The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two Wars

by Harold Frederic

  CHAPTER II.

  A BURST FOR FREEDOM.

  The crossbow was audibly rattling on Dickon's shoulder and his kneessmote together after hearing what the old archer had told him about theso-called sorcerer. He looked hurriedly behind, with perhaps some vaguethoughts of flight, but the sight of the fierce horsemen at his heelsscattered these.

  The boy plodded miserably forward, catching only here and there a strayword of what the archer further said. This was to the effect that theplace they were pushing toward--dread Camber Dane--had been the home ofthe mad baron, Lord Tasktorn, for many years. Now for other many yearshis equally mad younger son, Sir John Camber, had been in possession ofthe estate.

  A gruesome and awful man, by all accounts, was this Sir John, who livedalone with uncanny, dwarfish servant-people. It was said that heconjured gold and jewels out of the unholy flames he kindled, and wasaccurst of God and the church.

  Little enough of this did Dickon comprehend, for the idea of analchemist was new to him; but the terrors which the archer painted werenone the less real to the lad.

  He fancied that the air in the tangled copse through which they werenow pushing their upward path already bore the fatal taint of magic. Hestrove to breathe as little of it as he could, and thus to avoid itsspell.

  The horses had been left behind, and their riders were now on foot likethe rest.

  Dickon looked anxiously about for some offer of escape. Then affrightedvisions of what death really was rose before his eyes--all withstartling suddenness taking on the likeness of his father, lyinggasping on the straw of the squalid forge. It horrified his senses.

  He stumbled blindly on with the rest, not seeing where or with whom hewas going, and ever and again receiving blows from the armed men behindhim, which he scarce noted.

  All at once they all stood forth on the edge of a promontory. Beneaththem spread out a picture of almost enchanted loveliness, with park andlawn, with garden, orchard, and lake. In the centre of all was apeaceful mansion, turreted and gabled for beauty rather than defence.Engirdling all was a broad oaken zone of forest. Midwinter though itwas, the sylvan prospect seemed to speak of spring, and grass and treesalike were green.

  As he looked down upon this scene, Dickon felt the fog of frightlifting from his mind. Somehow the notion dawned upon him that if deathby a sorcerer's wiles awaited him here in this vale, it must be agracious and almost pleasant death to fit the place.

  His terrors left him,--as strangely swift as they had come,--and intheir place there rose a curious sensation of regret that so sweet andgoodly a home as this should be ravaged.

  This was, however, too novel a thought to take easy root, and he forgotit again as they began creeping downward along the narrow, shelvingpath to the park. The marauding party were sheltered from view thewhole length of this path by a hedge the height of a man's waist; andonce the bottom was reached, their way led through a wood where bushesand saplings grew thickly in the shadow of giant oaks.

  When at last the end of this had been won, they were close to the rearof a small stone building which they had not seen until now. An arrow'sflight away was the great house, also in plain view--and there gravethings were going forward.

  As Dickon gazed out, a great cloud of black smoke burst forth from theupper window in one of the towers of this mansion, and through thesmoke he saw a dark object hurled outward, and whirl swiftly to theground.

  As it fell and lay sprawled shapelessly there, the lad realized that itwas a human being. Then, in a dazed way, he understood that he waswitnessing the sacking of a manor-house.

  Sir Watty and his troop were already inside, and from the narrow doorsand windows faint noises proceeded--screams of terror, curses of rage,and the clashing of weapons. Through a little postern door two of theEgswith marauders were thus early dragging out spoil in hangings,armor, and russet and murray gowns.

  At the back of the mansion, to judge by the sounds, there was fightingin the open air not less fierce than that within.

  At sight of the booty issuing from the postern, Rawly uttered a roar ofgreedy exultation, and Dickon, in the twinkling of an eye, foundhimself bereft of all his late companions, who followed Rawly in aheadlong race for the scene of plunder.

  The old archer did hold aloof for a brief space, calling out to Dickonthat in a minute, or two at the utmost, all these would assuredly bestricken dead; but when no such thing happened, and more costly stuffsappeared to view in the hands of the ravishers, he threw off his fearsof magic, and ran forward at the top of his speed to join in the workof plunder.

  Such combat as had been needed was now at an end. Sir Watty--unless,indeed, he had other visits on his mind--might have safely wrought allthis mischief with the fifth part of his force. Dickon marvelledvaguely that so many men had been brought for such paltry fighting--inignorance that his lord's true danger lay on the highroad, returningwith his spoils.

  Why the lad had not gone forward with his fellows he could not havetold. There was no reason why the thought of plunder should berepugnant to him.

  His whole life had been spent among men who lived by plunder, and onlyin the dimmest fashion did he comprehend that there were people able tocommand horses and armor who lived by other means.

  Yet he made no motion to join the others, and in the curious interestwith which he stared upon the scene before him, had wholly forgottenthe crossbow under his arm.

