Читать книгу: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», страница 21

“I’ve got it,” she cried, producing a handsome piece of lace. “I must cut some off here. Be quick; I be in such a fright for fear some one should come.”

“That will do, dearie,” said the old woman, tearing off a scrap from one end. “There, put it away, and let me begone. Take the drops, child, and give thyself ease. You don’t care for such love as his.”

Janet did not reply, but gladly opened the door to get rid of her unwelcome visitor, who stepped out into the dark night, and hurried away across the little bridge, and into the lane, where she turned to shake her stick at the peaceful-looking house, with its lighted windows.

“Now we shall see – now we shall see!” she cried. “Two ways open, and my sayings coming to pass. There will be no wedding now.”

How Culverin Cark sealed up the Store

The autumn sun shone brightly down into the ravine that led up to the mouth of Gil Carr’s store, and the steep sides were glorious with the bright berries that glistened amongst the changing leaves. Where the briony, with its bronze green foliage, flung down its wreaths, there was cluster after cluster of orange scarlet fruit. The brambles hung down thorny strands black with rich ripeness that there was no hand to gather; and wherever a prickly holly, all glistening glossy green, had rooted in some crevice of the sand-rock, it was covered with yellow berries awaiting more kisses from the ardent sun before blushing scarlet for the Christmas-tide.

The ferns were beginning to be dappled on their dark green fronds with gorgeous dashes of orange and chrome, mingled with crimson, red as blood, and the dyes of the finger-leaved maple were nearly as bright. Where the white tails of the rabbits could be seen disappearing as their owners heard a tramp of many feet, the dense small-leaved sloe-bushes, with their cruel thorns, showed many a row of tiny plums of the richest violet, dusted with a delicate pearly bloom. The late blossoms of the yellow rag-wort clustered amidst the purple heath, and glossy ivy hung in strands swinging in the hot sunshine with the tender tips just brushing the seeded grass self-turned into useless hay.

Hot, still, and breathless lay the ravine, with all its natural riches, ripe with the fullness of the season, and now resting, waiting the coming of the cold wintry winds, that, sweeping up from the sea, should heat and tear and bear away the brightness of the autumn and turn all to desolation and death.

Suddenly a velvety blackbird, with its orange bill and yellow-circled eyes, uttered its alarm-note and flew along like a streak of night away up and along the side of the ravine to the over-hanging woods. A chat that had been busy twittering its song over a golden clump of furze stopped half-way and dived amongst the purple heath, while a glistening lizard, that had half taken the alarm from the scattering rabbits, ran beneath the leaves.

The steps in the distance grew plainer on the ear, and a greeny olive snake raised its head where it lay in a twirl upon a shelf of short, fine, sun-browned turf, darted its tongue out over its hard shiny jaws, and glided under the root of a tree, seeming to give warning of danger by its low hiss to an adder higher up the stony way, for the little viper condescended to raise its head where it lay like a scaly letter S upon the mossy stump of a hazel bush, round whose green, mouldering, gnarled stem were clustered, like chalices, so many thickly-veined fungi that looked as if roughly cast in orange-tinted deadened gold.

The danger seemed to be far off, for the viper lay down its spade-shaped head once more, yawned, and seemed disposing itself for another sunny sleep, but had hardly arranged its tail to its satisfaction when —rustle – tap– something fell from above, and struck it sharply on the back.

It was only a hazel nut that could hang no longer in its husk, but ripened into a soft warm brown, it had dried and dried till a leaf or two above it had ceased to give its shade, and then it had fallen like a warning upon the viper’s back.

A moment before and the little reptile was sluggishness itself; this blow, light as it was, seemed to galvanise it into life, for a quick spasm darted through it, there was a sharp wave, and the raised head was ready to strike, while the eyes, that had a moment before resembled dim oxidised silver, now glittered like tiny jewels, as the whole creature seemed to become the picture of malicious rage, and sought where to drive deep its poison-fangs.

There was somehow a kind of resemblance between the little serpent and Anne Beckley, though there was no one by to see, as, failing an object at which to strike, the reptile seemed to consider that discretion was the better part of valour; and, slowly lowering its crest, it threw its body into a series of horizontal waves, and gradually disappeared beneath some tawny – golden bracken on the slope.

The steps came nearer, and suddenly there was a movement on the edge of the cliff, high above the store, where a bronzed man took his place, evidently on the look-out.

Directly after another was seen scaling the side of the ravine to post himself on the slope over the entrance, while again another suddenly appeared amidst the furze on the green shoulder which overlooked the sloping downs.

Gil Carr’s men did not often visit the place by day, hence the precautions against being watched by some intruder.

