CHAPTER LIII. THEY COME TO WETHERMEL, AND THE CARLINE BEGINS A TALE.
NOW turns the tale to Wethermel, and tells how that on the morrow of Midsummer, five years to the day since Osberne had bidden them farewell, the folk once more sat without-doors about the porch in the cool of the evening; neither was there any missing of the settled folk of those to whom he had said farewell, for all had thriven there that while. There sat the goodman, more chieftain-like than of old; there sat the goodwife, as kind as ever, and scarce could she be kinder; there sat Bridget, not much aged in her five years, for ever she deemed it a certain thing that her nursling would come back to her. Lastly, there sat Stephen the Eater, wise of aspect and thoughtful, as if he were awaiting something that should happen that should change much in him; and there were the carles and the queans who had been familiar to Osberne ere he left the Dale for warfare, with some few children amongst them who had not been there five years ago. It was growing late now, and the twilight was creeping up under a cloudless sky, when those folk saw newcomers wending the lane betwixt the outbowers, and making straight for the house-porch. They were but three, and as they drew nigh it could be seen that they were hooded and cloaked despite the warm night; and one was tall and seemed a stalwarth man, and another was jimp and went daintily, as if it were a young woman, and the third, who forsooth had her face but little hidden, seemed a carline of some three-score years and ten.
None of the folk stirred save Stephen the Eater, who rose up as if to welcome the guests; and the tall man spake in a strange high voice that seemed to come from the back of his head: May we three wayfarers be here to-night? for we saw this stead from afar, and it seemed a plenteous house, and we deem it guest-kind. Quoth Stephen: A free and fair welcome to you; ye shall eat of our dish, and drink of our cup, and lie as the best of us do. Ho, ye folk! now were we best within doors; for our guests shall be both weary and hungry belike.
So into the hall they wended, and the three were shown to a good place amidmost thereof, so that all might see them; and there they sat, the tall man innermost, nighest to the dais, the young woman by him, and the carline outermost. Then came in the meat, which was both plenteous and good, and when all were fulfilled the drink was brought in, and the tall man arose and called a health on Wethermel, and that it might thrive ever. But some men thought that, as he lifted his hand to put the cup to his lips, a gleam of something bright came from under his wayfarer's cloak. And Stephen the Eater called a health on the wayfarers; and then one drank to one thing, one to another, and men waxed merry and gleeful. But at last rose up Stephen the Eater and spake: Meat and drink and lodging is free without price to every comer to Wethermel, and most oft, as here it is, our good will goes with it; yet meseemeth that since these friends of ours come belike from the outlands and countries where is more tidings than mostly befalleth here, it might please them to make us their debtors by saying us some lay, or telling us some tale; for we be not bustled to drink the voidee-cup now, these nights of Midsummer, when night and day hold each other's hands throughout all the twenty-four hours.
Then rose up the tall, high-voiced man and said: It is my will that each one of we three should say something, be it long or short, to make the folk of Wethermel glad, for they have treated us wayfarers as though we were lords and kings, and their words go to our hearts. Now I will that thou, mother, begin, and that I make an end of this saying.
Then he sat down, and the carline said: I am all the more willing to this, as meseemeth I can tell you a tale such as ye have never heard the like of, and which will move every heart of you. And yet I must pray your patience, as belike it may be somewhat long for a tale of one night's hall-glee; and on this night must the tale be begun and ended. Hearken then!
There was an old woman, yet no cripple, who dwelt in a stead beside a great river, which none might cross either by bridge or ford or ferry. But she dwelt not alone, neither was the house her own; for with her abode a damsel young of years, who was the owner of the said house, but had no kindred, for father and mother and all else had passed away from her. Therefore it is like that the Carline came to dwell with her because she loved the Maiden, and would serve her and do good to her. And no wonder was that, for not only was the Maiden now grown so beauteous that she was the pearl of all beauty, but also she was merry and kind, and loving as might be. So that none that saw her but must love her if they had any good in them.
