The Brethren E-Book

H Rider Haggard

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The novel tells the story of two brothers, Frank and Geoffrey Derwent, who are separated as children when their father dies and their mother remarries. Frank is sent to live with his wealthy uncle in England, while Geoffrey remains in South Africa with his mother and stepfather. Years later, Frank returns to South Africa and is reunited with Geoffrey, who has become a successful diamond prospector. Together, the brothers embark on a dangerous journey to find a legendary diamond known as the "Star of the South". Along the way, they must confront their own past and the betrayal that separated them as children. "The Brethren" is a thrilling and engaging novel that showcases Haggard's storytelling prowess and his ability to weave together complex plots and memorable characters. It is a must-read for fans of adventure and historical fiction.

Leseprobe

H. Rider Haggard

The Brethren

Published by Sovereign

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sovereign

All Rights Reserve

ISBN: 9781787366022

Contents

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER I.

By The Waters of Death Creek

From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf, his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips, notwithstanding his father’s Norman blood.

At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the slow grace which marked her every movement.

“Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?” she asked in her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent, seemed quite different to that of any other woman.

“I think so, Rosamund,” he answered. “It would serve to pass the time, and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we rode so far to seek, the time—is somewhat long.”

“Shame on you, Wulf,” she said, smiling. “Look upon yonder sea and sky, at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple—”

“I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your back and at Godwin’s left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father’s effigy upon his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword, the same cold, silent face staring at the sky.”

“Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes—that is, if the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire,” interrupted his brother.

Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his blue eyes.

“No, I think not,” he answered; “the deeds you may do, and greater, but surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk’s cowl at the last—unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two—for I have been wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth—a maid’s thoughts are her own—but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and should be skimmed.”

Rosamund sighed. “I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of strange learning—”

“And women are men’s slaves!” interrupted Wulf. “Still, it is natural that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins, and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess”—and he bowed the knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his earnest reverence—“say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?”

She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen.

Presently she answered him with another question.

“And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D’Arcy and a Christian maid?”

“The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill either, and for the second—why, faiths can be changed.”

Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time.

“Wulf, Wulf,” he said sternly, “keep watch upon your tongue, for there are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth—”

“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.

“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”

“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately, perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said, “You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty and wisdom.”

“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad, the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother—who, indeed, in such a case would do right to slay me.”

“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so very hard to choose between death and duty?”

“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than life.”

“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or—love?”

“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though those within it watched us.”

“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”

“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”

“Fish,” said Wulf; “we are at peace in Essex.” Although Rosamund did not look convinced, he went on: “Now for Godwin’s thoughts— what were they?”

“Brother, if you would know, of the East also—the East and its wars.”

“Which have brought us no great luck,” answered Wulf, “seeing that our sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his heart, which lies at Stangate yonder.”

“How better could he die,” asked Godwin, “than fighting for the Cross of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!”

“Aye, he died well—he died well,” said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and his hand creeping to his sword hilt. “But, brother, there is peace at Jerusalem, as in Essex.”

“Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter—he whom we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months gone—told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin, sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red upon the holy sands of Palestine?”

Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.

“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!”—and he looked at Rosamund, who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes—“go when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.” And suddenly his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a field—“A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!” Then he sheathed his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!”

Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said:

“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that will part us. But”—and her voice broke somewhat—“such is the woman’s lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not why”—and she shivered a little—“it comes into my heart that Heaven often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the sunlight. I am afraid—of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first, my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”

“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously. “What is there for you to fear in a nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”

“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple, but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.

“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without count.”

Then they turned and entered the old church—one of the first that ever was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad, the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day. Here they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their horses, which were tied in the shed hard by.

Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at Steeple—one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of Stangate on his right. It was this latter path they chose, since at low tide the going there is good for horses—which, even in the summer, that of the inland track was not. Also they wished to be at home by supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the father of Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and perhaps come out to seek them.

For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry of curlew and the lap of the turning tide. No human being did they see, indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and again by fishermen. At length, just as the sun began to sink, they approached the shore of Death Creek—a sheet of tidal water which ran a mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three hundred yards in breadth. They were well mounted, all three of them. Indeed, Rosamund’s horse, a great grey, her father’s gift to her, was famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear of shouting men or flashing steel.

Now the ground lay thus. Some seventy yards from the shore of Death Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path, beyond which were a swamp and the broad river. Between this tongue and the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands. It was an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which could lie alongside of it even at low tide. This mole had been much destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level.

Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick eyes of Wulf, who rode first—for here the path along the border of the swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file—caught sight of a large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole.

“Your fishermen have landed, Rosamund,” he said, “and doubtless gone up to Bradwell.”

“That is strange,” she answered anxiously, “since here no fishermen ever come.” And she checked her horse as though to turn.