High up above the cavern, the gaunt figure of Wat Kilby suddenly showed against the sky. Then he shrank down into a little depression half overgrown with trees, and soon after a thin, pale blueish vapour arose, and kept rising, as, pipe in mouth, the old sailor seated himself upon a block of stone to watch.

Meanwhile, up the bottom of the ravine, close down by where the clear stream wandered in its deep fern-hung mossy shades, a little party of some twenty men wound their way.

Every man seemed well-armed, and, with the exception of their leader, all appeared to be carrying a burden, either a small keg or a little chest, or a heavy packet, which they bore through the clustering bushes, which seemed to interlace their arms and try to stay them as they forced their way amongst the rocks.

After climbing pretty close to the end, at a word from Gil the loads were set down, arms laid aside, and by means of half a dozen pike-staves the great stone was rolled away.

The men then waited while Gil went in and lit a lanthorn, returning soon after to make a sign, when one by one they all lifted and bore in their loads, following their leader for some distance to where the dim light showed an inner cavern, whose sides and roof had evidently been roughly chiselled out by the hands of man.

Here the fresh additions to the stores of the place were neatly deposited, and the sailors sat down, while Gil busied himself in examining a bale or two that seemed to have been gnawed by rats.

“I wonder where the skipper shoved that spying fellow Churr – him as we searched for?” said one of the men in a low voice to his nearest comrade.

“Further in, somewhere,” was the reply; “I thought I could smell him just now.”

“That be rats,” said the other; “I know them well enough. But does the place go in far?”

“I believe you, my lad. I once went in ever so far with old Wat and the skipper carrying lanterns.”

“Did you?” said the other, eagerly; “and what be it like?”

“Like this here. All the same – hole after hole, with rough stone pillars to support it all, just as it must have been dug out.”

“Bah! chap, this was never cut out,” said the other. “It came natural like.”

“Never cut out? Come natural like? Look here, my lad,” said the sailor, rising and pointing to marks upon the wall that seemed to have been made with some rough tool.

“Yes, but anybody might have done that,” said the younger man.

“You can think what you like,” said the other. “I’m telling you what the skipper told old Wat, and you never knew him tell a lie. He said to old Wat, ‘My father found the way rabbiting when a boy, and forgot all about it till he felt the want of a place to store things in unknown to other folk, and then he recollected this.’ He said it was made by folks as lived underground hundreds of thousands of years ago.”

“Oh?” said the other.

“Yes; and they dug first one and then another, as they wanted them, and grew bigger in numbers, and that it went right in farther than they’d ever been on account of the bad air.”

“Same as down among the bilge in the ship’s hold?”

“That’s so. The skipper’s father was most stifled by it once when he tried to go right in.”

“But do they go right in?” The elder sailor struck the top of an empty barrel a sharp rap with the hilt of his sword, and the other’s question was answered, for the sound went echoing into the distance till it died away.

“It be a queer sort of place,” said the other, with a half shudder. “Hang me if I’d like to be boxed up here along with Abel Churr, if the skipper’s stowed him there.”

“Plenty of room and good water,” said the other, pointing down to where the source of the stream outside ran trickling through the interstices of the stone, and formed tiny pools of limpid clearness.

“Ugh! the place smells damp and cold, and I should expect to come out, if I was shut up here, all over blue mould.”

“Like a bit of ship’s cheese, eh? Come along: here’s the skipper.”

“Now, my lads!” cried Gill, just then, “work with a will, plenty to do.”

He led the way, and the men followed him with a sense of relief out into the bright sunshine, where the ferns fringed the rough arch over the entrance to the hole.

They glanced at the heaps of stores and the various shipping chandlery, spare sails and cordage, but all was so familiar that nothing excited their interest.

Just as they reached the outside there was a whistle from below, and Gil uttered an impatient ejaculation. But hurrying a little distance down, he peered over a mass of rock, to see one of his men, who had been on sentry, leading a dark figure with bandaged eyes.

“Father Brisdone!” said Gil. “Bring him along, my lad.”

Going forward, he quickly undid the handkerchief and threw it aside.

“I forgot to tell them, father,” he said, holding out his hand; “there was no need with you.”

“I do not wish to pry into any of your secrets, my son, that you do not care to trust me with,” said Father Brisdone, smiling as he took the young man’s hand.

“Trust you, father? Why, I’d trust you with anything. But you look weary and hot with your journey. Sit down on yon stone: this is nature’s parlour. Here is something to eat. Lockyer, a bottle of that wine from the case inside on the left. The cup too.”

Leading the father to a nook by the side of the entry, he placed refreshments before him, and then said —

“Now you shall see us lock up the house, for it may be a year before we return.”

“Why should you show me?” said Father Brisdone, smiling.

