Little Lost Lambs From the Colliery

by Harold Lamb

  The swordsman stepped back a pace, fingering the hilt of his weapon. “John o’ Ghent am I,” he whispered, “and I have stretched out better men than thou. Tell thy name or taste—of this!”

  BUT as he moved to draw his sword, Michael reached out and caught his wrist. John o’ Ghent wrenched his arm, yet could not pull free. And before his mate could lift his ax, Michael spoke: “Go you back to the castle and tell the Boar, your master, that I will visit him when an hour hath gone by.”

  John o’ Ghent considered this in si­lence, and Michael released his wrist. After a muttered word together the two visitors withdrew. Michael watched them from the door and summoned the staring landlord.

  “Taverner,” quoth he, “I would take my supper with me to the castle. Roast me the quarters of an ox, Taverner, and roast me some sheep. Fetch me a keg of Burgundy and a hogshead of ale with it.”

  “An’ it please you, my lord, how——”

  “And sleds to carry them up. For, Taverner, I have a whim in me. This night I shall sup in the castle hall, and my friends shall be with me, yet my foes shall eat in Satan’s cellar.”

  As Michael stripped the mantle from his charger and mounted, white faces pressed against the windows. He rode off, humming to himself, toward the gray stone tower of the church. Then he turned and trotted up a lane until the cottages fell behind and the wood closed in again.

  Two men were following him, cutting through the brush. At a bend in the road he reined in, and walked his horse back upon them.

  “Well,” he said, “what now?”

  They looked like hunters, and one car­ried a bow unstrung, while the other wiped the sweat from a broad red face. “We come for no ill,” quoth he, “nay, master, we would warn ’ee, for all thou be’st mad as a starveling wolf. Go not to the castle yonder or—or thou’lt have steel i’ thy back.”

  “Then,” quoth Michael, “have I need of one to stand at my back.”

  “Faith, master,” the red-faced hunter shook his head, “an’ we did that, the Boar would wring our giblets—eh, Giles?”

  Michael glanced at the silent archer. “You are Giles the bowman,” he said, “and friend to Sir Errart’s children. By that same token, I bid you come with me.”

  Then he nodded at the red face. “And you run back to the village. Rouse up any weapon men who served Sir Errart. Bid them arm and come to the castle gate in an hour, and wait me there. Fetch Father Jehan with you.”

  The man scratched his head, then he grinned. “Aye—aye, the lads will come with good will to see thee mauled by Sir Trigault, who will make short work of thy madness. Father Jehan, now—he can serve to bury thee.”

  Whereupon he turned back, running, and Michael leaned upon the saddle horn.

  “Giles, I mean to take this castle from Sir Boar. They told me that Sir Trigault hath no more than fourteen men with him. Is it true?”

  Giles nodded.

  “These fellows would not know Sir Errart if they saw him?”

  “Not they.”

  “Then lead the way.”

  IN a moment they passed a stream, and the wood thinned. A field of un­trodden snow appeared on the left, and Giles pointed beyond it with his bow. Michael saw between clumps of pine a steep slope that ended in a height of rock. Upon the rock stood the gray, walls of a small castle, and above the walls the red-tiled summit of the don­jon tower. A strong place, Michael thought, a friendly place—and he liked it well.

  “Go ye up, Giles,” he said slowly, “to Sir Trigault. Say this to him—that he hath taken the estate of Dion unlaw­fully. That is one. He hath cast out the lawful heir, Robert of Dion. And that is two. And he hath laid his un­clean hand against the maid Ellen of Dion. Which are three charges. Bid him remember them,one—two—three. I affirm it, and I will support my word with my body. And I will await him here.”

  Within half an hour Sir Trigault rode from his gate. That morning he had heard of the drubbing given one of his lieutenants, Grigol, on the road; John o' Ghent had told him of this stranger’s boast in the tavern. The Boar ruled the countryside by fear, and if one defied him, that one must suffer for it.

  Although he knew the challenger waited alone, he took no chance of a trick, and he left six of his men-at-arms at the gate that closed behind him. Most of his men were out in bands on the road, and so he rode down to the field with his two lieutenants and six men.