“Whether they come or not, certainly they have gone,” said Godwin, craning forward to look about him; “so, as we have nothing to fear from an empty boat, let us push on.”

On they rode accordingly, until they came to the root of the stone quay or pier, when a sound behind them caused them to look back. Then they saw a sight that sent the blood to their hearts, for there behind them, leaping down one by one on to that narrow footway, were men armed with naked swords, six or eight of them, all of whom, they noted, had strips of linen pierced with eyelet holes tied beneath their helms or leather caps, so as to conceal their faces.

“A snare! a snare!” cried Wulf, drawing his sword. “Swift! follow me up the Bradwell path!” and he struck the spurs into his horse. It bounded forward, to be dragged next second with all the weight of his powerful arm almost to its haunches. “God’s mercy!” he cried, “there are more of them!” And more there were, for another band of men armed and linen-hooded like the first, had leapt down on to that Bradwell path, amongst them a stout man, who seemed to be unarmed, except for a long, crooked knife at his girdle and a coat of ringed mail, which showed through the opening of his loose tunic.

“To the boat!” shouted Godwin, whereat the stout man laughed—a light, penetrating laugh, which even then all three of them heard and noted.

Along the quay they rode, since there was nowhere else that they could go, with both paths barred, and swamp and water on one side of them, and a steep, wooded bank upon the other. When they reached it, they found why the man had laughed, for the boat was made fast with a strong chain that could not be cut; more, her sail and oars were gone.

“Get into it,” mocked a voice; “or, at least, let the lady get in; it will save us the trouble of carrying her there.”

Now Rosamund turned very pale, while the face of Wulf went red and white, and he gripped his sword-hilt. But Godwin, calm as ever, rode forward a few paces, and said quietly:

“Of your courtesy, say what you need of us. If it be money, we have none—nothing but our arms and horses, which I think may cost you dear.”

Now the man with the crooked knife advanced a little, accompanied by another man, a tall, supple-looking knave, into whose ear he whispered.

“My master says,” answered the tall man, “that you have with you that which is of more value than all the king’s gold—a very fair lady, of whom someone has urgent need. Give her up now, and go your way with your arms and horses, for you are gallant young men, whose blood we do not wish to shed.”

At this it was the turn of the brethren to laugh, which both of them did together.

“Give her up,” answered Godwin, “and go our ways dishonoured? Aye, with our breath, but not before. Who then has such urgent need of the lady Rosamund?”

Again there was whispering between the pair.

“My master says,” was the answer, “he thinks that all who see her will have need of her, since such loveliness is rare. But if you wish a name, well, one comes into his mind; the name of the knight Lozelle.”

“The knight Lozelle!” murmured Rosamund, turning even paler than before, as well she might. For this Lozelle was a powerful man and Essex-born. He owned ships of whose doings upon the seas and in the East evil tales were told, and once had sought Rosamund’s hand in marriage, but being rejected, uttered threats for which Godwin, as the elder of the twins, had fought and wounded him. Then he vanished—none knew where.

“Is Sir Hugh Lozelle here then?” asked Godwin, “masked like you common cowards? If so, I desire to meet him, to finish the work I began in the snow last Christmas twelvemonths.”

“Find that out if you can,” answered the tall man. But Wulf said, speaking low between his clenched teeth:

“Brother, I see but one chance. We must place Rosamund between us and charge them.”

The captain of the band seemed to read their thoughts, for again he whispered into the ear of his companion, who called out:

“My master says that if you try to charge, you will be fools, since we shall stab and ham-string your horses, which are too good to waste, and take you quite easily as you fall. Come then, yield, as you can do without shame, seeing there is no escape, and that two men, however brave, cannot stand against a crowd. He gives you one minute to surrender.”

Now Rosamund spoke for the first time.

“My cousins,” she said, “I pray you not to let me fall living into the hands of Sir Hugh Lozelle, or of yonder men, to be taken to what fate I know not. Let Godwin kill me, then, to save my honour, as but now he said he would to save my soul, and strive to cut your way through, and live to avenge me.”

The brethren made no answer, only they looked at the water and then at one another, and nodded. It was Godwin who spoke again, for now that it had come to this struggle for life and their lady, Wulf, whose tongue was commonly so ready, had grown strangely silent, and fierce-faced also.

“Listen, Rosamund, and do not turn your eyes,” said Godwin. “There is but one chance for you, and, poor as it is, you must choose between it and capture, since we cannot kill you. The grey horse you ride is strong and true. Turn him now, and spur into the water of Death Creek and swim it. It is broad, but the incoming tide will help you, and perchance you will not drown.”

Rosamund listened and moved her head backwards towards the boat. Then Wulf spoke—few words and sharp: “Begone, girl! we guard the boat.”

