Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Some fifty miles from the castle there was a little farm, in the very heart of the country, which had been left me by a sister of my mother’s. Thither I now implored her to repair with me. I would find a priest to wed us, and there we should live a while in happiness, in solitude, and in love. An alluring picture did I draw with all a lover’s cunning, and to the charms of it she fell a victim. We fled three days later.

  “We were wed in the village that pays allegiance to the castle, and thereafter we travelled swiftly and undisturbed to that little homestead. There in solitude, with but two servants — a man and a maid whom I could trust — we lived and loved, and for a season, brief as all happiness is doomed to be, we were happy. Her cousins had no knowledge of that farm of mine, and though they searched the country for many a mile around, they searched in vain. My father knew — as I learned afterwards — but deeming that what was done might not be undone, he held his peace. In the following spring a babe was born to us, and our bliss made heaven of that cottage.

  “Twas a month or so after the birth of our child that the blow descended. I was away, enjoying alone the pleasures of the chase; my man was gone a journey to the nearest town, whence he would not return until the morrow. Oft have I cursed the folly that led me to take my gun and go forth into the woods, leaving no protector for my wife but one weak woman.

  “I returned earlier than I had thought to do, led mayhap by some angel that sought to have me back in time. But I came too late. At my gate I found two freshly ridden horses tethered, and it was with a dull foreboding in my heart that I sprang through the open door. Within — O God, the anguish of it! — stretched on the floor I beheld my love, a gaping sword-wound in her side, and the ground all bloody about her. For a moment I stood dumb in the spell of that horror, then a movement beyond, against the wall, aroused me, and I beheld her murderers cowering there, one with a naked sword in his hand.

  “In that fell hour, Kenneth, my whole nature changed, and one who had ever been gentle was transformed into the violent, passionate man that you have known. As my eye encountered then her cousins, my blood seemed on the instant curdled in my veins; my teeth were set hard; my nerves and sinews knotted; my hands instinctively shifted to the barrel of my fowling-piece and clutched it with the fierceness that was in me — the fierceness of the beast about to spring upon those that have brought it to bay.

  “For a moment I stood swaying there, my eyes upon them, and holding their craven glances fascinated. Then with a roar I leapt forward, the stock of my fowling-piece swung high above my head. And, as God lives, Kenneth, I had sent them straight to hell ere they could have raised a hand or made a cry to stay me. But as I sprang my foot slipped in the blood of my beloved, and in my fall I came close to her where she lay. The fowling-piece had escaped my grasp and crashed against the wall.

  “I scarce knew what I did, but as I lay beside her it came to me that I did not wish to rise again — that already I had lived overlong. It came to me that, seeing me fallen, haply those cowards would seize the chance to make an end of me as I lay. I wished it so in that moment’s frenzy, for I made no attempt to rise or to defend myself; instead I set my arms about my poor murdered love, and against her cold cheek I set my face that was well-nigh as cold.

  “And thus I lay, nor did they keep me long. A sword was passed through me from back to breast, whilst he who did it cursed me with a foul oath. The room grew dim; methought it swayed and that the walls were tottering; there was a buzz of sound in my ears, then a piercing cry in a baby voice. At the sound of it I vaguely wished for the strength to rise. As in the distance, I heard one of those butchers cry, “Haste, man; slit me that squalling bastard’s throat!” And then I must have swooned.”

  Kenneth shuddered.

  “My God, how horrible!” he cried. “But you were avenged, Sir Crispin,” he added eagerly; “you were avenged?”

  “When I regained consciousness,” Crispin continued, as if he had not heard Kenneth’s exclamation, “the cottage was in flames, set alight by them to burn the evidence of their foul deed. What I did I know not. I have tried to urge my memory along from the point of my awakening, but in vain. By what miracle I crawled forth, I cannot tell; but in the morning I was found by my man lying prone in the garden, half a dozen paces from the blackened ruins of the cottage, as near death as man may go and live.