Now ye will ask, since so it was with her, was there no young man who was drawn into the net of her love. But I must tell you that the stead where these twain dwelt was lonely, and there was but little recourse of folk thither. Yet I say not but that there was more than one young man of the dwellers thereby who thought it better than good to come to the house and sit and talk with her, and would have kissed and caressed her had they durst; but they durst not, for not one of them touched her heart; and though she was kind and friendly with every one of them, there was nought in her words or her mien by which they might anywise deem that she would suffer the toys of love from them. Sooth to say, the Maiden had a love, a fair youth and a stalwarth, and a glorious man, and many were the words they had spoken together, but never had her hand touched his hand, nor his lips her lips; because betwixt these two was a river such as are few upon the earth, unbridged, unfordable, unferryable. And few might think that it was anywise like to betide that ever their two bodies should touch each the other; but the Carline, who was somewhat wise in lore, had an inkling that, despite this terrible hedge of water, the twain should one day meet.
Now it is to be said that oftenest the Maiden was patient, and abode the sundering with no ill cheer. But whiles her trouble was over-heavy for her, and she would wander forth into the wood or the field, and go weeping and lamenting there; or she would sit in the chamber with the Carline, and cry out aloud on her love to come to her, and on all things on the earth and in the heavens, yea, the Great God himself sitting amongst the Cherubim, to help her, that for once, if once only before she died, she might feel her love's arms about her and his face laid to hers.
Or again, she would, as it were, tell stories of how it would betide that at last they should meet, both grown old, and kiss once, and so walk hand in hand into the Paradise of the Blessed, there to grow young again amidst the undying spring, in the land where weariness is come to nought; and there would she sit and weep, as if there were no ending to the well of her tears. At such times was the Carline sore grieved for her, and would strive to comfort her by giving her some little inkling of the hope which she, the old woman, had conceived in her heart, that the meeting of those two should come about whiles they were yet young and lovely; more than that she might not tell the Maiden, lest the might should ebb from her. Thus wore the days between patience and despair, betwixt cheer and lamentation.
At last, when the Maiden was of some eighteen summers, great matters befell that country-side; for on a day came the alien reivers, such as are called the Red Skimmers, with intent to rob and carry off all that was not too hot or too heavy for them, and to lay waste and destroy all that they might not bear away. But the folk of the land met them valiantly, and their friends on the other side of the fierce river aforesaid helped them what they might with the shot-battle; and great and grim was the murder, and the stour of the hardest.
Now there were the Maiden and the Carline at their house, and nought easy was the rede for them. The Maiden bade flee to the next stead, which was some four miles thence, but the Carline bade abide, lest they be caught upon the way, which forsooth she deemed was most like to betide if they left the house, and that rede they took at the last. So they sat expecting what should befall them.
For a long while none of the aliens came anear them; but at last, when the battle was at its fiercest, rode up three men leading two unbacked horses, and they were of the mien and in the gear of the Red Skimmers; and the Carline stood in the door to meet them, and she spake to them and said: What will ye, warriors? Why are ye not in the battle with your fellows? Said one: Because our errand is here and not there; neither are those men our fellows. We be the servants of that goodly merchant who guested here a while ago, and would have bought the Maiden within there in all honour, and ye rewarded his good will with scorn and mocks and japes and scurvy dealing; wherefore he hath set these reivers on your folk, and hath sent us along with them to look to you. And two-fold is our errand, to bear away the Maiden without a price, and to slay thee. Hah! dost thou like it?
Now the Carline remembered the coming of the said merchant, and how he had cast his love on the Maiden unhonestly and lustfully, and would have lain by her against her will had it not been for the lore of the said Carline, who letted him of his evil will and sent him away shamed.
But now she muttered something under her breath, and looked on those men, and made signs with her fingers, and then spake aloud: Slay me speedily then, whiles ye are about it; for I take no great keep of life. The men handled their weapons, but nothing came of it, and they sat in their saddles staring on the Carline as if they were mazed. And even therewith ran the Maiden forth from the house, and cast her arms about the Carline, and cried out: Nay, nay! but ye shall not slay her! for as my mother hath she been, and none other have I had save her. But as for me, I will go with you without more words. But I pray you by your salvation to take this my mother with you, for I cannot do to be without her; and if I miss her, then shall I be of little use, miserable and forlorn, to that lord of yours that ye tell of so goodly.