She heard, and her dark eyes filled with tears, and her stately head sank for a moment almost to her horse’s mane.

“Oh, my knights! my knights! And would you die for me? Well, if God wills it, so it must be. But I swear that if you die, that no man shall be aught to me who have your memory, and if you live—” And she looked at them confusedly, then stopped.

“Bless us, and begone,” said Godwin.

So she blessed them in words low and holy; then of a sudden wheeled round the great grey horse, and striking the spur into its flank, drove straight at the deep water. A moment the stallion hung, then from the low quay-end sprang out wide and clear. Deep it sank, but not for long, for presently its rider’s head rose above the water, and regaining the saddle, from which she had floated, Rosamund sat firm and headed the horse straight for the distant bank. Now a shout of wonderment went up from the woman thieves, for this was a deed that they had never thought a girl would dare. But the brethren laughed as they saw that the grey swam well, and, leaping from their saddles, ran forward a few paces—eight or ten—along the mole to where it was narrowest, as they went tearing the cloaks from their shoulders, and, since they had none, throwing them over their left arms to serve as bucklers.

The band cursed sullenly, only their captain gave an order to his spokesman, who cried aloud:

“Cut them down, and to the boat! We shall take her before she reaches shore or drowns.”

For a moment they wavered, for the tall twin warriors who barred the way had eyes that told of wounds and death. Then with a rush they came, scrambling over the rough stones. But here the causeway was so narrow that while their strength lasted, two men were as good as twenty, nor, because of the mud and water, could they be got at from either side. So after all it was but two to two, and the brethren were the better two. Their long swords flashed and smote, and when Wulf’s was lifted again, once more it shone red as it had been when he tossed it high in the sunlight, and a man fell with a heavy splash into the waters of the creek, and wallowed there till he died. Godwin’s foe was down also, and, as it seemed, sped.

Then, at a muttered word, not waiting to be attacked by others, the brethren sprang forward. The huddled mob in front of them saw them come, and shrank back, but before they had gone a yard, the swords were at work behind. They swore strange oaths, they caught their feet among the rocks, and rolled upon their faces. In their confusion three of them were pushed into the water, where two sank in the mud and were drowned, the third only dragging himself ashore, while the rest made good their escape from the causeway. But two had been cut down, and three had fallen, for whom there was no escape. They strove to rise and fight, but the linen masks flapped about their eyes, so that their blows went wide, while the long swords of the brothers smote and smote again upon their helms and harness as the hammers of smiths smite upon an anvil, until they rolled over silent and stirless.

“Back!” said Godwin; “for here the road is wide; and they will get behind us.”

So back they moved slowly, with their faces to the foe, stopping just in front of the first man whom Godwin had seemed to kill, and who lay face upwards with arms outstretched.

“So far we have done well,” said Wulf, with a short laugh. “Are you hurt?”

“Nay,” answered his brother, “but do not boast till the battle is over, for many are left and they will come on thus no more. Pray God they have no spears or bows.”

Then he turned and looked behind him, and there, far from the shore now, swam the grey horse steadily, and there upon its back sat Rosamund. Yes, and she had seen, since the horse must swim somewhat sideways with the tide, for look, she took the kerchief from her throat and waved it to them. Then the brethren knew that she was proud of their great deeds, and thanked the saints that they had lived to do even so much as this for her dear sake.

Godwin was right. Although their leader commanded them in a stern voice, the band sank from the reach of those awful swords, and, instead, sought for stones to hurl at them. But here lay more mud than pebbles, and the rocks of which the causeway was built were too heavy for them to lift, so that they found but few, which when thrown either missed the brethren or did them little hurt. Now, after some while, the man called “master” spoke through his lieutenant, and certain of them ran into the thorn thicket, and thence appeared again bearing the long oars of the boat.

“Their counsel is to batter us down with the oars. What shall we do now, brother?” asked Godwin.

“What we can,” answered Wulf. “It matters little if Rosamund is spared by the waters, for they will scarcely take her now, who must loose the boat and man it after we are dead.”

As he spoke Wulf heard a sound behind him, and of a sudden Godwin threw up his arms and sank to his knees. Round he sprang, and there upon his feet stood that man whom they had thought dead, and in his hand a bloody sword. At him leapt Wulf, and so fierce were the blows he smote that the first severed his sword arm and the second shore through cloak and mail deep into the thief’s side; so that this time he fell, never to stir again. Then he looked at his brother and saw that the blood was running down his face and blinding him.

“Save yourself, Wulf, for I am sped,” murmured Godwin.

“Nay, or you could not speak.” And he cast his arm round him and kissed him on the brow.

Then a thought came into his mind, and lifting Godwin as though he were a child, he ran back to where the horses stood, and heaved him onto the saddle.