  “God willed that I should not die, but it was close upon a year before I was restored to any semblance of my former self, and then I was so changed that I was hardly to be recognized as that same joyous, vigorous lad, who had set out, fowling-piece on shoulder, one fine morning a year agone. There was grey in my hair, as much as there is now, though I was but twenty-one; my face was seared and marked as that of a man who had lived twice my years. It was to my faithful servant that I owed my life, though I ask myself to-night whether I have cause for gratitude towards him on that score.

  “So soon as I had regained sufficient strength, I went secretly home, wishing that men might continue to believe me dead. My father I found much aged by grief, but he was kind and tender with me beyond all words. From him I had it that our enemies were gone to France; it would seem they had thought it better to remain absent for a while. He had learnt that they were in Paris, and hither I determined forthwith to follow them. Vainly did my father remonstrate with me; vainly did he urge me rather: to bear my story to the King at Whitehall and seek for justice. I had been well advised had I obeyed this counsel, but I burned to take my vengeance with my own hands, and with this purpose I repaired to France.

  “Two nights after my arrival in Paris it was my ill-fortune to be embroiled in a rough-and-tumble in the streets, and by an ill-chance I killed a man — the first was he of several that I have sent whither I am going to-morrow. The affair was like to have cost me my life, but by another of those miracles which have prolonged it, I was sent instead to the galleys on the Mediterranean. It was only wanting that, after all that already I had endured, I should become a galley-slave!

  “For twelve long years I toiled at an oar, and waited. If I lived I would return to England; and if I returned, woe unto those that had wrecked my life — my body and my soul. I did live, and I did return. The Civil War had broken out, and I came to throw my sword into the balance on the King’s side: I came, too, to be avenged, but that would wait.

  “Meanwhile, the score had grown heavier. I went home to find the castle in usurping hands — in the hands of my enemies. My father was dead; he died a few months after I had gone to France; and those murderers had advanced a claim that through my marriage with their cousin, since dead, and through my own death, there being no next of kin, they were the heirs-at-law. The Parliament allowed their claim, and they were installed. But when I came they were away, following the fortunes of the Parliament that had served them so well. And so I determined to let my vengeance wait until the war were ended and the Parliament destroyed. In a hundred engagements did I distinguish myself by my recklessness even as at other seasons I distinguished myself by my debaucheries.

  “Ah, Kenneth, you have been hard upon me for my vices, for my abuses of the cup, and all the rest. But can you be hard upon me still, knowing what I had suffered, and what a weight of misery I bore with me? I, whose life was wrecked beyond salvation; who only lived that I might slit the throats of those that had so irreparably wronged me. Think you still that it was so vicious a thing, so unpardonable an offence to seek the blessed nepenthe of the wine-cup, the heavenly forgetfulness that its abuses brought me? Is it strange that I became known as the wildest tantivy boy that rode with the King? What else had I?”

  “In all truth your trials were sore,” said the lad in a voice that contained a note of sympathy. And yet there was a certain restraint that caught the Tavern Knight’s ear. He turned his head and bent his eyes in the lad’s direction, but it was quite dark by now, and he failed to make out his companion’s face.

  “My tale is told, Kenneth. The rest you can guess. The King did not prevai
l and I was forced to fly from England with those others who escaped from the butchers that had made a martyr of Charles. I took service in France under the great Conde, and I saw some mighty battles. At length came the council of Breda and the invitation to Charles the Second to receive the crown of Scotland. I set out again to follow his fortunes as I had followed his father’s, realizing that by so doing I followed my own, and that did he prevail I should have the redress and vengeance so long awaited. To-day has dashed my last hope; to-morrow at this hour it will not signify. And yet much would I give to have my fingers on the throats of those two hounds before the hangman’s close around my own.”

  There was a spell of silence as the two men sat, both breathing heavily in the gloom that enveloped them. At length:

  “You have heard my story, Kenneth,” said Crispin.

  “I have heard, Sir Crispin, and God knows I pity you.”