“Why should I not show the man whom I have always looked upon as a trusty friend?” retorted Gil. “Now, my lads,” he said, and, leaving the father’s side, he soon had his men busy with spade and shovel. First of all the old stone was reared into its place. Then smaller blocks were thrust in here and there, so as to completely wedge it in. Then shovels of stones were thrown into fissures, and sods of earth, mingled with grass and heather, were carefully arranged; after which broad-fronded ferns, roots of rag-wort, grasses, and bramble roots were planted, dead leaves sprinkled here and there, and touch after touch given till nothing seemed left to be done but to pour water over the new earth to bind it together, and make the plants take root.

“There,” said Gil to the father, as he stopped by him, hot and panting; “unless some spy has watched our work, that is safe enough, for in a week’s time those things will be growing again.”

“Yes, that will be secure enough,” said the father, rising. “Thanks, my son, I was indeed faint for want of food. And now, what next?”

“Next, father, you will accompany my man there on board. The little ship lies ready in the river; he will take you down in the skiff. If all’s well we shall be with you soon after midnight, and then heaven send us favouring gales, for we shall drop down the river on the tide, and put to sea at once.”

“But no bloodshed, my son. For heaven’s sake do not let the hand that leads your promised wife on board be red with the blood of a fellow-man.”

“Father,” said Gil, sternly, “I am no cut-throat; I am no lover of the sword. I go to-night to fetch my wife, and I go with peace and love towards all; but if that man or his followers stand in my path to prevent us, they must take what follows, for I cannot trifle now.”

Father Brisdone sighed.

“You know the consequences; if I do not get her away to-night, they are to be wed at eight o’ the clock, and to stay that, there must be a deadly fray. Trust me, father; and, if I can help it, no blood shall be shed.”

“I trust you, my son. Go, and my blessing be with you. I shall make the little cabin a chapel, where I shall pass the time in prayer for your success.”

“And then, father, a chapel where you make her mine by ties that none can break.”

“Amen, my son, amen!” said Father Brisdone; and they parted, the father to follow his guide down the valley, and Gil to lead his men through one of the forest tracks in the direction of Roehurst Pool, Wat and the other watchers closing in behind.

The advance was made with caution to within a mile of the foundry, where, beneath a spreading oak, Gil called a halt, and cast his eyes over his party of twenty sturdy, well-armed men, every one of whom could handle his weapon well.

“That will do, my lads,” he said in his quick, imperious way. “Now lie down, and eat and rest. Silence, every man; not a word above a whisper. Goodsell, Kingley, two hundred paces each of you along the track. A good look – out, and a quick whistle, if so much as a berry-hunting child approach.”

His orders were carried out, and then with the soft autumn evening rapidly drawing nigh, Gil also went out through the forest to watch and listen for the approach of footsteps that might end in the discovery of his men.

How Gil and his Men drew Sword

The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the forest with its peculiar odours, – of decaying leaves, swift-growing fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.

Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the swift stream dashed past the front of the founder’s house, and hurried towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a sudden plunge into the lower hole.

There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the events were then taking place.

Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to carry out their leader’s plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in turn to see that the rules were kept.

Hardly a word had passed between Wat and his leader, for the old man was in dudgeon. He had had his shrewd suspicions that Gil intended to carry off Mace that night, and he had come to the conclusion that his duty was to take Janet at the same time. To his anger and disgust, though, he found that this was strictly forbidden, and earlier in the day a sharp verbal contest had ensued.

“Why can’t I take her abroad?” he growled. “You’re going to have a priest, and I want a wife same as other men.”

“Once for all, Wat,” said Gil, sternly; “I will have no paltering with the work I have on hand. Will you obey me and work to the end for my scheme?”

“Why, of course I will,” grumbled the old fellow, “but I don’t see why as – ”

“Not another word!” cried Gil. “But what I says is this, skipper: Thou’st got a priest – ”

“Silence, sir; how dare you!” roared Gil; and the old man shrank away to pull out his little pipe, and begin sucking at it viciously, jerking his long body about, and acting generally as if he had a volcanic eruption going on within him, the safety-valve to which was an explosion of muttered words now and then, which escaped after a kind of quake that shook him like a spasm from top to toe.

All the same, though, Wat made no further resistance to his leader’s will, but with the energy of a long tried, well-disciplined follower, he worked away at the various preparations, and was as obedient as a dog.

As Gil stood thinking in the wood, he once more went over his plans, wondering whether there would be an encounter with Sir Mark’s followers, and then smiling grimly to himself, as he half wished there might be, and thought of how he would like once more to stand face to face with the man who was so nearly robbing him of her whom he had always looked upon as his very own.

At last the time seemed to him to be a fitting one for the venture, and, giving the signal, his men started up from amongst the dewy herbage; there was the clink of arms and a rustling noise as all fell into their places; and, taking the head of his little force, Gil gave his final orders, especially commanding silence, and made for the Pool-house.

