Chivalry (19 page)

Richard made no observation. In silence he fetched his horse, and did
not pause to saddle it. Quickly he rode to Gwyllem's house, and broke
in the door. Against the farther wall stood lithe Branwen fighting
silently: her breasts and shoulders were naked, where Gwyllem had torn
away her garments. He wheedled, laughed, swore, and hiccoughed, turn
by turn, but she was silent.

"On guard!" Richard barked. Gwyllem wheeled. His head twisted toward
his left shoulder, and one corner of his mouth convulsively snapped
upward, so that his teeth were bared. There was a knife at Richard's
girdle, which he now unsheathed and flung away. He stepped eagerly
toward the snarling Welshman, and with both hands seized the thick and
hairy throat. What followed was brutal.

For many minutes Branwen stood with averted face, shuddering. She very
dimly heard the sound of Gwyllem's impotent fists as they beat against
the countenance and body of Richard, and heard the thin splitting
vicious noise of torn cloth as Gwyllem clutched at Richard's tunic and
tore it many times. Richard did not utter any articulate word, and
Gwyllem could not. There was entire silence for a heart-beat, and the
thudding fall of something ponderous and limp.

"Come!" Richard said then. Through the hut's twilight he came, as
glorious in her eyes as Michael fresh from that primal battle with old
Satan. Tall Richard came to her, his face all blood, and lifted her in
his arms lest Branwen's skirt be soiled by the demolished thing which
sprawled across their path. She never spoke. She could not speak. In
his arms she rode homeward, passive, and content. The horse trod with
deliberation. In the east the young moon was taking heart as the
darkness thickened, and innumerable stars awoke. Branwen noted these
things incuriously.

Richard was horribly afraid. He it had been, in sober verity it had
been Richard of Bordeaux, that some monstrous force had seized, and
had lifted, and had curtly utilized as its handiest implement. He had
been, and in the moment had known himself to be, the thrown spear as
yet in air, about to kill and quite powerless to refrain from killing.
It was a full three minutes before he had got the better of his
bewilderment and laughed, very softly, lest he disturb this Branwen,
who was so near his heart....

Next day she came to him at noon, bearing as always the little basket.
It contained to-day a napkin, some garlic, a ham, and a small soft
cheese; some shalots, salt, nuts, wild apples, lettuce, onions, and
mushrooms. "Behold a feast!" said Richard. He noted then that she
carried also a blue pitcher filled with thin wine, and two cups of
oak-bark. She thanked him for last night's performance, and drank a
mouthful of wine to his health.

"Decidedly, I shall be sorry to have done with shepherding," said
Richard as he ate.

Branwen answered, "I too shall be sorry, lord, when the masquerade is
ended." And it seemed to Richard that she sighed, and he was the
happier.

But he only shrugged. "I am the wisest person unhanged, since I
comprehend my own folly. Yet I grant you that he was wise, too, the
minstrel of old time that sang: 'Over wild lands and tumbling seas
flits Love, at will, and maddens the heart and beguiles the senses of
all whom he attacks, whether his quarry be some monster of the ocean
or some fierce denizen of the forest, or man; for thine, O Love, thine
alone is the power to make playthings of us all.'"

"Your bard was wise, no doubt, yet it was not in such terms that
Gwyllem sang of this passion. Lord," she demanded shyly, "how would
you sing of love?"

Richard was replete and contented with the world. He took up the lute,
in full consciousness that his compliance was in large part cenatory.
"In courtesy, thus—"

Sang Richard:

"The gods in honor of fair Branwen's worth
Bore gifts to her:—and Jove, Olympus' lord,
Co-rule of Earth and Heaven did accord,
And Hermes brought that lyre he framed at birth,
And Venus her famed girdle (to engirth
A fairer beauty now), and Mars his sword,
And wrinkled Plutus half the secret hoard
And immemorial treasure of mid-earth;—

"And while the careful gods were pondering
Which of these goodly gifts the goodliest was,
Young Cupid came among them carolling
And proffered unto her a looking-glass,
Wherein she gazed, and saw the goodliest thing
That Earth had borne, and Heaven might not surpass."

