Part 19 (1/2)
”Good comrades all,” quoth he, ”well do I know ye to be staunch and trusty; yet to-day am I minded to speak with him men call Pertolepe the Red, lest he shed innocent blood for that we slew his foresters--”
”Twenty l.u.s.ty fellows!” nodded Giles, with a morsel of venison on his dagger point.
”Nay, there one escaped!” quoth Roger.
”Yet he sore wounded!” said Walkyn.
”Ha! Sir Pertolepe is a terrible lord!” quoth Giles, eyeing the morsel of venison somewhat askance. ”'Twill be a desperate adventure, methinks--and we but four.”
”Yet each and all--G.o.ds!” quoth Walkyn, reaching for his axe.
”Aye,” nodded Giles, frowning at the piece of venison, ”yet are we but four G.o.ds.”
”Not so,” answered Beltane, ”for in this thing shall we be but one. Go you three to Bourne, for I am minded to try this adventure alone.”
”Alone, master!” cried Black Roger, starting to his feet.
”Alone!” growled Walkyn, clutching his axe.
”An death must come, better one should die than four,” said Beltane, ”howbeit I am minded to seek out Pertolepe this day.”
”Then do I come also, master, since thy man am I.”
”I, too,” nodded Walkyn, ”come death and welcome, so I but stand face to face with Pertolepe.”
”Alack!” sighed Giles, ”so needs must I come also, since I have twelve shafts yet unsped,” and he swallowed the morsel of venison with mighty relish and gusto.
Then laughed Beltane for very gladness, and he looked on each with kindling eye.
”Good friends,” quoth he, ”as ye say, so let it be, and may G.o.d's hand be over us this day.”
Now, as he spake with eyes uplift to heaven, he espied a faint, blue mist far away above the soft-stirring tree tops--a distant haze, that rose lazily into the balmy air, thickening ever as he watched.
”Ah!” he exclaimed, fierce-eyed of a sudden and pointing with rigid finger, ”whence cometh that smoke, think ye?”
”Why,” quoth Roger, frowning, ”Wendonmere village lieth yonder!”
”Nay, 'tis nearer than Wendonmere,” said Walkyn, shouldering his axe.
”See, the smoke thickens!” cried Beltane. ”Now, G.o.d forgive me! the while I tarry here Red Pertolepe is busy, meseemeth!” So saying, he caught up his sword, and incontinent set off at speed toward where the soft blue haze stole upon the air of morning, growing denser and ever denser.
Fast and furious Beltane sped on, cras.h.i.+ng through underbrush and crackling thicket, o'erleaping bush and brook and fallen tree, heedful of eye, and choosing his course with a forester's unerring instinct, praying fiercely beneath his breath, and with the three ever close behind.
”Would I had eaten less!” panted Giles.
”Would our legs were longer!” growled Walkyn.
”Would my belt bore fewer notches!” quoth Roger.
And so they ran together, sure-footed and swift, and ever as they ran the smoke grew denser, and ever Beltane's prayers more fervent. Now in a while they heard a sound, faint and confused: a hum, that presently grew to a murmur--to a drone--to a low wailing of voices, pierced of a sudden by a shrill cry no man's lips could utter, that swelled high upon the air and died, lost amid the growing clamour.