Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Peter had not yet cast eye on Sabine. She did not appear at dinner, and all afternoon he had ranged idly through the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of her gown or hear the feet of her horse. That evening the northern sky had banked up ominously with clouds, and the wind had settled fairly into that quarter — a steady wind blowing through leagues of ice. So Peter had been fain to seek the hearth of the great hall, and let his cheeks grow hot in the glow of it, while he reflected upon the events of the morning. Once more he was lapped in the luxury of Avelard, and it moved him little; for certain boyish weaknesses seemed to have been burned out in his recent fever. He was no longer thrilled by dainty fare and fine raiment, as he had been a month before. Now he was conscious of a stronger purpose in his heart, of more masterful blood in his veins, of that power to command which was his birthright. To-day he was doubly Bohun. Also he realised that he had that first of a leader’s gifts, a fine carelessness of self, so that if need be he could stand alone. He was prepared to fling soul and body into the arena, to be exalted or trampled under as God ordained. . . . And then he was forced to confess to himself that this boasted self-sufficiency was a lie. He did not stand alone; there was one in this very house who could tumble him from his pinnacle by a glance of her eye.

  At supper Lord Avelard kept his room, but Sabine appeared. The meal was served in the Great Chamber, as on the first occasion, and when the food was set on the table the servants withdrew. This time the girl had discarded her black robes for a wonderful gown of silver tissue, and her jewels were not sapphires but stones that darted crimson fire. She gave him both hands at her entrance, but not her cheek. Tonight she seemed not kinswoman or friend, but possible mistress, certain queen. Her pale beauty had authority in it, and her eyes a possessive pride.

  “Have you brought your lute?” he asked. “Once you ravished the soul out of me with your singing.”

  She laughed and looked at him from under drooped eyelids.

  “To-night we take counsel, my lord. The matter is too grave for music.”

  At first they spoke little. The girl’s eyes smiled on him, but not with common friendliness. She seemed to be appraising him, to be striving to read something in a face which his recent fever had made keener and finer, for there were little puckers of thought on her brow. Also — or so it seemed to him — there was a new respect in her air, and with it a certain hesitation. Once or twice she appeared to be nerving herself for words which she found it hard to utter. There was between them a thin invisible veil of ice.

  It was Peter who broke it.

  “Has Simon Rede been here in the past month?” he asked abruptly.

  “He came three weeks since,” she answered, “a week after you left Avelard.” There was no sign of discomposure in her face.

  “He came to pay court to you?”

  She laughed.

  “Maybe. We were sweethearts as children, but that is long ago. Does my lord do me the honour to be jealous?”

  “I would be glad to learn that he got a flat denial.”

  She shrugged her white shoulders. “There was no need. Master Simon’s love-making did not stretch thus far. I am the ward of my lord Avelard, who has something to say in the disposal of my hand, and he does not look kindly on Master Rede.”

  “But you yourself?”

  “I am a woman grown and a woman must think of many things. I am no green girl to be led captive by a plumed bonnet and a long sword and a soldier’s airs. What has Master Simon to offer but the mouldering walls of Boarstall, or more likely a wet bed in the forest, for he is ever at odds with those in power. We women, who would be wives, love peace and surety.” There was a curious sudden hardness in face and voice.

  “Yet I have heard that a woman will risk all for love.”

  “Ay, for true love.” Her eyes did not melt. “When true love rides the road, some women will sell their shift and follow him. But I do not love Master Simon, though I have a tenderness for an old playmate.”

  She paused. There was honesty, a kind of boyish frankness, in her tone.

  “I do not think I was born for such love. I have never felt those raptures, which youth calls passion and eld green-sickness. Maybe ‘tis a sore lack, maybe good fortune, but so we Beauforests are made. We are good wives to those we choose, for we are loyal comrades and can play high and bold like a man. There burns in us a fierce ambition, and it is no idle fancy, for we have the power in us to deal with high matters and the courage to use that power. Make no mistake, my lord. We are no common housewives to tremble at a husband’s nod, and bear a child once a year, and see to his cordials and pasties.”