The old woman kissed her and embraced her, and then turned to those men and laughed in their faces; and they seemed presently as if awaking out of slumber, and one said: Well, this may be; I see not why we should not slay thee there as well as here; and since the damsel would have it so, we will have thee along with us, and let the maiden settle it with our lord whether he will be wheedled by her or not. But come, to horse both of you! for time presses. So the two women were set a-horseback, and the men rode with a good pace out of the Dale toward the fells at the back thereof; and if at any time the women thought of turning rein and riding off, they had but to look on the men, how they were horsed, for their way-beasts were mighty strong steeds of good race, but the women were set on every-day nags, such as be seen on any highway.
After a while they came on to the broken ground at the foot of the fells, and all must needs ride slower; and then the Carline came sidling up to the Maiden, and saw how wan and woebegone was her face, and asked what ailed her; and she answered faintly at first, and then clearer and louder: It is because I am thinking of him and his woe; and I wot well that now, so soon as the battle is over, there shall he stand yet and look over the Flood on to the field of deed, as if he were seeking after me dead amongst the corpses of the foe. And to-morrow he shall come down to the water's edge while the dead yet lie there, and stand looking to see if I be not coming to meet him, as now I have been wont so many years. And the morrow of that morrow will he come, yea, and many a morrow, till his heart shall be outworn with longing and grief, and he will go away out of the Dale to escape from his sorrow, and shall nowise escape it. Ah, and how shall I know whither he will wend, or the place of the shifting dwelling of his wanderings? And I, and I, I wend away from him.
Sore grieved was the Carline at her grief, and she said: O, my child, I pray thee keep up a good heart within thee, lest thou die of sorrow, and endure not the chances of the meeting. Who knows whether thou be wending away from him? Nay, to my mind thou art wending toward him, and he to thee; for never had ye come together hadst thou abided in thine old home and he in his.
But the Maiden wept. But therewith rode along by them one of the men, and smote the Carline on the shoulders with his spear-staff, and bade her hold her peace, and not go on like a crazy hen. So they rode their ways till they had passed the straiter part of the pass that led through the fells, and there night began to fall on them (it was April-tide in those days); so the men-at-arms chose a place where was grass and water and three thick thorn-bushes, and made their harbour there. They took some pains to dight a shelter for the Maiden by spreading cloths betwixt a thorn and their spears stuck into the ground, but to the Carline, as was like, they gave no heed. But she laid her down peaceably within call of her dear fosterling, muttering as her head fell back: Here at any rate it is over-soon; let us get out of the mountains first. So they slept, yea, even the Maiden amidst her grief, so weary as she was. And when morning was they fared on, after a short tarrying for breakfast, whereof they gave of the best they had to the Maiden, but nought at all to the Carline. Nevertheless, when her fosterling fed her kindly from her abundance they naysaid it not.
This day is nought to tell of: towards sunset they came out of the mountains into a very fair green plain, wherein were neat and sheep a many; but though there were not a few houses of the herdsmen about, they made not for any of them, but took harbour in a little copse by a stream-side, and supped of such meat as they had; save that two of them rode out into the plain and drove back with them a milch-cow, which they milked then and there for the Maiden's behoof.
The next day they rode across the plain, and here and there fell in with some of the herdsmen by the way; but small greeting passed betwixt them, and the country-folk seemed well pleased that the men-at-arms had little to say to them. Before evening was they rode off the plain and into a land of little hills and streams, with green meadows for the most part, but here and there a little tillage, and a good many houses, yet these but the cots of the husbandmen. This day they rode long and late, yea, till it had been dark night but for the rising of the moon upon them. At last said one of the men to another: We shall not do it to-night; let us rest, and come in fresh a-morning-tide. So again that night they had the shelter of the trees and the fields, but on the morrow betimes they were up and rode forward.