“Hold fast!” he cried, “by mane and pommel. Keep your mind, and hold fast, and I will save you yet.”

Passing the reins over his left arm, Wulf leapt upon the back of his own horse, and turned it. Ten seconds more, and the pirates, who were gathering with the oars where the paths joined at the root of the causeway, saw the two great horses thundering down upon them. On one a sore wounded man, his bright hair dabbled with blood, his hands gripping mane and saddle, and on the other the warrior Wulf, with starting eyes and a face like the face of a flame, shaking his red sword, and for the second time that day shouting aloud: “A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!”

They saw, they shouted, they massed themselves together and held up the oars to meet them. But Wulf spurred fiercely, and, short as was the way, the heavy horses, trained to tourney, gathered their speed. Now they were on them. The oars were swept aside like reeds; all round them flashed the swords, and Wulf felt that he was hurt, he knew not where. But his sword flashed also, one blow—there was no time for more—yet the man beneath it sank like an empty sack.

By St. Peter! They were through, and Godwin still swayed upon the saddle, and yonder, nearing the further shore, the grey horse with its burden still battled in the tide. They were through! they were through! while to Wulf’s eyes the air swam red, and the earth seemed as though it rose up to meet them, and everywhere was flaming fire.

But the shouts had died away behind them, and the only sound was the sound of the galloping of their horses’ hoofs. Then that also grew faint and died away, and silence and darkness fell upon the mind of Wulf.

CHAPTER II.

Sir Andrew D’Arcy

Godwin dreamed that he was dead, and that beneath him floated the world, a glowing ball, while he was borne to and fro through the blackness, stretched upon a couch of ebony. There were bright watchers by his couch also, watchers twain, and he knew them for his guardian angels, given him at birth. Moreover, now and again presences would come and question the watchers who sat at his head and foot. One asked:

“Has this soul sinned?” And the angel at his head answered:

“It has sinned.”

Again the voice asked: “Did it die shriven of its sins?”

The angel answered: “It died unshriven, red sword aloft, fighting a good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Alas! poor soul, sinful and unshriven, who died fighting for a woman’s love. How shall such a one find mercy?” wailed the questioning voice, growing ever fainter, till it was lost far, far away.

Now came another visitor. It was his father—the warrior sire whom he had never seen, who fell in Syria. Godwin knew him well, for the face was the face carven on the tomb in Stangate church, and he wore the blood-red cross upon his mail, and the D’Arcy Death’s-head was on his shield, and in his hand shone a naked sword.

“Is this the soul of my son?” he asked of the whiterobed watchers. “If so, how died he?”

Then the angel at his foot answered: “He died, red sword aloft, fighting a good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Fighting for a woman’s love who should have fallen in the Holy War? Alas! poor son; alas! poor son! Alas! that we must part again forever!” and his voice, too, passed away.

Lo! a Glory advanced through the blackness, and the angels at head and foot stood up and saluted with their flaming spears.

“How died this child of God?” asked a voice, speaking out of the Glory, a low and awful voice.

“He died by the sword,” answered the angel.

“By the sword of the children of the enemy, fighting in the war of Heaven?”

Then the angels were silent.

“What has Heaven to do with him, if he fought not for Heaven?” asked the voice again.

“Let him be spared,” pleaded the guardians, “who was young and brave, and knew not. Send him back to earth, there to retrieve his sins and be our charge once more.”

“So be it,” said the voice. “Knight, live on, but live as a knight of Heaven if thou wouldst win Heaven.”

“Must he then put the woman from him?” asked the angels.

“It was not said,” answered the voice speaking from the Glory. And all that wild vision vanished.

Then a space of oblivion, and Godwin awoke to hear other voices around him, voices human, well-beloved, remembered; and to see a face bending over him—a face most human, most well-beloved, most remembered—that of his cousin Rosamund. He babbled some questions, but they brought him food, and told him to sleep, so he slept. Thus it went on, waking and sleep, sleep and waking, till at length one morning he woke up truly in the little room that opened out of the solar or sitting place of the Hall of Steeple, where he and Wulf had slept since their uncle took them to his home as infants. More, on the trestle bed opposite to him, his leg and arm bandaged, and a crutch by his side, sat Wulf himself, somewhat paler and thinner than of yore, but the same jovial, careless, yet at times fierce-faced Wulf.

“Do I still dream, my brother, or is it you indeed?”

A happy smile spread upon the face of Wulf, for now he knew that Godwin was himself again.

“Me sure enough,” he answered. “Dream-folk don’t have lame legs; they are the gifts of swords and men.”

“And Rosamund? What of Rosamund? Did the grey horse swim the creek, and how came we here? Tell me quick—I faint for news!”

