CHAPTER XXIV
THE PILGRIM
BUT on the morrow Bran had other matter to think of. There came Siward's son Hugh to tell him that the girl Ia as she walked in the forest had been carried off by some two or three horsemen, the lad struck down who watched o'er her, and the men were young William de Clare's men, and were gone to his castle at Reigate.
Bran broke in upon the King: "My son, my son, the poor man had nothing save one little ewe lamb," he cried.
Richard swore. Adela tittered and "The old fellow does madness well," she said. "Oh la! See his queer eyes!"
"You are loud, my master," the young King said. "We are not to be troubled."
"Do her right," Bran cried. "Oh, my son, it is my child Ia that I love. She dwelt with Siward the ironmaster and William de Clare hath snatched her up as she walked in the forest and borne her away."
"Who tells this tale?" the young King shifted uneasily.
"They that saw it. I tell it, I, and she is dearer than all life to me."
"The fool's wench," Adela laughed. "Faith, William has an easy taste."
"It is in his family, my dear," said Richard. Bran, was plucking at the King's hand. "Up, child, up. Be swift to save her."
"We will know the right of it," the King said. "My lord de Clare may tell another tale."
"She is lost while you falter. Oh, Henry, my King, be a King this day. Up and strike!" Bran dragged at him.
"Let me be, sirrah. Am I to be forced by my fool?"
"There is no King! There is no King in England," Bran cried and ran out.
"By the death of God, he speaks true," Richard said, and he laughed. "You are a bold man, brother."
"Oh la, la, la, here is another quarrel," said Adela. "And all because my cousin has an eye to some wench of the forest. But you are very saintly, my lord Richard."
"See her maiden blush, brother," Richard laughed. "Aye, sweet lady, if any man wronged man of mine his blood would out for it though it were your own noble blood."
"If the fool is wronged, I will right him," the King cried. "I shall send to my lord and{bar"}}
The rest was lost in Richard's laughing. "Aye, send and send again. Hail, King of England!"
To the castle at Reigate there came that day a pilgrim, his cap and his breast bedecked with many tokens. He had the cockle shell of St. James of Compostella, he had a little image of Our Lady of Rocamadour, he had a medal of the head of St. John Baptist of Amiens, he had the Three Kings of Cologne on a brooch and about his neck hanging by a silver chain a box of silver inlaid with a wooden cross, and this again and again he cherished in his hand against his breast. When he came to the castle gate he lit down from his mule and knelt and kissed the image of Our Lady and prayed a blessing on all good men within those walls. Manifestly a very holy man. They begged him in. The seneschal himself came to do him honour. Since King Henry had quarrelled with the Church or with Thomas of Canterbury it was the policy of the de Clares to win the Church's favour. And this was a man to honour for his own sake—and fear. He could tell of the holy sudary at Rome, he could tell of the road up the rock to the sanctuary at Rocamadour and the prisoners' chains and the cripples' crutches and the women's tresses within, he had seen, his own eyes had seen, at Sainte Marie the Maiour, the picture of Our Lady which St. Luke and the angels had painted.
The seneschal lamented that the earl was not there to bid so holy a pilgrim welcome. "A blessing upon all his good endeavours," said the pilgrim, and talked Latin. The earl's knights did him honour. Last William de Clare, the earl's son, came in and knelt to him, a big swaggering youth, but pale and wild of eye and craving eagerly to be blessed.
"God save your soul and bring you peace, my son," the pilgrim said. They sat him down on young de Clare's right hand and made him great good cheer, but he would taste only bread and water.
He told of strange perils by land and sea, he told of the church at Rome wherein every pilgrim on his coming had all his sins remitted, he told of the catacombs and a thousand thousand martyrs' bones. But most of all he talked of relics, of the arm of our lord St. George at Venice, of the virgins of Cologne, of the ear of St. Paul and the crumbs of the five small loaves. "By St. Mary, a holy man are you and most fortunate," said William de Clare, and crossed himself. "Tell me, I pray you, good father, do you bear with you never a relic that will heal a man?"
"From what would you be healed?" said the pilgrim sternly. "There is no healing save in penitence."
"I know it, I know it," the young man cried. "But there is great virtue in holy relics," and he pressed upon the pilgrim and looked covetously at the box about his neck.
"Yea, yea, and great peril for those who seek them with a heart of sin. Here about my neck—" he crossed himself and said a Latin prayer—"here is a box that was blessed at Rocamadour and at Compostella and in it a scrap of the swaddling clothes which Our Saviour wore at Bethlehem. I had it from them that had it of the shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne. And the virtue of it is that whoso kisses it, he is safe from every curse of the devil."
"My father, my father," the young man clung to him.
"Have your will," the pilgrim said, and cherishing the box in his two hands opened it. There lay within a scrap of cloth, aged and dusty. "Hold, hold. Be sure of yourself. There is blessing in it and sure salvation. Yet so holy is it that if you kiss it while the heart is unclean within, it will burn you like foe."
"Grant it me, my father."
"God shall do right," the pilgrim said. He lifted the scrap of cloth, held it on high a moment and pressed it to the young man's lips. Then he shut it away in the box again and said a prayer in Latin, but all the while he watched the lips that had kissed.
William de Clare was very pale and his breath came fast. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his mouth. "It burns, it burns!" he screamed. "And I, I burn in hell."
The pilgrim started up. "God assoil your sinful soul! What wickedness have you done?"
"It is the woman! She cursed me! She is a witch! Oh, it burns, it burns!" He fell down and rolled in the rushes on the floor, plucking at his lips.