  The veil of ice between them had gone and so had the rosy mist of sex. Peter felt that a human soul confronted him, a soul fierce and candid, earthy and gallant, and no mere lovely body shrouded in silks and jewels.

  “You were meant for a queen,” he said, and there was reverence in his voice.

  “Maybe. Assuredly I was not meant for a squire’s lady.”

  In that instant of intimate revelation Peter’s love blazed to its height, and yet at the back of his head he realised its hopelessness. Here was one more starkly contrary than Lord Avelard.

  “I would make you a queen,” he said, and he lingered over the words, for he knew that he was nearing an irrevocable choice.

  She rose and curtseyed, gravely, without coquetry.

  “I am honoured, my lord,” she said.

  “I love you, Sabine. It is true love with me, for I live with your face in my heart — I cannot see the light for you — I cannot pray for the thought of you — I desire you more than my salvation.”

  “Than your salvation?” she echoed. “Then you are indeed a lover and no clerk.”

  For one moment it seemed as if his ardour awoke in her a like response. Her face grew gentler, her eyes softened. Peter realised that her arms were waiting for him. . . . And yet he did not move. The word “salvation” held him. Was he honest with her, as she had been with him?

  She saw his hesitation, and attributed it to the true motive, for her voice was cool again.

  “I am willing to be a queen . . . I am willing to risk all hazards by your side, and if you fall to fall with you like a true wife. . . . But I must be certain that that is indeed your purpose, my lord. I will not link my fortunes to one who is half-hearted, for in this cause it must be venture all.”

  He did not answer, for he was in the throes of a great temptation. Never had she seemed more desirable. This was not the shimmering girl with some of the airs of a light-in-love, who had first enchained his heart, but a woman with greatness in her, a true queen, a comrade to ride the fords with were they agreed about the road. His longing was less to have her in his arms than to see the light of confidence and affection in those clear eyes. . . . But were they not poles apart? How could he, who had set common ambition behind him, keep step with one whose heart was set so firmly on earthly magnificence?

  “I will venture all,” he said. But as the words left his mouth he knew that he lied.

  She knew it also.

  “Your clerkly scruples?” she asked. “My uncle has told me of them. You would lead an army and yet refuse to provide its reward. That is mere folly, my lord. This is no perfect world, and he who believes it such is doomed to fail.”

  “I will venture my life — my hope — my peace — but not my chance of Heaven,” he said, and his voice in his own ears sounded small and far away. He realised miserably that he had crossed the stream and that there was no returning.

  Her quick mind saw that here was finality. She laughed bitterly.

  “What kind of gage are these? Life, hope, peace! A common soldier will risk as much. . . . It is as I thought. You are a clerk to the bone, and had better get you back to your cell. . . . Nay, I do not blame you. You have been honest with me, as I with you. But you are not the one to upset the Welshman. A strong man will risk soul as well as body, and look to make his ultimate peace with a God who understands our frailties, sinc
e He ordained them.”

  She rang the silver bell to summon the servants.

  “I will never be your queen, my lord,” was her last word, “for you will never be a king.”

  Peter went to his chamber with a chill at his heart. He felt that in the last hour the youthfulness of the morning had fallen from him and that he had grown very old. The room was warm and perfumed, but its comfort deepened his chill. He flung open the lattice and stared into the night.

  Snow was coming. He smelt it, and saw it stored in heavy clouds under the fitful moon. An owl hooted by the wall, and from the valley came the sound of wild swans travelling with the wind. There was a light far off burning in some hollow of the woods. . . . He drew in his head, and the cold at his heart was lightened. The splendour of Avelard was not for him, but he had still a share in the wild elemental world.

  CHAPTER XII. OF THE VISION IN THE SNOW

  Next day they were in the saddle soon after dawn, Lord Avelard muffled in three cloaks and wearing an extra surcoat. The snow had not begun to fall, but the world lay under the spell of its coming. The sky was leaden grey and, though there was no frost, the earth seemed to be bound in a rigor like an ague; nothing stirred, not a leaf on the tree or a bird in the bush; the very streams seemed to hush their flow in a palsy of expectancy. Even on Peter’s young blood the cold smote like a blow.