“She shall tell you herself.” And hobbling to the curtained door, he called, “Rosamund, my—nay, our—cousin Rosamund, Godwin is himself again. Hear you, Godwin is himself again, and would speak with you!”

There was a swift rustle of robes and a sound of quick feet among the rushes that strewed the floor, and then—Rosamund herself, lovely as ever, but all her stateliness forgot in joy. She saw him, the gaunt Godwin sitting up upon the pallet, his grey eyes shining in the white and sunken face. For Godwin’s eyes were grey, while Wulf’s were blue, the only difference between them which a stranger would note, although in truth Wulf’s lips were fuller than Godwin’s, and his chin more marked; also he was a larger man. She saw him, and with a little cry of delight ran and cast her arms about him, and kissed him on the brow.

“Be careful,” said Wulf roughly, turning his head aside, “or, Rosamund, you will loose the bandages, and bring his trouble back again; he has had enough of blood-letting.”

“Then I will kiss him on the hand—the hand that saved me,” she said, and did so. More, she pressed that poor, pale hand against her heart.

“Mine had something to do with that business also but I don’t remember that you kissed it, Rosamund. Well, I will kiss him too, and oh! God be praised, and the holy Virgin, and the holy Peter, and the holy Chad, and all the other holy dead folk whose names I can’t recall, who between them, with the help of Rosamund here, and the prayers of the Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and of Matthew, the village priest, have given you back to us, my brother, my most beloved brother.” And he hopped to the bedside, and throwing his long, sinewy arms about Godwin embraced him again and again.

“Be careful,” said Rosamund drily, “or, Wulf, you will disturb the bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting.”

Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there came the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a tall and noble-looking knight entered the little place. The man was old, but looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him. His snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter Rosamund. For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting. The old man looked at him, and there was pride in his eye.

“So you will live after all, my nephew,” he said, “and for that I thank the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man—a worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D’Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon. Yes, one of the best of them.”

“Speak not so, my uncle,” said Godwin; “or at least, here is a worthier,”—and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers. “It was Wulf who bore me through. Oh, I remember as much as that—how he lifted me onto the black horse and bade me to cling fast to mane and pommel. Ay, and I remember the charge, and his cry of ‘Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!’ and the flashing of swords about us, and after that—nothing.”

“Would that I had been there to help in that fight,” said Sir Andrew D’Arcy, tossing his white hair. “Oh, my children, it is hard to be sick and old. A log am I—naught but a rotting log. Still, had I only known—”

“Father, father,” said Rosamund, casting her white arm about his neck. “You should not speak thus. You have done your share.”

“Yes, my share; but I should like to do more. Oh, St. Andrew, ask it for me that I may die with sword aloft and my grandsire’s cry upon my lips. Yes, yes; thus, not like a worn-out war-horse in his stall. There, pardon me; but in truth, my children, I am jealous of you. Why, when I found you lying in each other’s arms I could have wept for rage to think that such a fray had been within a league of my own doors and I not in it.”

“I know nothing of all that story,” said Godwin.

“No, in truth, how can you, who have been senseless this month or more? But Rosamund knows, and she shall tell it you. Speak on, Rosamund. Lay you back, Godwin, and listen.”

“The tale is yours, my cousins, and not mine,” said Rosamund. “You bade me take the water, and into it I spurred the grey horse, and we sank deep, so that the waves closed above my head. Then up we came, I floating from the saddle, but I regained it, and the horse answered to my voice and bridle, and swam out for the further shore. On it swam, somewhat slantwise with the tide, so that by turning my head I could see all that passed upon the mole. I saw them come at you, and men fall before your swords; I saw you charge them, and run back again. Lastly, after what seemed a very long while, when I was far away, I saw Wulf lift Godwin into the saddle—I knew it must be Godwin, because he set him on the black horse—and the pair of you galloped down the quay and vanished.

“By then I was near the home shore, and the grey grew very weary and sank deep in the water. But I cheered it on with my voice, and although twice its head went beneath the waves, in the end it found a footing, though a soft one. After resting awhile, it plunged forward with short rushes through the mud, and so at length came safe to land, where it stood shaking with fear and weariness. So soon as the horse got its breath again, I pressed on, for I saw them loosing the boat, and came home here as the dark closed in, to meet your uncle watching for me at the gate. Now, father, do you take up the tale.”

