Chapter XXX
Martin Valliant did not tarry long under the thorn tree. He knelt for a moment to listen, and then started on his way around the mere, crawling on hands and knees through the rich rank grass that grew near the water. It was wet with dew, and the brown sorrel and the great white daisies brushed against his face. The smell of the green growth touched him like a subtle, clinging memory. He did not think of death or wounds, but only of Mellis and what might happen to her if he failed.
Skirting the mere, he came to the sluice ditch, all choked with shrubs and brambles. The ditch was less than two hundred paces from the causeway, and about the same distance from the shelter of leaves, and Martin scrambled down and took cover in spite of the thorns and brambles. He half stood and half lay, with his head and shoulders above the bank, and a stunted thorn stretching a canopy above him. He could see the two fires, and Fulk de Lisle’s red figure. Mellis’s bower lay between the sluice ditch and the camp fires; Martin could not pick it out of the darkness, though he strained his eyes till the lids began to flicker.
Still, he knew where she lay, and there was nothing for him to do but to lie still and wait for Swartz’s horn. He could feel his heart beating as he leaned against the grassy bank. Every nerve and muscle in him seemed a-quiver. He fingered the point and edge of his knife, and smiled.
Then a strange thought came to him. What if he failed—what if he found the adventure hopeless?
He would die—he meant to die in such a case—but Mellis would be living. He would go out into the great darkness leaving her alone. Rough hands might do what they pleased with her. Fulk de Lisle would come down full of his wine, violent and inflamed.
Martin fondled his knife. One blow, and all that would be saved. And yet he recoiled from the thought with a spasm of tenderness and horror. To strike that white body of hers, to hear her cry out, to know that her blood was flowing! The passion in him hardened to an iron frenzy. He would not fail; no strength should master him; nothing should say him nay.
Martin Valliant had fought through those moments of a man’s strong anguish when Swartz’s horn brayed in the deeps of the beech wood. Martin did not wait to see what would happen. He was out of the ditch and running through the long grass like a greyhound loosed after a hare. He knew where the shelter of leaves should be; that was all that mattered.
And yet his senses were dimly aware of other things that were happening. Swartz was shouting like a madman, “At them! At them! Cut the swine to pieces!” Fulk de Lisle had sprung to his feet and was facing toward the beech wood; his men were rushing to arms. The fellows on the causeway had left their post and were trailing across the grass to join their comrades by the fires.
Martin went like the wind, conscious of a wild exultation. A black shape loomed in front of him, like a hay-cock in a field. He reached it, fell on his knees, and crawled into its shadow.
“Mellis!”
He heard her cry out.
“Martin—Martin—oh, my comrade!”
“Don’t speak, child. I must cut those ropes.”
He groped for her right arm, found it, and cut the thong that fastened her wrist to the stake. To free her left arm he had to lean over her body, but the second rope was cut, and of a sudden he felt her arms about him.
“Martin!”
Her great joy and her love would not be stifled. Her arms held him close, and for a moment he lay on her bosom, feeling her breath on his face, and the beating of her heart answering his.
“My own dear mate——”
“Child, it is life and death.”
He freed himself, and cut the ropes that bound her ankles.
“Come.”
She was up like a blown leaf, holding the cloak over her bosom with one hand, and running at his side. Martin looked back at the fires. Confusion still fooled Fulk de Lisle and his men. There was much running to and fro and shouting under the beech trees, and no grasping, as yet, of the trick that had been played them.
Martin felt himself touched upon the shoulder.
“You are all wet, dear comrade.”
“I had to swim across.”
She gave an exquisite, shy laugh.
“The mere is an old friend. You will not have to carry me.”
There flashed on Martin Valliant a swift new consciousness of her as a woman, a woman who trusted him as a bird flies to its mate. A great white light had blazed for him, lighting such an awe of her that the very thought of touching her had seemed sacrilege. And now a miraculous thing had happened. Her arms had held him; she was not afraid; and in the soft darkness her eyes sought his. His awe of her melted to a deep and exultant tenderness. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, that he was ready to die for her, that she was the most wonderful and adorable thing in the whole world.
He touched her hand.
“Have no fear,” he said, “for no harm shall come to you.”
“Fear! I have no fear of you.”
“God be thanked. We have been close to the edge of hell, Mellis, you and I, to-day.”
He heard her draw her breath as though in pain.
“Let me forget it—let me forget it.”
The mere lay at their feet, black and still and welcoming. There was no pursuit as yet, though Fulk de Lisle was turning his eyes and his thoughts to Mellis and the shelter of leaves.
“Blessed water!”
She stepped confidently into the mere, and went forward till the water rose above her waist.