  That was all, and Galliard felt that it was not enough. He had lacerated his soul with those grim memories to earn a yet kinder word. He had looked even to hear the lad suing for pardon for the harsh opinions wherein he had held him. Strange was this yearning of his for the boy’s sympathy. He who for twenty years had gone unloving and unloved, sought now in his extremity affection from a fellow-man.

  And so in the gloom he waited for a kinder word that came not; then — so urgent was his need — he set himself to beg it.

  “Can you not understand now, Kenneth, how I came to fall so low? Can you not understand this dissoluteness of mine, which led them to dub me the Tavern Knight after the King conferred upon me the honour of knighthood for that stand of mine in Fifeshire? You must understand, Kenneth,” he insisted almost piteously, “and knowing all, you must judge me more mercifully than hitherto.”

  “It is not mine to judge, Sir Crispin. I pity you with all my heart,” the lad replied, not ungently.

  Still the knight was dissatisfied. “Yours it is to judge as every man may judge his fellowman. You mean it is not yours to sentence. But if yours it were, Kenneth, what then?”

  The lad paused a moment ere he answered. His bigoted Presbyterian training was strong within him, and although, as he said, he pitied Galliard, yet to him whose mind was stuffed with life’s precepts, and who knew naught of the trials it brings to some and the temptations to which they were not human did they not succumb — it seemed that vice was not to be excused by misfortune. Out of mercy then he paused, and for a moment he had it even in his mind to cheer his fellow-captive with a lie. Then, remembering that he was to die upon the morrow, and that at such a time it was not well to risk the perdition of his soul by an untruth, however merciful, he answered slowly:

  “Were I to judge you, since you ask me, sir, I should be merciful because of your misfortunes. And yet, Sir Crispin, your profligacy and the evil you have wrought in life must weigh heavily against you.” Had this immaculate bigot, this churlish milksop been as candid with himself as he was with Crispin, he must have recognized that it was mainly Crispin’s offences towards himself that his mind now dwelt on in deeper rancour than became one so well acquainted with the Lord’s Prayer.

  “You had not cause enough,” he added impressively, “to defile your soul and risk its eternal damnation because the evil of others had wrecked your life.”

  Crispin drew breath with the sharp hiss of one in pain, and for a moment after all was still. Then a bitter laugh broke from him.

  “Bravely answered, reverend sir,” he cried with biting scorn. “I marvel only that you left your pulpit to gird on a sword; that you doffed your cassock to don a cuirass. Here is a text for you who deal in texts, my brave Jack Presbyter— ‘Judge you your neighbour as you would yourself be judged; be merciful as you would hope for mercy.’ Chew you the cud of that until the hangman’s coming in the morning. Good night to you.”

  And throwing himself back upon the bed, Crispin sought comfort in sleep. His limbs were heavy and his heart was sick.

  “You misapprehend me, Sir Crispin,” cried the lad, stung almost to shame by Galliard’s reproach, and also mayhap into some fear that hereafter he should find little mercy for his own lack of it towards a poor fellow-sinner. “I spoke not as I would judge, but as the Church teaches.”

  “If the Church teaches no better I rejoice that I was no churchman,” grunted Crispin.

  “For myself,” the lad pursued, heeding not the irreverent interruption, “as I have said, I pity you with all my heart. More than that, so deeply do I feel, so great a loathing and indignation has your story sown in my heart, that were our liberty now restored us I would willingly join hands with you in wreaking vengeance on these evildoers.”

  Sir Crispin laughed. He judged the tone rather than the words, and it rang hollow.

  “Where are your wits, O casuist?” he cried mockingly. “Where are your doctrines? ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!’ Pah!”

  And with that final ejaculation, pregnant with contempt and bitterness, he composed himself to sleep.

  He was accursed he told himself. He must die alone, as he had lived.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE TWISTED BAR

  Nature asserted herself, and, despite his condition, Crispin slept. Kenneth sat huddled on his chair, and in awe and amazement he listened to his companion’s regular breathing. He had not Galliard’s nerves nor Galliard’s indifference to death, so that neither could he follow his example, nor yet so much as realize how one should slumber upon the very brink of eternity.