  Trigault reined forward and halted. He wore good chain mail, and carried a shield. The bristling beard that cov­ered his chin had been brushed up at the sides, so that with his small, quick eyes he resembled the boar’s-head skin that lay upon his round steel cap.

  “They named ye well, Sir Boar,” Mi­chael greeted him.

  Chin thrust forward, Trigault roared at him. “What name bear ye?”

  “I am Sir Errart of Dion.”

  For an instant silence fell, then John o’ Ghent laughed aloud. “By God’s mazzard, he lies!”

  Michael’s voice broke in upon him:

  “Sure I have lied, and I am a great boaster in the world, and now I am playing a trick upon all of ye. But true it is that thou art guilty, thrice—one, two, three—and for every guilt a man shall fall to my sword. Trigault, thou art a foul fighter and now thy mind is to egg thy men upon me. Well, I will fight thee and these twain.”

  He pointed to Ghent and Grigol, who stood by their master. “No mercy,” he added, “for now it must be to the death.”

  “Three against one?” demanded Ghent, incredulous.

  “Aye, so.” Michael dismounted and passed his rein to Giles the bowman. “Three rogues against one valiant trick­ster.”

  It seemed to Trigault then that the crusader was mad beyond doubt. Still, he had challenged him with his lieuten­ants, and the bowman could bear wit­ness to that. He dismounted, tried the hardness of the snow, which being well packed gave good footing.

  “Send back thy pack,” the crusader advised him. “Three will I stand against, but not nine.”

  TRIGAULT ordered his men back a few paces and waved Giles away, so that the four found themselves standing upon clear ground, with Michael a dozen paces from the Boar and his followers.

  The watchers saw them draw the long swords—all but Grigol, a heavy man who carried a short ax and knife. Then Trigault whispered a word to his com­panions and they edged to right and left of him, to take the crusader from the side.

  “On with it!” cried Trigault, striding forward.

  As he drew near, the Boar shortened his steps and then stopped, to let his men come closer. And the instant he stopped, Michael moved. A step to the side and a leap and another swift stride, and he was before John o’ Ghent, who flung up his shield as Michael slashed at his head.

  But in the air the crusader’s sword swept down, striking the man beneath the shield over the hip. Ghent bent forward convulsively, his shield arm dropping as the sword bit into his side. Michael took one more step to the side and slashed at his head. The steel cap spun off into the snow, and Ghent’s body went down like a sack.

  “One!” cried Michael, stepping aside as Trigault rushed over to him and cut at him savagely. Michael’s shield caught the blade with stunning force, and the Boar barely parried his return stroke.

  The crusader’s’ long blade swept in and back so swiftly that Trigault grunted and protected himself with shield and blade, while from the corner of his eye he saw Grigol circling to get behind the crusader.

  Michael had kept sight of Grigol, and once more he leaped. Back this time, turning as he did so to face the ax-man. But he slipped as he struck the hard snow and went down on his knee. Grigol and Trigault rushed in upon him savagely.

  Being nearer, Grigol was the first to strike, bending forward and grunting as he swung his short ax down at the crusader’s head. Michael flung up his shield, and the ax crashed upon it. Without trying to rise from his knee Michael lunged his body forward. His sword thrust up, past the other’s shield, and the point of it caught Grigol under the jaw. The steel we
nt up into the man’s brain, and his body hung limp.

  Steel crashed upon Michael’s side, biting into his mail, snapping a rib and sending a flash of agony through him. Trigault’s blow had fallen upon his back just as he had lunged against Grigol, and the blade had not struck fair—the point of the sword raking his ribs.

  SETTING his teeth, Michael staggered up, throwing his shield around to meet the Boar’s second blow, then wrenched his own sword free of dead Grigol.

  “Two!” he cried, thrusting the point of his shield at the Boar’s snarling face, and slashing beneath the shield. The Boar sprang back, covering himself again with his weapons, and panting.

  “And thou art—the third!”

  Trigault’s blade rang against his steel cap, and it flew off. Michael shook the drip of blood from his eyes. Bending his knees, he put all his strength into a sweep of his long sword. His blade fell fair on Trigault’s shield, and the thin steel buckled and cracked.