“S-sh! How sweet and cold it is! Martin—my cloak!”
She had folded it over her bosom and shoulders.
“There is no saving it,” and she laughed softly; “the thing must get soaked.”
“Give it to me. I can carry it above my head.”
“No, no; something else must serve. Mother of Heaven—they are after us—at last!”
She let the cloak drop, and left it floating as she dipped to the water and struck out for the island. Martin caught it up and followed her, blessing the darkness for its friendliness. He glanced over his shoulder as he swam, and saw a dozen red lights tossing toward them over the grassland. Fulk de Lisle had sent a man to the shelter of leaves, and its emptiness had been discovered.
Mellis was swimming so swiftly that he had to strike out hard to overtake her. Her arm came out and cut the water like a silver sickle, each stroke striking a little splash of foam. Martin drew to her, and they swam side by side.
“We shall beat them.”
“Please God. The torches will not show the farther bank.”
“How you can swim!”
“I always loved this side stroke. I could beat my brother in a race.”
Her whiteness played near him under the black swirl of the water.
“This way. The bank is low by the orchard; we can land there. That man! I was forgetting him.”
“Swartz?”
“Yes.”
Her sudden, sensitive trepidation thrilled him. He found that he had forgotten Swartz.
“Swartz is in the woods over yonder. He swam across with me. It was his horn that you heard. We owe—this—to him.”
“What! He is on our side now?”
“Yes.”
“That is noble.”
They reached the shallows just as Fulk de Lisle’s torches came flaring to the landward bank. The men could see nothing but ripples; the light did not carry to the island. One of the fellows hurled his torch out into the darkness at a venture. It kissed the water, threw out a momentary radiance, and went out.
Martin was up the bank, and reaching for Mellis’s hands. They heard Fulk de Lisle cursing.
“Martin, we have fooled them.”
She came out to him like a child, dim, dripping, exultant. Her hands held his without shame.
“Mellis.”
He threw the wet cloak over her, but she cast it off.
“Not that clammy thing. The night is warm, and I am all aglow.”
She put up her hands, and in a second her hair came clouding down.
“What now? Dear man, they will be mad. You must get your harness and stand ready.”
Martin was moving away when new sounds came out of the darkness of the night. A horn blared in the woods; a man screamed in agony; there was the noise of men running, and shouting as they ran.
Martin turned and looked across the water.
“Listen!”
Mellis was at his side.
“Did you hear that cry? ‘Richmond! Richmond!’ It is John Falconer.”
A man in armor, whose horse was half unmanageable, blundered out into the light of the fires. It was John Rich. He waved his sword, and shouted to Fulk de Lisle,
“To us! To us! We are attacked.”
Fulk de Lisle’s torches went tossing up the hill; but before he and his men reached the beech wood, the fight came tumbling out like a drove of swine. John Rich was down with an arrow through his throat, and his horse went charging straight at the torches. Fulk de Lisle caught the beast by the bridle, swung himself into the saddle, and snatched a spear from one of his men.
“Troy! Troy! Hold together, lads!”
But that rough and tumble on the edge of the wood was no fitting stage for flamboyant feats of arms. Falconer’s men poured out in a black swarm. The fighting was at close quarters, a wild swirl of jerking and grotesque figures, a tangle of men and horses, torches, flying embers, oaths and blows. The fires were kicked out, smothered by the bodies of men who fell on them, and rolled away—cursing. Torches were flung, tossed back again, trampled under foot. There was no knightliness in the game. It was a battle of wild beasts who were in a mad haste to kill. My Lord of Troy’s men had raped and bullied the Forest, and the Forest was taking its vengeance.
Mellis’s head was close to Martin’s shoulder, and his arm had slipped about her body. Neither of them spoke. The work up yonder was too grim, too breathless. The fires were scattered; a few torches flared in the grass; the dance of death became a thing of darkness.
Then a horse went galloping down past the mere, a dim, hurrying shape.
“Who was that?”
Martin strained his eyes. A faint radiance was stealing over the grassland, the light of the rising moon. The horse became a gray ghost carrying a man who rode for safety.
“Who should it be?”
“Fulk de Lisle.”
“That devil!”
The bloody game under the black shadows of the beeches seemed to be losing its fury. Men were calling to each other in the darkness; there was a kind of whimpering murmur, a vague scattering of voices. Once a man shrieked aloud, and Martin felt Mellis shiver.
“It is over. Look, you can see men running. One, two, and another—over there, in the open.”
“Is it with us, or against us?”
“Troy is beaten. Hear them shouting—our people, ‘Richmond! Richmond!’ ”
“What a night, comrade, what a night!”