"Three sounds are rarely heard," said Branwen; "and these are the song
of the birds of Rhiannon, an invitation to feast with a miser, and a
speech of wisdom from the mouth of a Saxon. The song you have made of
courtesy is tinsel. Sing now in verity."

Richard laughed, though he was sensibly nettled and perhaps a shade
abashed. Presently he sang again.

Sang Richard:

"Catullus might have made of words that seek
With rippling sound, in soft recurrent ways,
The perfect song, or in remoter days
Theocritus have hymned you in glad Greek;
But I am not as they,—and dare not speak
Of you unworthily, and dare not praise
Perfection with imperfect roundelays,
And desecrate the prize I dare to seek.

"I do not woo you, then, by fashioning
Vext analogues 'twixt you and Guenevere,
Nor do I come with agile lips that bring
The sugared periods of a sonneteer,
And bring no more—but just with, lips that cling
To yours, in murmuring, 'I love you, dear!'"

Richard had resolved that Branwen should believe him. Tinsel, indeed!
then here was yet more tinsel which she must receive as gold. He was
very angry, because his vanity was hurt, and the pin-prick spurred him
to a counterfeit so specious that consciously he gloried in it. He was
superb, and she believed him now; there was no questioning the fact,
he saw it plainly, and with exultant cruelty; then curt as lightning
came the knowledge that what Branwen believed was the truth.

Richard had taken just two strides toward this fair girl. Branwen
stayed motionless, her lips a little parted. The affairs of earth and
heaven were motionless throughout the moment, attendant, it seemed to
him; and to him his whole life was like a wave that trembled now at
full height, and he was aware of a new world all made of beauty and of
pity. Then the lute fell from his spread out hands, and Richard
sighed, and shrugged.

"There is a task set me," he said—"it is God's work, I think. But I
do not know—I only know that you are very beautiful, Branwen," he
said, and in the name he found a new and piercing loveliness.

And he said also: "Go! For I have loved many women, and, God help me!
I know that I have but to wheedle you and you, too, will yield! Yonder
is God's work to be done, and within me rages a commonwealth of
devils. Child! child!" he cried, "I am, and ever was, a coward, too
timid to face life without reserve, and always I laughed because I was
afraid to concede that anything is serious!"

For a long while Richard lay at his ease in the lengthening shadows of
the afternoon.

"I love her. She thinks me an elderly imbecile with a flat and reedy
singing-voice, and she is perfectly right. She has never even
entertained the notion of loving me. That is well, for to-morrow, or,
it may be, the day after, we must part forever. I would not have the
parting make her sorrowful—or not, at least, too unalterably
sorrowful. It is very well that Branwen does not love me.

"Why should she? I am almost twice her age, an aging fellow now,
battered and selfish and too indolent to love her—say, as Gwyllem
loved her. I did well to kill that Gwyllem. I am profoundly glad I
killed him, and I thoroughly enjoyed doing it; but, after all, the man
loved her in his fashion, and to the uttermost reach of his gross
nature. I love her in a rather more decorous and acceptable fashion,
it is true, but only a half of me loves her. The other half of me
remembers that I am aging, that Caradawc's hut is leaky, that, in
fine, bodily comfort is the single luxury of which one never tires. I
am a very contemptible creature, the empty scabbard of a man,
precisely as Owain said." This settled, Richard whistled to his dog.

The sun had set. There were no shadows anywhere as Richard and his
sheep went homeward, but on every side the colors of the world were
more sombre. Twice his flock roused a covey of partridges which had
settled for the night. The screech-owl had come out of his hole, and
bats were already blundering about, and the air was cooling. There was
as yet but one star in the green and cloudless heaven, and this was
very large, like a beacon: it appeared to him symbolical that he
trudged away from this star.

Next morning the Welshmen came, and now the trap was ready for Henry
of Lancaster.

It befell just two days later, about noon, that while Richard idly
talked with Branwen a party of soldiers, some fifteen in number, rode
down the river's bank from the ford above. Their leader paused, then
gave an order. The men drew rein. He cantered forward.

"God give you joy, fair sir," said Richard, when the cavalier was near
him.

The new-comer raised his visor. "God give you eternal joy, my fair
cousin," he said, "and very soon. Now send away this woman before that
happens which must happen."