  Michael hewed down at the Boar’s broken shield until the bones in the arm beneath it snapped, and the man whined with fear. Back he stumbled, cries coming from his open mouth. “Jacques—Le Baux—aid—” And Michael’s sword hissed down at him, and down again and struck fair beneath his jaw. The Boar’s body jerked forward and fell upon the snow.

  His men, who had come up, stood in their tracks staring down at him—all but one who ran at Michael’s back. An arrow flew and struck this weapon man, who sank to his knees.

  “For Dion!” shouted Giles the bow­man, fitting another shaft to his bow.

  “Dion—Dion!” voices echoed. A group of village men who had been com­ing along the road and had been drawn to the field by the sound of weapon play, now ran forward. The five surviving Boar’s men drew back toward the castle with no thought but flight.

  “My horse, Giles,” cried Michael. “Help me up, for these cow herders of the village have come hither instead of to the castle, and I must—reach the gate.”

  Climbing into the saddle, he spurred his horse up the road and vanished into the wood ahead of the fugitives, as the dozen stout fellows led by the red-faced hunter and the priest came into the field to stare at the bodies.

  “The gate, lads!” Giles cried at them. “The Boar's brood is still at the gate.”

  Midway to the castle, the Dion men encountered three of Trigault’s band hastening down the road. “How now, my bucks?” demanded Giles, confront­ing them.

  “We seek Sir Trigault,” cried one of the three. “A strange lord rode wounded to the gate, and bade us hasten to the tilt field where our master hath need of us—”

  “Aye, to bury him!” Giles roared with laughter. “Down with your arms, my bucks!” And when the village men had taken their weapons from the three, binding their wrists behind them and leading them along, Giles chuckled again. “By good Saint Denis, lads, this mad fighting man hath a way with him. Mark ye how he doth hocus and pocus these swine?”

  They hastened on, and in a moment came to the outer barbican gate, which had been opened to let out the three men-at-arms. The drawbridge had been lowered and at the far end of it Michael sat his horse, with drawn sword, and shield resting upon his foot.

  HE DID not turn his head, but when he heard Giles and the hunters run shouting upon the bridge, he said to these Boar's men: “Throw down your steel, for your Boar carries his brawn no more, and this castle is mine.”

  And when they had done so, he turned to the village men. “Take up all weap­ons, but do these fellows no hurt. Mus­ter them all, let them pack up their gear and foot it away from the Dion lands—every wench and churl of them.”

  “Yea, master!” cried the red-faced hunter. “We’ll see to it—only get thee down and have thy hurt bound up.”

  Michael's gray eyes fastened upon him. “I will see to it. Whoso sets his foot within these walls obeys me or goes out.”

  He kept his saddle at the bridge until the last of Trigault’s people vanished down the road under escort, and the sledges appeared bearing meat and wine from the tavern. With them came vil­lage folk and women who had heard of the taking of the castle. They stood staring in the gate at the crusader in his blood-stained surcoat until Michael summoned them.

  “Clean me this donjon hall,” said he, “and fetch in wood for fires and torches. Five long years have I passed beyond the sea. My eyes have seen the stars bright over Bethlehem, but never a Yuletide have I had till now. Haul me in a great fair log, and pour out the good mead, and light up—light up!”

  He bade the hunters break open the hogshead in the courtyard and help themselves. One brought him the first goblet filled, and he drank slowly. “Go ye,” said he, “to the stable. Saddle the best horse and lead him down to the hut of Sir Errart’s children. Ask Father Jehan to go with ye, and ask the maid Ellen and the young cub of Dion to ride hither to this feast we shall have.”

  Then he went into the hall, leaning on a man’s arm, and sat him down in the high seat by the hearth. He bade them take Sir Errart’s shield and hang it again upon the chimney piece, where it had been before; but Sir Errart’s sword he placed beside him.

  Out in the courtyard where the cups passed round as the men hauled in the Yule log, Giles’ great voice was lifted in song:

  “Noël, Noël!

  Sir Christmas is here.”

  The women at the kitchen fire heard, and their high voices echoed:

  “Noël, Noël!

  Come ye all near”

  But Black Michael sat, chin on hand, gazing into the flames. He did not look up when the great log, decked with bright holly, was brought in. When a silence fell upon the hall and the robed figure of Father Jehan appeared, with Ellen beside him, and the burghers of Dion behind them, Michael got to his feet and turned toward them. Taking Rob by the hand, he led the boy to the fire and pointed to the shield.