  For a moment his wonder stood perilously near to admiration; then his religious training swayed him, and his righteousness almost drew from him a contempt of this man’s apathy. There was much of the Pharisee’s attitude towards the publican in his mood.

  Anon that regular breathing grew irritating to him; it drew so marked a contrast ‘twixt Crispin’s frame of mind and his own. Whilst Crispin had related his story, the interest it awakened had served to banish the spectre of fear which the thought of the morrow conjured up. Now that Crispin was silent and asleep, that spectre returned, and the lad grew numb and sick with the horror of his position.

  Thought followed thought as he sat huddled there with sunken head and hands clasped tight between his knees, and they were mostly of his dull uneventful days in Scotland, and ever and anon of Cynthia, his beloved. Would she hear of his end? Would she weep for him? — as though it mattered! And every train of thought that he embarked upon brought him to the same issue — to-morrow! Shuddering he would clench his hands still tighter, and the perspiration would stand’ out in beads upon his callow brow.

  At length he flung himself upon his knees to address not so much a prayer as a maudlin grievance to his Creator. He felt himself a craven — doubly so by virtue of the peaceful breathing of that sinner he despised — and he told himself that it was not in fear a gentleman should meet his end.

  “But I shall be brave to-morrow. I shall be brave,” he muttered, and knew not that it was vanity begat the thought, and vanity that might uphold him on the morrow when there were others by, however broken might be his spirit now.

  Meanwhile Crispin slept. When he awakened the light of a lanthorn was on his face, and holding it stood beside him a tall black figure in a cloak and a slouched hat whose broad brim left the features unrevealed.

  Still half asleep, and blinking like an owl, he sat up.

  “I have always held burnt sack to be well enough, but—”

  He stopped short, fully awake at last, and, suddenly remembering his condition and thinking they were come for him, he drew a sharp breath and in a voice as indifferent as he could make it:

  “What’s o’clock?” he asked.

  “Past midnight, miserable wretch,” was the answer delivered in a deep droning voice. “Hast entered upon thy last day of life — a day whose sun thou’lt never see. But five hours more are left thee.”

  “And it is to tell me this that you have awakened me?” demanded Galliard in such a voice that he of the cloak recoiled a step, as if he thought a blow mus
t follow. “Out on you for an unmannerly cur to break upon a gentleman’s repose.”

  “I come,” returned the other in his droning voice, “to call upon thee to repent.”

  “Plague me not,” answered Crispin, with a yawn. “I would sleep.”

  “Soundly enough shalt thou sleep in a few hours’ time. Bethink thee, miserable sinner, of thy soul.”

  “Sir,” cried the Tavern Knight, “I am a man of marvellous short endurance. But mark you this your ways to heaven are not my ways. Indeed, if heaven be peopled by such croaking things as you, I shall be thankful to escape it. So go, my friend, ere I become discourteous.”

  The minister stood in silence for a moment; then setting his lanthorn upon the table, he raised his hands and eyes towards the low ceiling of the chamber.

  “Vouchsafe, O Lord,” he prayed, “to touch yet the callous heart of this obdurate, incorrigible sinner, this wicked, perjured and blasphemous malignant, whose—”

  He got no further. Crispin was upon his feet, his harsh countenance thrust into the very face of the minister; his eyes ablaze.

  “Out!” he thundered, pointing to the door. “Out! Begone! I would not be guilty at the end of my life of striking a man in petticoats. But go whilst I can bethink me of it! Go — take your prayers to hell.”

  The minister fell back before that blaze of passion. For a second he appeared to hesitate, then he turned towards Kenneth, who stood behind in silence. But the lad’s Presbyterian rearing had taught him to hate a sectarian as he would a papist or as he would the devil, and he did no more than echo Galliard’s words — though in a gentler key.