  As he looked a swaying, shouting knot of men-at-arms appeared at thechief door of the mansion, dragging forward, with great buffetings andscuffling, a person whom Dickon saw to be, despite his struggles anddisorder, one of dignity and presence.

  As they haled him out upon the sward, and he stood erect among them,the lad noted that he was tall and past middle age, with the white facewhich goes with gentle pursuits, and that he wore a blue side-gown withfur upon it, and had a chain of gold about his neck.

  His brow was bleeding from a blow with an iron gauntlet, but he heldhimself straight and proudly. Now that they had ceased to buffet him,he seemed to be putting questions to them which they answered by ribaldshouts. Instinctively Dickon left the wood and began to cross the openspace, that he might the better hear the gentle questions and the rudeanswers.

  Sir Watty Curdle came suddenly out from the door, and made his way withswift, striding steps to the centre of this strange group. The shoutsof the soldiers rose the higher for a moment, and then ceasedaltogether, to make silence for what their dumb show gave to be a talkbetween the robber-knight and the gentleman.

  Dickon had not won near enough to catch even the sound of their voices,when the parley came to an abrupt ending.

  Sir Watty all at once lifted his mailed hand, and with it struck theother man a violent blow in the face. As the gowned and unarmed manreeled, a soldier with his pole-axe completed his master's work. Thestricken gentleman fell heavily, sidelong, and two others on theinstant pitched upon the body to tear off the chain and furred robe.

  While he stood watching this, Dickon felt his heart leap upward, andthen sink with a great sickening. He stood as if turned to stone for amoment; and when sense returned to him, he had unconsciously broughthis crossbow forward and fitted a bolt in it, and begun to draw thestring home. To do what? He never knew.

  Some soldiers were running in his direction across the sward, soundingthe halloo of the chase, and pointing their weapons toward him. Hisfirst thought--that their approach meant an attack upon him--bredpromptly the resolve to die as hard as might be.

  He set his heels firmly, and again began to draw his bow; but then itbecame apparent that these running men strove to call his attention tosome other matter, for they themselves were headed now obliquely awayfrom him.

  Turning, he saw that two persons, an old man and a boy, were fleeingfor their lives toward the wood. They had come from the small housenear by, and might have won safety by this time if his presence therehad not forced them to bend in their course.

  Without an instant's thought he began running after them
at his utmostspeed. It seemed to him that he had never moved with half the swiftnessbefore which now lightened his heels.

  At the very edge of the forest, the old man staggered and tripped uponhis long gown, and fell face to earth, so that the foremost of hispursuers tumbled over him. Dickon had a momentary glimpse of a reverendwhite head and long, snowy beard kicked on the ground among iron boots,and of a half-dozen furious men fighting over what seemed already to bea lifeless body.

  Then he heard a hoarse voice cry out, "The lad has the jewels! Afterhim! After him!" and two of these robbers plunged on in headlongpursuit of the fugitive boy.

  What Dickon had seen thus swiftly had served to slacken his pace forbut a moment, and now that he gave chase again he was nearer to thechild victim than were the others.

  As he rushed through the thick tangle of woodland, he could see thatthe boy ahead bore under his arm a casket, the weight of which so woreupon his frail strength that his flight could last but a little longer.Then it came that Dickon was between the strange lad and his pursuers,being very close to both, and was turned in hot resolve to face thesemurderers, with his crossbow strung and levelled.

  It seemed to cover only a blinded and whirling instant of time--thisstruggle which enveloped him. Dickon sent his square-headed bolt with atwang! straight into the throat of him who, panting and red-eyed, ledthe chase. As this one threw up his knees and pitched forward, theyoung archer sprang fiercely over the body, and fell with the fury ofdespair upon the other.

  There was a terrible brief wrestle upon the frosted leaves and moss.Then the second ruffian lay suddenly still.

  Dickon stood in trembling amaze for a little, staring down upon thesetwain, whom he had in a frenzied second put beyond further combat. Heshook like any winter leaf as he looked, and his legs bent beneathhim--for this foremost dead man was Morgan, the very bone and sinew ofEgswith's dread band.

  To be burned alive were the lightest vengeance for such a trick asthis.

  Dickon now thought of flight. Turning in haste, he saw before him theboy with the casket, standing at the entrance to a rocky glade justbeyond, and looking out upon him with a white face. He moved swiftly tohim, and laid hold upon the box.

  "Speed for your life!" he hissed; and then the pair, with no furtherword, set forth in a breathless stumbling race through the forest.

  Before long the echoes of savage shouts at the rear rang over thethicket, but the hunted lads only shivered in silence and pressed on.Then the cries died away, and there was no sound in all the woodlandsave the rustle of their hurried footsteps.

  At last, when they had crossed a second valley, and had arrived at ahill upon which tall fir trees grew sparsely, and the ground was spreadwith a dense carpet of dry spines, the strange boy threw himself to theearth.