  “Look, Rob,” he said slowly, “the shield of Sir Errart hath come back.” He picked up the long bare sword that he had cleaned carefully. “And here is the sword that he bore—that he carried as a man should, as I know well. Now have I brought it back to its right place, and it is thine.”

  The boy’s eyes grew round as he looked at the heavy sword. He went closer to the fire and, stretching out his chilled hands, suddenly smiled. “There is a bear i’ the courtyard,” he cried, “that walks and carries a staff!”

  “Aye, so,” quoth Michael, and faced the daughter of Sir Errart.

  “Ellen,” he said, “now am I master of Dion. The Boar and his brood will trouble you no more. This Yule cheer have I made ready for you, if you will share it.”

  “You are not Sir Errart, my father,” she cried. “Though you have come hither to his home with his weapons. Nay, these years is he dead.”

  “I know it well,” answered Michael. “For I took his arms after his death.” The girl’s dark eyes burned into his. “Then name yourself, my lord—for I will not be the guest of a nameless man.”

  “I am not nameless, nor am I mind­less,” Michael smiled. “I am Michael o’ Nial, who hath followed the wars for a living. Land other than this have I none, for the good King made me a knight after a deed in battle. Friends have I none, other than those who are here, because my comrades left their bones beyond the sea. I have Dion, and I will hold it”

  “THAT is easily to be seen,” cried the girl. “Oh, you are hard of hand and bitter of heart, but did you think I would come as a bidden guest to the hall that should be ours?”

  “Not as a guest,” Michael said. He went down on one knee before her. “Nay, Ellen, for I am after asking your blessed self to be wife of mine and mis­tress of Dion. Far wandering and bitter of heart as I am, never have I be­held so fair a maid, and from the mo­ment when I met you I thought only that I must be asking for you, as I am now. Hasty it must seem to you, but I am not a patient man, and what I want I ever take.”

  Ellen flushed and held high her head. “For this I give you thanks, Sir Michael,” she said slowly. “Still I think you seek to make a gift of Dion to
Rob and to me. Well do I know that only a man like you could hold together castle and lands, and so . . . you have honored me, by asking—”

  “Is it my love you doubt, Ellen? Think you I would have gone against death for aught else?”

  Father Jehan stepped to the girl’s side. “He is sorely hurt, my child,” he said.

  For an instant longer the girl stared into the clear eyes of the man kneeling before her. Then she clasped his head between her hands. Bending down, half shyly and half fiercely, she kissed his scarred cheek and lips.

  Putting his arm about her waist, he turned to the priest. “Ellen o’ mine,” he whispered, “I have brought hither the wedding gown you would not touch in your house. And now, Father Jehan, you will be wedding us in the chapel here, for I am not a patient man.”

  MIDNIGHT, and they were all asleep within the walls—Giles and the hunters sprawled in the courtyard or watching at the gate. In her old room Ellen slept at last, the gown of velvet hung against a chair; Rob, weary and content, curled beside her, and her hair unbound, spread upon her pillow.

  Snow drifted upon the roof, wrapping the walls in silence, and sifting fitfully down the chimney upon the Yule log that still glowed red. On a quilt before the hearth lay Michael, awake arid in pain because the priest had only now finished the setting of his broken rib and the dressing of his wound. In the high seat, Father Jehan sat musing upon the pallid face of the master of Dion.

  “Some say,” the priest murmured, “thou art mad, and others hold thou art a doomsman, sent upon the Boar for his sins. . . . But I think not so. In this day, my son, thou hast lied, and taken the lives of three men. And what more? The maid thou hast wed, she loves thee greatly.”

  “As I do her,” Michael said.

  “And what more?”

  Michael did not answer at once. Aye, the father knew there was something more. . . . His mind went back two years, to a dark night within the lines of the Christian army before Bethle­hem. The stars bright over the road the Magi had trod, and on Michael’s knee the head of a dying man who was his comrade. The words spoken last by Errart, “Michael, will you care for my children? They will be in want.” And his answer, “I will do that.”