"A witch!" the pilgrim crossed himself. "I am bidden where you dwell with a witch? You have done ill this day. Unclean! Unclean! Alas, poor soul, you burn in your own sin. Bring me to this witch and I will strive for you."
So at last they brought him to Ia where she lay in a little barred room in the east tower. She started up, her black hair all about her, her hands over her head, menacing, a wild thing. "Speak no word, yet what I speak hear," the pilgrim said quickly. He began to chant a psalm in Latin: "'O Lord God to Whom vengeance belongeth: O God to whom vengeance belongeth, shew thyself,'" and at the end of the first verse: "Are you safe, child?" he said under his breath.
"I have no hurt. He fears me. I played that I was mad. I sang to him a charm of my grandmother's and made signs such as she would make. Bran, it was like the old, old time when men hunted her. Is it come again? But he he thinks I am a witch and have put spells on him."
Loudly Bran chanted: "'Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?' O, my heart, all shall be well. Play the witch still. He thinks he is accursed. I am here to strive with you for his soul. 'They slay the widow and the stranger and murder the fatherless. Yet they say the Lord God shall not see.' Do not laugh, child. Or if you must, laugh wildly. 'Understand, ye brutish among the people and ye fools, when will ye be wise?' See, child, I have won you from the fiend and you will go down with me where this knave lies grovelling and take off the enchantment, and I will bring you away. But we must not be hasty. Finish the psalm. 'He that chastiseth the heathen, shall he not correct? He that teacheth man knowledge, shall he not know{bar'"}}
Down to the hall they came, the pilgrim, grave and bowed, murmuring Latin prayers, leading the girl, whose gown was rent, whose hair hung tangled before her face. All shrank from her as she passed, and made the sign against the evil eye. William de Clare lay upon the ground where he had fallen. He raised his white befouled face and there on the lips great blisters had risen. The pilgrim blessed him and said a prayer and drew the girl forward. She made strange signs in the air. She sang in words which they did not know. "It is finished, my son," the pilgrim said. "She takes back her curse. Go you presently to a priest and confess all your sin and repent, and the mark of the beast which is upon you shall be healed and your soul find peace. Give thanks and sin no more. And you"—he turned to the girl—"follow you me and you shall be saved."
He strode out telling his beads and the girl followed him close.
But when they were out of sight of the castle, he set her on his mule and kilted his gown high and drove the beast on at speed. "Oh, Bran, Bran," says she, braiding her hair as she rode. "What magic was your magic?" So he told her. "Nay, but Bran, this is miracle. The great blains upon his mouth! I, I played to be a witch. But you{bar"}}
"Fie, child. No witch, you. No saint, I. It is but a scrap of a shirt, with something of Spanish flies on it. God have mercy, it would blister a horse. There is no magic but in what men know not, child. I live by that. I have lived on it all my days."
"You know everything, Bran."
"Na, na, only that we are fools all. Peace, child. I need my breath and swift we must be."
He brought her to Siward's house and there the hammers were silent and men at work upon the stream that fed the great pond, Siward's elder son Azor ordering them. "God save you!" he cried out. "Is it well, Bran, is it well? God be thanked. But you to win her already and alone! Well done! Well done! My father is out upon the London road to meet the Earl and doubted not to have reason of him. We are always needed, we of the iron. But this is far better."
"Send and bring him home again. But what is your work here?"
"We would have a moat to our wall. There are bad days coming, Bran."
"Sooth, sooth. Can you guard her?"
Azor held out his hand. "Trust us yet. We hold fast."
So Bran stayed and ate and drank and put off his pilgrim's clothes and changed his horse for a mule and that night rode back to Guildford alone. He found turmoil.
For he had gone but a little while from Reigate when to the castle rode up a huge knight in his mail. The warder challenged him and he drave such a blow at the gate with his sword hilt that all the castle heard the din. "Who am I, knave?" he roared. "Richard of England am I. Richard of Anjou, Richard of Aquitaine, Richard of Normandy, Richard Fitz Henry."
After a while the gate was opened and the seneschal stood bowing and speaking smooth welcome. But Richard rode on, thrusting him aside, rode into the courtyard and shouted, "Where is that false rogue, William de Clare? Ho, William de Clare, I cry you challenge."
Then two of de Clare's knights ran out. "My lord, my lord, you do him wrong. Our Lord William lies stricken of God."
Richard laughed. "Let him come out and be stricken of man."
"Nay, nay, my good lord, it is truth we tell and no knight{bar|2}}"
"Who bade you prate? The rogue is not so stricken but that he steals a maid and forces her. Ho, William de Clare, come out and meet Richard of England, or I will cry you dastard to all Christenty." The courtyard rang to his shout and was silent. A moment he waited on the stillness. "Death of my life, you shall not hide your shame," he roared. "Craven son of a craven house." He turned his horse and rode out, but in the gateway halted and standing in his saddle nailed his glove with his dagger to the top of the great gate. "De Clare is dastard!" he cried, "de Clare is dastard!" and rode away.
To Guildford he came again in the cool of the evening. Dame Adela was walking in the courtyard when he rode in. She smiled at him and waved her hand. "Death of my life, here is one of the breed bold enough," he muttered, and he laughed and pushed his horse alongside her. "You smile on me, fair lady?"
"Why, would you have me weep for you, my lord?"
"All in good time," quoth he, and looking back shouted, "hold open the gate there," and turned his horse. He drew close upon her again. "Woman's smile is woman's challenge, Adela, and death of my life, it is all I can get of your breed. I take it up," and stooping he took her up and flung her across his saddle, and drove in his spurs and thundered out.