Part 16 (1/2)
”Aye, for sure,” said Roger, ”we shall burn Black Ivo's gallows to ashes, bowman, and a good end 'twill be.”
”By fire!” cried the archer, aghast, ”but lord, so soon as they shall see the flames, Sir Gui and his men will sally out upon us!”
”Nay,” said Beltane, ”for we shall sally in.”
”Into Belsaye, mean you, lord?”
”Certes,” answered Beltane, ”how else may we break open the dungeon?
The night is young yet, but we have much to do--follow!” So saying, Beltane turned and keeping ever within the shadow of the trees, set off towards that distant hill where stood the gallows, black against the moon.
Swiftly they went and for the most part in silence, for Beltane's mind was busied upon many matters.
So betimes they climbed the hill and stood at last beneath the gallows, and, glancing up, Beltane beheld noisome shapes, black and shrivelled, that once had lived and laughed. Forthwith he drew his sword and fell to cutting down the brush, whereat friar Martin, girding up his frock, took Walkyn's sword and fell to likewise.
Now, as Beltane laboured thus, he was suddenly aware of a wild and ragged figure, the which started up before him as if from the very ground. An old man he was, bent with years, yet with eyes that burned fierce and undimmed 'neath h.o.a.ry brows, and shrivelled hands that gripped upon a rusty sword.
”Who are ye,” he cried, harsh-voiced, ”who are ye that disturb this woeful place? 'Tis here that men are dragged to die--and, being dead, do hang i' the air to rot and rot--and thereby hangs a tale of wolves that howl and birds that shriek, aha!--carrion crows and hook-billed kites--they be well gorged since Ivo came. 'Caw!' they cry, 'caw!'-- soft child's flesh and the flesh of tender maids--aha!--I know--I've watched--I've seen! Ah! since my lord Duke Beltane died, what sights these eyes have seen!”
”Old man,” quoth Beltane, bending near, ”who art thou?”
”I am the ghost that haunts this place, but, ages since, I was Sir Robert Bellesme of Garthlaxton Keep. But my wife they slew, my daughter ravished from me--and my son--Ah! Christ--my son! They hanged him here --yonder he hung, and I, his father, watched him die. But, by night, when all was still, I crept hither and found a hole to shelter me. And here I stayed to watch over him--my son who hung so quiet and so still.
And the rough wind buffeted him, the cruel rain lashed him, and the hot sun scorched him, but still he hung there, so high!--so high! Yet I waited, for the strongest rope will break in time. And upon a moony night, he fell, and I gathered him in my arms, close here against my heart, and buried him--where none can know--save G.o.d. Many others have I buried also, for the strongest cords must break in time! And folk do say the devil bears them hence, since none are ever found--but I know where they lie--six hundred and seventy and nine--I know--these hands have buried them and I have kept a tally. Ah!--but you, gentle youth, what would ye here?”
”Burn down the gallows,” said Beltane, ”'tis an accursed thing, so shall it shame earth and heaven no longer.”
”How!--how!” cried the ancient man, letting fall his rusty sword, ”Destroy Black Ivo's gibbet? Dare ye--dare ye such a thing indeed? Are there men with souls unconquered yet? Methought all such were old, or dead, or fled away--dare ye this, youth?”
”Aye,” nodded Beltane. ”Watch now!” and hereupon he, together with the others, fell to hewing down the dry brush with might and main, and piling it about the gibbet's ma.s.sy beams, while the ancient man, perched upon a rock hard by, watched them 'neath his s.h.a.ggy brows and laughed soft and shrill.
”Aha!” he cried, ”the fire ye kindle here shall set the Duchy in a flame mayhap, to burn Black Ivo with Gui of Allerdale and Red Pertolepe--mayhap! For them, fire on earth and flame in h.e.l.l--aha! To burn the gibbet! 'tis well bethought: so shall carrion kite and jay go light-bellied hereabouts, mayhap, oho! 'Caw,' they shall cry, 'Caw-- give us to eat--fair white fles.h.!.+' Yet how may they eat when the gallows is no more?”
Thus spake he with shrill laughter while Beltane laboured until the sweat ran from him, while Walkyn's great axe flashed and fell near by and steel glittered among the underbrush that clothed the slopes of the hill.
Very soon they had stacked great piles of kindling about the gallows'
weather-beaten timbers--twigs below, f.a.ggots above--cunningly ordered and higher than Beltane's head. Now as Beltane leaned upon his sword to wipe the sweat from his eyes, came Roger and Walkyn yet panting from their labour.
”Master,” said Roger, ”they should burn well, I trow, and yet--”
”And yet,” quoth Walkyn, ”these beams be thick: methinks, when the others go, one man should stay to tend the fires until the flame gets fair hold--”
”And that man I!” said Roger.
”No, no,” frowned Walkyn, ”an one of us must die, it shall be me--”
But now came the ancient man, leaning upon his ancient weapon.
”No, children,” said he, ”'tis for age to die--death is sweet to the old and weary: so will I tend the fire. Yet, beseech thee, grant me this: that these my hands shall fire the gallows whereon they hanged my son, long ago: young was he, and tall--scarce yet a man--they hanged him yonder, so high--so high--so far beyond my care: and the carrion birds--kites, see you, and crows--and the wind and rain and dark--Ah, G.o.d! my son! I am but an old man and feeble, yet, beseech thee, let this be the hand to fire Black Ivo's gibbet!”