Gil’s plans were well matured, and his followers fell into their respective places without confusion. Arriving pretty close to the foundry, he posted them behind the smallest of the furnace-sheds, where the black shadow of night was blacker than in the open; and then, with Wat at his elbow, he made for another shed, where he knew that a short stout ladder was kept.

This was in its place, and Wat was about to shoulder it, when in a low hoarse whisper the old fellow said: —

“You’ll let me take her, too, skipper?”

For answer Gil turned angrily.

“Put that ladder down,” he whispered; “and go back. Send Morris.”

“No, no, skipper,” whispered the old fellow hastily. “Let me go.”

“Put down the ladder. Go back, and send me a trustworthy man.”

“I’m the trust worthiest man you’ve got, skipper,” growled Wat, “only I was obliged to say a word for I feel as I ought to marry the girl now. You don’t know what it is to be in love, skipper, or you would not treat me thus.”

“Do you go, or stay?” said Gil.

“Stay,” said Wat. “I shan’t leave you, skipper, come what may. I’ve done. Not another word about it will you hear from me.”

Wat shouldered the ladder, and together the two men walked towards the water-run, and along it by the stones to the little bridge, which they softly crossed, and entered the garden.

They paused to listen, but all was very still and dark. A more suitable night could not have been chosen for the adventure, and together they made for Mace’s window, where a dim light was burning.

The end of the ladder rustled slightly as it was borne amongst the trees, and they again stopped to listen; but all was still, and so intense was the darkness now before moonrise – the moon that was to light the boat down the river to where the ship lay waiting – that they could see neither to the right nor the left, even the thick bushes under the window were in the gloom.

Would she fail him at this important time? Gil’s heart asked; but he crushed down the thought. No: she would come, he was sure of it, for she had promised him, and he felt no fear of her wanting in spirit for the enterprise.

“No,” he muttered; “she would go through fire and water to escape his touch alone, and she would dare more to be beside me.”

There was a thrill of joy at these thoughts, and he gazed anxiously at the window, waiting to see it opened, that he might raise the ladder and help her away.

It must be the hour, he thought, but the next minute he set it down to impatience.

“She will be to her time,” he said.

As if warned by an instinct of coming danger, Gil Carr drew his sword, and, resting the point upon the toe of his boot, stood leaning his hands upon the hilt, while Wat placed the foot of the ladder on a flowerbed, and held the two sides, with his rusty-beard upon one of the spokes, thinking of how he wished they were going to carry off Janet, and whether she would have been willing to come.

“She did call me an old fool last time, and slapped my face,” he muttered; “but that was only by way of showing how fond she was. Ha! it be terrifying work having to deal with such an arbitrary skipper as ourn.”

Gil still gazed at the window, thinking that if he had changed places with Sir Mark, and a dangerous foe had been in the field, a cordon of sentries would have been placed round the house for his love’s protection; whilst Sir Mark was evidently sleeping luxuriously, and dreaming, perhaps, of possessing his fair young bride. “Poor, befooled idiot!” said Gil to himself; “I do not envy him his morrow’s waking. Why, if I – . Pst! Wat, your sword.”

His left hand involuntarily flew to the silver whistle that hung at his neck, while his sword was raised readily, and turned aside a pass that grazed his ribs. For in an instant the bushes around them seemed alive with armed men, who rose in obedience to a call, and made for Gil and his old follower.

Wat was as much upon the alert as his leader, but he had not time to draw his sword. Not that it mattered, for the short ladder became a very effective weapon in the emergency. Raising it with both hands above his head, he poised it there for a moment, keeping it well ready, and then, darting it rapidly forward again and again, he drove it into the chests of three or four assailants, sending them crashing down amongst the bushes, as he kept them sufficiently distant to prevent them from reaching him with the points of their swords.

As the first blade gritted against that of Gil’s, he placed the whistle to his lips, and its note rang out shrilly on the midnight air, to be answered by the rush of feet over the little wooden bridge as his men came running up; and now there was nothing left but for the defenders of the house to be beaten back, the place itself to be forced, and Mace carried away.

“Swing the bridge!” cried a voice, which Gil recognised as that of Sir Mark. “They’re trapped now. Hollo, there! Lights, quick! Surrender, you dogs, in the King’s name.”

There was a creaking noise as the little bridge was swung round, and Gil felt that, far from being in sleepy indolence and safety, Sir Mark had not only been well on the alert, but had cleverly made his plans according to his own lights to entrap his rival and his followers when they came, attracted, as he felt that they would be, by the bait within the founder’s house.

“Poor fool!” muttered Gil, “if he thinks he can take us here.”

For his men came running to his side to group round where he and Wat were standing well at bay.