord stood between them, s.h.a.ggy and grim as a great Norse Thor. She watched the iron mace swing, saw it fall and smite wide.
Flavian stood in the stirrups, both hands to the hilt, his horse"s muzzle rammed against the opposing brute"s chest. The blow fell, a great cut laid in with all the culminating courage of an hour. The sword slashed Nord"s gorget, buried its blade in the bull-like neck. He clutched at his throat, toppled, slid out of the saddle and rolled under his horse"s hoofs.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE SWORD SLASHED NORD"S GORGET, BURIED ITS BLADE IN THE BULL-LIKE NECK."]
The man"s hand s.n.a.t.c.hed at the girl"s bridle; he dragged her and her horse out of the press. She had a confused vision of carnage, of stabbing swords and trampling hoofs. She saw her banner-bearer fall forward on his horse"s neck, thrust through with a sword, while Modred seized the banner staff from his impotent hand. The rebel column had deliquesced and vanished. In its stead she was girdled by grim and exultant hors.e.m.e.n whose swords flashed in the sun.
Trumpets blew the retreat. A thousand glittering riders swarmed about her and the knight with the red plume. She had his words confusedly in her ears, strong, pa.s.sionate words, heroic, yet utterly tender. They rode uphill together amid the clangour of his men. In a minute they had won the ridge, and were swinging down the further slope with their faces towards Gambrevault.
x.x.x
Paris and Helen have been dead centuries, yet in that universal world of the mind they still live, young and glorious as when the Grecian galleys ploughed foam through the blue aegean. The world loves a lover. Troilus stages our own emotions for us in G.o.dlier wise than we poor realists can hope to do. We owe an eternal grat.i.tude to those who have stood for love in history. All men might well desire to play the Tristan to Iseult of the Irish eyes. We forget Gemma Donati, and follow with Dante"s wistful idealism the gleaming figure of Beatrice in Paradise.
Now the Lord Flavian was one of those happy persons who seem to stumble into heaven either by prodigious instinct or remarkable good-fortune.
G.o.d gives to many men gold; to others intellect; to some truth; to few, a human echo, a harmony in the spirit, the right woman in the world.
Many of us are such unstable folk that we vibrate vastly to a beautiful face and hail heaven in a pair of violet eyes. The chance is that such a business turns out miserably. It is a wise rule to search the world through to find your Beatrice, or bide celibate to the end. Happy is the man whose instinctive choice is ratified by all the wisest poetry of heaven. Happy is he who finds a ruby as he rakes the ephemeral flower-gardens of life, a gem eternally bright and beautiful, durable, unchanging, flashing light ever into the soul. It is given to few to love wisely, to love utterly, to love till death.
That summer day Flavian saw life at its zenith, as he rode through the woods on the way to Gambrevault. The horse had dropped to a trot, and the man had taken off his helmet and hung it at his saddle-bow. He was still red from the melee; his eyes were bright and triumphant. The girl at his side looked at him half-timidly, a tremor upon her lip, her glances clouded. The terrific action of the last hour still seemed to weigh upon her senses, and she seemed fated to be the sport of contending sentiments. No sooner had she struggled to some level of saintliness than love rushed in with burning wings, and lo, all the tinsel of her religion fell away, and she was a mere Eve, a child of Nature.
Flavian watched her with the tenderness of a strong man, who is ready to give his life for the woman he serves. Love seemed to rise from her and play upon him like perfume from a bowl of violets; her eyes transfigured him, and he longed to touch her hair.
"At last."
"Lord?"
"Treat me as a man, I hate that epithet."
"You are a great signor."
"What are t.i.tles, testaments, etiquettes to us! I am only great so long as you trust and honour me."
"Your power might appear precarious."
"As you will."
"Yet war is loose!"
He looked round upon the sea of men that rolled on every hand.
"And war at its worst. I have seen enough in three days to make me loathe your partisans and their principles."
"Perhaps."
"It is a wicked and inhuman business."
"What are you going to do with me?" she said.
"Remove you from the hands of butchers and offal-mongers; put you like a pearl in a casket in my own castle of Gambrevault."
"You incur the greater peril."