  The old man said not a word of their talk of yesterday. He seemed to cherish no resentment, and, so far as the discomfort of the weather permitted, to be in a cheerful humour.

  “I am taking you to Neville,” he told Peter. “My lord of Abergaveny is the greatest man on the Marches and can horse five thousand spears, besides what he can bring from his Welsh dales. The man is sick — has long been sick — but his spirit burns the more fiercely in his frail body, and he is also a skilled soldier. What he lacks in bodily strength will be supplied by his brethren Sir Thomas and Sir Edward. . . . My lord is your near kin, for he married your sister by blood, the Lady Mary, now dead.”

  “Why is he one of us?” Peter asked. “He stands high at court.”

  A laugh like a frog’s croak came from the old man.

  “He has some matter of private grievance against the Welshman. Likewise he would increase his estates. He is the richest man in the west country, for he heired the broad Beauchamp lands, but he would leave his son still vaster possessions. Speak him fair, my son, for he has a temper spoiled by much dealing with slippery Welsh.” And he shot at Peter a glance of many meanings.

  “Bethink you, my lord, while there is still time,” said Peter, for in the night watches he had been pondering his position. “Am I the man for your purpose? Would not my lord of Exeter better serve it?”

  “May the mercy of God forbid!” Lord Avelard cried. “The Nevilles would be posting to London to lay their swords at the King’s feet. The name of Courtenay is not the name of Bohun, and has no spell to summon England.”

  They found the chief of the Nevilles in his house of Marchington by the Severn. He was of the old school, wearing the clothes of another age, and eschewing the shaven fashion of the Court, for he had a forked grey beard like the tushes of a boar. His massive figure had grown bulky, his legs tottered, the colour of his face was that of his hair, but he had the old habit of going always armed, and supported indoors a weight of body armour that might have been at Agincourt. The house had not been changed since the time of the Edwards, and was a rough draughty place, very different from the comfort of Avelard. There was a pale woman flitting in the background, his latest wife, who had once been his mistress, but she did not come near the strangers, and the party of three sat in the chilly hall on bare stools, as if they had met at a leaguer.

  Neville looked at Peter long and searchingly.

  “Ned’s son, by God!” he exclaimed. “I would know that nick in the upper lip out of ten thousand. You have kept him well hidden, or some spy of Henry’s would have unearthed him, and he would have tested Henry’s mercies. . . . Hark ye, lad, you are my brother, child though you be, for in your sister, now with God, I had as good a wife as a man of my habits deserves. You are abbey-bred and no soldier? So much the better, say I, for you will leave the business of war to such as understand it. Half Henry’s bungling has come from his belief that he is a new Cæsar. . . .”

  To Peter’s surprise this man, whom, according to report, greed spurred to action in spite of age and sickness, spoke no word of those ill-omened parchments at Avelard. He was new back from Wales, and had much to say of the levies due from thence; they would march on a certain day, so as to be at the meeting-point in Cotswold by St Lucy’s eve. His brother, Sir Thomas, would lead them; he was even now busy on Usk and Wye. All Gwent and Powysland would march, and many of the new-settled English would wear saffron. There was still good fighting stuff in the dales — bowmen like those of the old wars and squires like Sir Davy Gam. The grandson of old Rhys ap Thomas was with them, him who had put Harry’s father on the throne — he had seen at Dynevor the great stirrups used at Bosworth — and as the grandsire had set up the Tudor so the grandson would help to pull him down. . . . Then he outlined the plan of campaign, and Peter listened with some stir in his heart. They would march swiftly on Oxford, which would at once be surrendered, for they had friends within. It was altogether needful for their security to have a docile Oxford in their rear, for the city was the key of the route between Thames and Severn. . . . But they would not tarry there, though it might be necessary to hang a few rogues for the general comfort — some of Crummle’s dogs — Dr John London and others. . . . After that they would not take the valley road to London by way of Windsor; but would move on the capital in two bodies, one going by the backside of Chiltern and coming down from the north, the other keeping the Berkshire and Surrey downs and attacking from the south.