"Do you plan," said Richard, "to disfigure the stage of our quiet
pastorals with murder?"

"I design my own preservation," King Henry answered, "for while you
live my rule is insecure."

"I am sorry," Richard said, "that in part my blood is yours."

Twice he sounded his horn, and everywhere from rustling underwoods
arose the half-naked Welshmen. Said Richard: "You should read history
more carefully, Cousin Henry. You might have profited, as I have done,
by considering the trick which our grandfather, old Edward Longshanks,
played on the French King at Mezelais. As matters stand, your men are
one to ten. You are impotent. Now, now we balance our accounts! These
persons here will first deal with your followers. Then they will
conduct you to Glyndwyr, who has long desired to deal with you
himself, in privacy, since that Whit-Monday when you murdered his
son."

The King began, "In mercy, sire—!" and Richard laughed a little,
saying:

"That virtue is not overabundant among us of Oriander's blood, as we
both know. No, cousin, Fate and Time are merry jesters. See, now,
their latest mockery! You the King of England ride to Sycharth to your
death, and I the tender of sheep depart into London, without any
hindrance, to reign henceforward over these islands. To-morrow you are
worm's-meat, Cousin Henry: to-morrow, as yesterday, I am King of
England."

Then Branwen gave one sharp, brief cry, and Richard forgot all things
saving this girl, and strode to her. He had caught up her hard, lithe
hands; against his lips he strained them close and very close.

"Branwen—!" he said. His eyes devoured her.

"Yes, King," she answered. "O King of England! O fool that I have been
to think you less!"

In a while Richard said: "Well, I at least am not fool enough to think
of making you a king's whore. So I must choose between a peasant wench
and England. Now I choose, and how gladly! Branwen, help me to be more
than King of England!"

Low and very low he spoke, and long and very long he gazed at her, and
neither seemed to breathe. Of what she thought I cannot tell you; but
in Richard there was no power of thought, only a great wonderment.
Why, between this woman's love and aught else there was no choice for
him, he knew upon a sudden. Perhaps he would thus worship her always,
he reflected: and then again, perhaps he would be tired of her before
long, just as all other persons seemed to abate in these infatuations:
meanwhile it was certain that he was very happy. No, he could not go
back to the throne and to the little French girl who was in law his
wife.

And, as if from an immense distance, came to Richard the dogged voice
of Henry of Lancaster. "It is of common report in these islands that I
have a better right to the throne than you. As much was told our
grandfather, King Edward of happy memory, when he educated you and had
you acknowledged heir to the crown, but his love was so strong for his
son the Prince of Wales that nothing could alter his purpose. And
indeed if you had followed even the example of the Black Prince you
might still have been our King; but you have always acted so
contrarily to his admirable precedents as to occasion the rumor to be
generally believed throughout England that you were not, after all,
his son—"

Richard had turned impatiently. "For the love of Heaven, truncate your
abominable periods. Be off with you. Yonder across that river is the
throne of England, which you appear, through some lunacy, to consider
a desirable possession. Take it, then; for, praise God! the sword has
found its sheath."

The King answered: "I do not ask you to reconsider your dismissal,
assuredly—Richard," he cried, a little shaken, "I perceive that until
your death you will win contempt and love from every person."

"Yes, yes, for many years I have been the playmate of the world," said
Richard; "but to-day I wash my hands, and set about another and more
laudable business. I had dreamed certain dreams, indeed—but what had
I to do with all this strife between the devil and the tiger? No,
Glyndwyr will set up Mortimer against you now, and you two must fight
it out. I am no more his tool, and no more your enemy, my
cousin—Henry," he said with quickening voice, "there was a time when
we were boys and played together, and there was no hatred between us,
and I regret that time!"

"As God lives, I too regret that time!" the bluff, squinting King
replied. He stared at Richard for a while wherein each understood.
"Dear fool," Sire Henry said, "there is no man in all the world but
hates me saving only you." Then the proud King clapped spurs to his
proud horse and rode away.

More lately Richard dismissed his wondering marauders. Now he and
Branwen were alone and a little troubled, since each was afraid of
that oncoming moment when their eyes must meet.