“There is little more to tell,” said Sir Andrew. “You will remember, nephews, that I was against this ride of Rosamund’s to seek flowers, or I know not what, at St. Peter’s shrine, nine miles away, but as the maid had set her heart on it, and there are but few pleasures here, why, I let her go with the pair of you for escort. You will mind also that you were starting without your mail, and how foolish you thought me when I called you back and made you gird it on. Well, my patron saint—or yours—put it into my head to do so, for had it not been for those same shirts of mail, you were both of you dead men to-day. But that morning I had been thinking of Sir Hugh Lozelle—if such a false, pirate rogue can be called a knight, not but that he is stout and brave enough—and his threats after he recovered from the wound you gave him, Godwin; how that he would come back and take your cousin for all we could do to stay him. True, we heard that he had sailed for the East to war against Saladin—or with him, for he was ever a traitor—but even if this were so, men return from the East. Therefore I bade you arm, having some foresight of what was to come, for doubtless this onslaught must have been planned by him.”

“I think so,” said Wulf, “for, as Rosamund here knows, the tall knave who interpreted for the foreigner whom he called his master, gave us the name of the knight Lozelle as the man who sought to carry her off.”

“Was this master a Saracen?” asked Sir Andrew, anxiously.

“Nay, uncle, how can I tell, seeing that his face was masked like the rest and he spoke through an interpreter? But I pray you go on with the story, which Godwin has not heard.”

“It is short. When Rosamund told her tale of which I could make little, for the girl was crazed with grief and cold and fear, save that you had been attacked upon the old quay, and she had escaped by swimming Death Creek—which seemed a thing incredible—I got together what men I could. Then bidding her stay behind, with some of them to guard her, and nurse herself, which she was loth to do, I set out to find you or your bodies. It was dark, but we rode hard, having lanterns with us, as we went rousing men at every stead, until we came to where the roads join at Moats. There we found a black horse—your horse, Godwin—so badly wounded that he could travel no further, and I groaned, thinking that you were dead. Still we went on, till we heard another horse whinny, and presently found the roan also riderless, standing by the path-side with his head down.

“‘A man on the ground holds him!’ cried one, and I sprang from the saddle to see who it might be, to find that it was you, the pair of you, locked in each other’s arms and senseless, if not dead, as well you might be from your wounds. I bade the country-folk cover you up and carry you home, and others to run to Stangate and pray the Prior and the monk Stephen, who is a doctor, come at once to tend you, while we pressed onwards to take vengeance if we could. We reached the quay upon the creek, but there we found nothing save some bloodstains and—this is strange—your sword, Godwin, the hilt set between two stones, and on the point a writing.”

“What was the writing?” asked Godwin.

“Here it is,” answered his uncle, drawing a piece of parchment from his robe. “Read it, one of you, since all of you are scholars and my eyes are bad.”

Rosamund took it and read what was written, hurriedly but in a clerkly hand, and in the French tongue. It ran thus: “The sword of a brave man. Bury it with him if he be dead, and give it back to him if he lives, as I hope. My master would wish me to do this honour to a gallant foe whom in that case he still may meet. (Signed) Hugh Lozelle, or Another.”

“Another, then; not Hugh Lozelle,” said Godwin, “since he cannot write, and if he could, would never pen words so knightly.”

“The words may be knightly, but the writer’s deeds were base enough,” replied Sir Andrew; “nor, in truth do I understand this scroll.”

“The interpreter spoke of the short man as his master,” suggested Wulf.

“Ay, nephew; but him you met. This writing speaks of a master whom Godwin may meet, and who would wish the writer to pay him a certain honour.”

“Perhaps he wrote thus to blind us.”

“Perchance, perchance. The matter puzzles me. Moreover, of whom these men were I have been able to learn nothing. A boat was seen passing towards Bradwell—indeed, it seems that you saw it, and that night a boat was seen sailing southwards down St. Peter’s sands towards a ship that had anchored off Foulness Point. But what that ship was, whence she came, and whither she went, none know, though the tidings of this fray have made some stir.”

“Well,” said Wulf, “at the least we have seen the last of her crew of women-thieves. Had they meant more mischief, they would have shown themselves again ere now.”

Sir Andrew looked grave as he answered.

“So I trust, but all the tale is very strange. How came they to know that you and Rosamund were riding that day to St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall, and so were able to waylay you? Surely some spy must have warned them, since that they were no common pirates is evident, for they spoke of Lozelle, and bade you two begone unharmed, as it was Rosamund whom they needed. Also, there is the matter of the sword that fell from the hand of Godwin when he was hurt, which was returned in so strange a fashion. I have known many such deeds of chivalry done in the East by Paynim men—”

“Well, Rosamund is half an Eastern,” broke in Wulf carelessly; “and perhaps that had something to do with it all.”