  “We must have hard ground for our march,” said the old campaigner, “for at this season the valleys are swamps. . . . Also by this device we achieve two mighty ends. Our northern force cuts in between London and the King’s armies in Lincoln and York, which by all tales are already in some straits, and it will hinder Henry, too, from drawing support from Suffolk and Norfolk. Our southern force will sever London from the King’s friends in Kent and on the sea-coast. We shall build a dyke on each side of him, and the only open country will be to the west, which is the road of our own folk.”

  There was immense vigour in the speech and eyes of the old man, but the strength of his body soon ebbed, and he had to be laid every now and then on a leathern settle till his breath came back to him. At the end of one of these bouts Peter found the sufferer’s eyes fixed on him.

  “The new brother you have brought me is to my liking, my lord. He is as handsome a babe as you will see in a year of Sundays. Have you found him a wife?”

  “It is proposed,” said Lord Avelard gravely, “that if our venture succeed, he shall marry the King’s daughter, the Lady Mary.”

  The old man chuckled.

  “Policy, policy! A wise step, doubtless, for the commons have a weakness for the lady and her sad mother. Also, if she has the Tudor in one half of her, she has the high blood of Emperors in the other. But, by the rood of Asseline, she hath an ugly face and the tint of Cheshire whey. . . . Yet cheer up, brother. ‘Tis no bad thing to have a plain wife, for it whets a man’s zest for other and fairer women. I, who speak, have proved it.”

  As they rode homeward in the late afternoon Peter’s thoughts were busy. He believed that he read Lord Avelard’s purpose — to allow the matter of the parchments to sleep, but by this very silence to let Peter commit himself unconsciously, so that, in the event of victory, he should find over him that stiffest of compulsions, the will of a victorious army. He had accompanied him to Marchington to prevent undue candour on his part towards Neville, though, as it had fallen out, Neville’s thoughts had been on another bent. But why this tale of the daughter of Catherine, who was devout among the devout?

  “You would marry me to the Queen’s daughter
?” he said to his companion after a long spell of silence.

  “Ay,” was the answer, and there was a dry bitterness in the tone. “You are unworthy of beauty, so we fall back on piety. We must reap what vantage we can out of your monkish tastes.”

  The other journeys Peter made alone, for in them it seemed that Lord Avelard scented no danger. Some were to the houses of strong squires, who received him as Buckingham’s son and would have kissed his stirrups. At Stanway the family priest, a man like an ancient prophet, blessed him solemnly, and old Sir John Tracey and his five sons knelt as at a sacrament. At Burwell he found a lord so bitter against the King that he asked for no reward except the hope of seeing the Tudor green and white in the mire. At Abbots-lease he was met by a hundred men of those deep pastures, all girt for war, and the banner of the Five Wounds was consecrated and exalted, and in the burr of Gloucestershire he heard the old recruiting song of the Crusaders,

  “O man, have pity upon God.”

  As he travelled the roads, he realised that Lord Avelard knew but little of one side of the movement he controlled. The great lords might rise for worldly profit or private vengeance, but here in the west, in outland places and among plain men, there was smouldering the same passion which in Lincoln and the Yorkshire dales was now bursting into flame. They were ready to fight, not for the abbeys, maybe, or even for the Church, but for what they deemed their souls’ salvation. In the churchyard of Ashton-under-Bredon he had listened to the parson chanting to a pale and weeping crowd of armed peasants the tremendous prophecies of Zephaniah, and had felt in his own heart the solemn exaltation of a crusader.

  “Juxta est dies Domini magni,” the hoarse voice had risen and fallen like a wandering wind, “dies tribulationis et angustiæ . . . dies tenebrarum et caliginis . . . dies tubæ et clangoris super civitates munitas et super angulos excelsos.”