  "Further I may not stir," he groaned, and put his head down upon thesoft pine-needles in utter weakness.

  Dickon lifted the lad in his arms, and bore him a little way to a nookwhere some stunted firs, bunched close in a ring around an ancestralstump, offered shelter. There, when he had disposed his companion incomfort, and stripped off his own fretting haubergeon, Dickon had timeto think and to look about him.

  The lad whose life he had saved in so terrible a fashion was slenderand small of stature, yet had a face which to Dickon seemed full of thewisdom of years. It was a pale and girlish face, with thin, finelineaments and blue eyes from which shone knowledge and swift sense.

  The brow was strangely high and white. Dickon had seen such once ortwice among the younger of the preaching road-friars. The long hairwhich fell in two partings from it was of the color and softness offlax. His thin legs were cased in some light hose which Dickon held tobe of silk--puny enough stuff for such a rude journey as they weremaking, and now much torn and stained.

  His body was covered with a tight slashed tunic of a brown velvet. Hiscap--if he set out with one--had been lost in the flight.

  The boy seemed to desire no talk, for he lay with his ear to the earth,breathing heavily, and so Dickon squatted himself on his haunches, andpried open the cover of the heavy casket he had borne so far.

  Instead of jewels, as he had looked to find, there was naught but ablock of leather, ornamented with raised strips of velvet and gildedlines, which wholly filled the box. When Dickon lifted it out from itsencasing, this leather top turned as on a hinge; and fastened below itat the back were seen many folds of parchment, one upon the other, allcovered with black markings strange to the eye.

  Dickon gazed in wonder at the queer figures upon the parchment. Thenhis slow mind recalled the archers talk of magic, and he let the thingdrop, open and with crushed pages, flat to the ground.

  The lad sprang up at this with a murmur of alarm, and lifted the fallenobject, solicitously smoothing out the parchments and shutting theleather over them. Then he reached for the casket, and put it insideagain, eying his companion with vexed regard meanwhile.

  "It is ill to mar what thou canst not mend," he said sharply.

  "There are more bolts to my bow, an you mean me harm," Dickon answered,with a stout voice enough, but much uncertainty within. He took up hisweapon to point the words.

  The lad in velvet laughed. "What harm could be in me?" he said, andlaughed again. "Bolts and bows, forsooth! Why, thou couldst spoil mewith thy thumb." And still he laughed on.

  "Yon leathern gear--is it goodly?" Dickon pointed to the casket.

  "What--my Troilus?" Looking into Dickon's honest face, he understoodhis fears, and answered gently: "Nay, ease thy mind. It is a book--abook not written, but made with types. It tells to the skilled eye abrave story--but not braver, good fellow, than to-day's tale of thee.Art a stout carle, by the rood! Who is thy master?"

  Dickon bent his chin upon his throat to overlook the device stitchedupon his breast, but did not reply. A formless idea crossed his brainthat perchance one might live in forests without a lord. It was worththinking upon.

  "And by what mercy camest thou at my heels?" the lad pursued.

  Then, as these words brought up before him the awful scene at thewoodland's edge, he fell to shuddering and choked with sobs.

  "My good old master,--to die thus foully,--oh, woe! woe!" he moaned,and put down his head again.

  Dickon pricked up his ears at the word. "Had you then a master, too?"he asked, and on the instant there sprouted in his heart a kindlierfeeling for the lad. They were more of a common clay, it seemed, thanhe had thought.

  "But you have no badge!" he commented.

  "Badge? Badge?" the boy said hesitatingly, and Dickon noted now astrangeness of sound in his speech which, the while he had held him tobe of rank, had passed unheard.

  "What means it--badge?" asked the lad; and when Dickon pointed to thetwo hares on his own breast, the stranger burst again into laughter. Adroll boy this, surely, who could be so merry and so tearful all in thesame breath.

  "Nay, I wear no mans collar," he said at last; and then, in pity forDickon's perplexity, explained. "The good old man, Geraldus Hansenius,was my master only in love and courtesy, and in that he taught me inall the deep mysteries of his craft.

  "He brought me from my own land, and here, where Sir John gave us honorand fair lodgment, we printed the book. And now, lo! in this short hourSir John and Geraldus are foully done to death, and Camber Dane isdespoiled--and the Troilus and I are hiding for our lives, like haresin a thicket. Ach Gott! Ach Gott!"

  At this there were more moans.

  "No hare am I," said Dickon, stoutly, "but if they try me, more like awolf. Pick me out these threads."

  He knelt beside the lad, who with a bodkin from his doublet ripped oneby one the hated lines that had shown Dickon to be evil Sir Watty'sman.

  Then Dickon stood upright, and filled himself with a great, deepbreath. The new sense of liberty seemed to raise his stature and swellhis girth. He took off his iron sallet, and shook his free headproudly, nearer to the sky than it had ever before been lifted.

  "We will live in the greenwood,"
he said in bold, boyish confidence.