Sir Andrew started, and the colour rose to his pale face. Then in a tone in which he showed he wished to speak no more of this matter, he said:

“Enough, enough. Godwin is very weak, and grows weary, and before I leave him I have a word to say that it may please you both to hear. Young men, you are of my blood, the nearest to it except Rosamund—the sons of that noble knight, my brother. I have ever loved you well, and been proud of you, but if this was so in the past, how much more is it thus to-day, when you have done such high service to my house? Moreover, that deed was brave and great; nothing more knightly has been told of in Essex this many a year, and those who wrought it should no longer be simple gentlemen, but very knights. This boon it is in my power to grant to you according to the ancient custom. Still, that none may question it, while you lay sick, but after it was believed that Godwin would live, which at first we scarcely dared to hope, I journeyed to London and sought audience of our lord the king. Having told him this tale, I prayed him that he would be pleased to grant me his command in writing that I should name you knights.

“My nephews, he was so pleased, and here I have the brief sealed with the royal signet, commanding that in his name and my own I should give you the accolade publicly in the church of the Priory at Stangate at such season as may be convenient. Therefore, Godwin, the squire, haste you to get well that you may become Sir Godwin the knight; for you, Wulf, save for the hurt to your leg, are well enough already.”

Now Godwin’s white face went red with pride, and Wulf dropped his bold eyes and looked modest as a girl.

“Speak you,” he said to his brother, “for my tongue is blunt and awkward.”

“Sir,” said Godwin in a weak voice, “we do not know how to thank you for so great an honour, that we never thought to win till we had done more famous deeds than the beating off of a band of robbers. Sir, we have no more to say, save that while we live we will strive to be worthy of our name and of you.”

“Well spoken,” said his uncle, adding as though to himself, “this man is courtly as he is brave.”

Wulf looked up, a flash of merriment upon his open face.

“I, my uncle, whose speech is, I fear me, not courtly, thank you also. I will add that I think our lady cousin here should be knighted too, if such a thing were possible for a woman, seeing that to swim a horse across Death Creek was a greater deed than to fight some rascals on its quay.”

“Rosamund?” answered the old man in the same dreamy voice. “Her rank is high enough—too high, far too high for safety.” And turning, he left the little chamber.

“Well, cousin,” said Wulf, “if you cannot be a knight, at least you can lessen all this dangerous rank of yours by becoming a knight’s wife.” Whereat Rosamund looked at him with indignation which struggled with a smile in her dark eyes, and murmuring that she must see to the making of Godwin’s broth, followed her father from the place.

“It would have been kinder had she told us that she was glad,” said Wulf when she was gone.

“Perhaps she would,” answered his brother, “had it not been for your rough jests, Wulf, which might have a meaning in them.”

“Nay, I had no meaning. Why should she not become a knight’s wife?”

“Ay, but what knight’s? Would it please either of us, brother, if, as may well chance, he should be some stranger?”

Now Wulf swore a great oath, then flushed to the roots of his fair hair, and was silent.

“Ah!” said Godwin; “you do not think before you speak, which it is always well to do.”

“She swore upon the quay yonder”—broke in Wulf.

“Forget what she swore. Words uttered in such an hour should not be remembered against a maid.”

“God’s truth, brother, you are right, as ever! My tongue runs away with me, but still I can’t put those words out of my mind, though which of us—”

“Wulf!”

“I mean to say that we are in Fortune’s path to-day, Godwin. Oh, that was a lucky ride! Such fighting as I have never seen or dreamed of. We won it too! And now both of us are alive, and a knighthood for each!”

“Yes, both of us alive, thanks to you, Wulf—nay, it is so, though you would never have done less. But as for Fortune’s path, it is one that has many rough turns, and perhaps before all is done she may lead us round some of them.”

“You talk like a priest, not like a squire who is to be knighted at the cost of a scar on his head. For my part I will kiss Fortune while I may, and if she jilts me afterwards—”

“Wulf,” called Rosamund from without the curtain, “cease talking of kissing at the top of your voice, I pray you, and leave Godwin to sleep, for he needs it.” And she entered the little chamber, bearing a bowl of broth in her hand.

Thereon, saying that ladies should not listen to what did not concern them, Wulf seized his crutch and hobbled from the place.

CHAPTER III.

The Knighting of the Brethren

Another month had gone by, and though Godwin was still somewhat weak and suffered from a headache at times, the brethren had recovered from their wounds. On the last day of November, about two o’clock in the afternoon, a great procession might have been seen wending its way from the old Hall at Steeple. In it rode many knights fully armed, before whom were borne their banners. These went first. Then came old Sir Andrew D’Arcy, also fully armed, attended by squires and retainers. He was accompanied by his lovely daughter, the lady Rosamund, clad in beautiful apparel under her cloak of fur, who rode at his right hand on that same horse which had swum Death Creek. Next appeared the brethren, modestly arrayed as simple gentlemen, followed each of them by his squire, scions of the noble houses of Salcote and of Dengie. After them rode yet more knights, squires, tenants of various degree, and servants, surrounded by a great number of peasantry and villeins, who walked and ran with their women folk and children.

Following the road through the village, the procession turned to the left at the great arch which marked the boundary of the monk’s lands, and headed for Stangate Abbey, some two miles away, by the path that ran between the arable land and the Salt marshes, which are flooded at high tide. At length they came to the stone gate of the Abbey, that gave the place its name of Stangate. Here they were met by a company of the Cluniac monks, who dwelt in this wild and lonely spot upon the water’s edge, headed by their prior, John Fitz Brien. He was a venerable, white-haired man, clad in wide-sleeved, black robes, and preceded by a priest carrying a silver cross. Now the procession separated, Godwin and Wulf, with certain of the knights and their esquires, being led to the Priory, while the main body of it entered the church, or stood about outside its door.

Arrived in the house, the two knights elect were taken to a room where their hair was cut and their chins were shaved by a barber who awaited them. Then, under the guidance of two old knights named Sir Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci, they were conducted to baths surrounded with rich cloths. Into these, having been undressed by the squires, they entered and bathed themselves, while Sir Anthony and Sir Roger spoke to them through the cloths of the high duties of their vocation, ending by pouring water over them, and signing their bare bodies with the sign of the Cross. Next they were dressed again, and preceded by minstrels, led to the church, at the porch of which they and their esquires were given wine to drink.

Here, in the presence of all the company, they were clothed first in white tunics, to signify the whiteness of their hearts; next in red robes, symbolical of the blood they might be called upon to shed for Christ; and lastly, in long black cloaks, emblems of the death that must be endured by all. This done, their armour was brought in and piled before them upon the steps of the altar, and the congregation departed homeward, leaving them with their esquires and the priest to spend the long winter night in orisons and prayers.

Long, indeed, it was, in that lonesome, holy place, lit only by a lamp which swung before the altar. Wulf prayed and prayed until he could pray no more, then fell into a half dreamful state that was haunted by the face of Rosamund, where even her face should have been forgotten. Godwin, his elbow resting against the tomb that hid his father’s heart, prayed also, until even his earnestness was outworn, and he began to wonder about many things.

That dream of his, for instance, in his sickness, when he had seemed to be dead, and what might be the true duty of man. To be brave and upright? Surely. To fight for the Cross of Christ against the Saracen? Surely, if the chance came his way. What more? To abandon the world and to spend his life muttering prayers like those priests in the darkness behind him? Could that be needful or of service to God or man? To man, perhaps, because such folk tended the sick and fed the poor. But to God? Was he not sent into the world to bear his part in the world—to live his full life? This would mean a half-life—one into which no woman might enter, to which no child might be added, since to monks and even to certain brotherhoods, all these things, which Nature decreed and Heaven had sanctified, were deadly sin.

It would mean, for instance, that he must think no more of Rosamund. Could he do this for the sake of the welfare of his soul in some future state?

Why, at the thought of it even, in that solemn place and hour of dedication, his spirit reeled, for then and there for the first time it was borne in upon him that he loved this woman more than all the world beside—more than his life, more, perhaps, than his soul. He loved her with all his pure young heart—so much that it would be a joy to him to die for her, not only in the heat of battle, as lately had almost chanced on the Death Creek quay, but in cold blood, of set purpose, if there came need. He loved her with body and with spirit, and, after God, here to her he consecrated his body and his spirit. But what value would she put upon the gift? What if some other man—?

By his side, his elbows resting on the altar rails, his eyes fixed upon the beaming armour that he would wear in battle, knelt Wulf, his brother—a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless, noble, open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love. And he also loved Rosamund. Of this Godwin was sure. And, oh! did not Rosamund love Wulf? Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals. Yes; even then and there, black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him so sore that, cold as was the place, the sweat poured from his brow and body.

Should he abandon hope? Should he fly the battle for fear that he might be defeated? Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and honour, and if he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave knight should—without bitterness, but without shame. Let destiny direct the matter. It was in the hands of destiny, and stretching out his arm, he threw it around the neck of his brother, who knelt beside him, and let it rest there, until the head of the weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like the head of an infant upon its mother’s breast.

“Oh Jesu,” Godwin moaned in his poor heart, “give me strength to fight against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the brother whom I love. Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he should be preferred before me. Make me a perfect knight—strong to suffer and endure, and, if need be, to rejoice even in the joy of my supplanter.”

At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through the eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the long church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that only its transepts remained in shadow. Then came a sound of chanting, and at the western door entered the Prior, wearing all his robes, attended by the monks and acolytes, who swung censers. In the centre of the nave he halted and passed to the confessional, calling on Godwin to follow. So he went and knelt before the holy man, and there poured out all his heart. He confessed his sins. They were but few. He told him of the vision of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who once, as a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed blood, but to fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim, ending with a cry of—

“Give me counsel, O my father. Give me counsel.”