Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  Calvagh had wrapped his own mantle about the woman. Every five minutes or so, she would lean sideways over to call down blessings upon him and to enumerate in hoarse and panting breaths ail the fine things she had in her house before it was burnt and ruin came upon her.

  Estercel suffered much shame as he went along, but Calvagh, being older and wiser, was little troubled.

  “It is a new thing,” said Estercel, “for us and our war-horses to be carrying women and beggars.”

  Calvagh glanced up. “Our horses are quite indifferent,” he said. “And these people are not beggars for they asked nothing. Their sores and their hunger asked for them. Come, Estercel, you must pardon me. I saw the stars of Heaven in the eyes of the children, and I could not leave them in the bush. We should have pity, for we may come to need it.”

  “That is true,” said Estercel, and he walked sombrely along, reflecting on many things and more especially remembering his own great need in the past and the queer look he must have had at one time.

  They met no troops of soldiers at all on their way to the little valley of the nuns, for they were out of the direct road to the camping ground. It was a pretty place. Wooded hills stood round it, the bell of the stone chapel was pealing down below among the loaded apple-trees and the well-tilled gardens. There were no walls; the protection of the valley was its charity and sanctity. The nuns were real labouring women, good and pure. Their wealth was wealth of apples, honey, and corn. Their only luxury: embroidered cloths for the little chapel. So simple and so humble was the little settlement and so nicely hidden away, that no rattling fine captain of Elizabeth's had as yet picked it out and marked it as his prey.

  Round about the chapel stood the huts of the nuns. In answer to Calvagh's call, they came hastening, white as a flock of sea-mews in the sun. The mother was a broad woman, broad-faced, with strong lines of sternness mingled with benignity marked about the mouth. To her Calvagh addressed himself, while Estercel reverently considered the faces of varying feature, yet all alike shining with pity, that crowded behind her.

  When at last he saw a young nun, rose-faced, receive the sick child into her arms, covering it with a fold of her gown while a tear ran upon her cheeks, the child itself took on a new aspect as though it were a singular and precious thing lost and found. When he saw two tall nuns carry away between them the emaciated woman covered in a cloak, something stirred in him, he knew not what. So might the angels one day receive his weary soul.

  As they rode away again, Estercel was the first to speak.

  “Those women put the world to shame,” said he. “I am very thankful to you, Calvagh. I would never have done that good deed myself, but I know well that the thought that I had not done it would have tormented me long enough.”

  “Ah, well, the poor thing was battling hard for her children,” said Calvagh. “I thought it a pity not to help her. I could not think shame. Rather it is to me as though we had this day carried Mary and the Child.”

  In silence, they rode along, then Estercel said: “Calvagh, how is it that with such a spirit as there is in you, still you follow rough war?”

  “Faith, I don't know,” answered Calvagh, smiling. “He knows that set the horns on the stag and curled the bull's forehead. What? Erin in danger and my two hands muffled in a monk's frock? That would not be natural.”

  Evening was now beginning to fall, and the two men rode fast, anxious to rejoin their troop. It was dusk when they entered the long avenues of the woods of Ferney, the appointed meeting-place. Encouraged by dim light and the slow pace at which they rode, Estercel opened his heart to his friend.

  “Calvagh,” he said in cautious tones, “did ever you love a woman?”

  Calvagh looked straight before him, watching the brown tree trunks slipping past in the grey light, defiling and twining, a solemn Druid people in an endless religious dance.

  “Why do you ask me that?” he said at last.

  “I wanted your opinion,” he answered, “because I do not know if I love or not. And what is more: I do not know if I want to love or not.”

  “Do not trouble about it,” said Calvagh; “nor even think about it at all. There is no love where you can say, 'I will love or I will not.'”

  “But that is where the mischief is,” Estercel answered. “I am rid to death with it. You say do not think about it at all, and I cannot get one person out of my thoughts. There she is continually, and in my dreams also, and not by will of mine. Did such a thing ever happen to you?”

  “Let us hurry on,” said Calvagh, “it grows late and darker every moment.”

  Their horses had by this time become used to the dusky twilight and took to a rapid trot. As they went, the low voice of Calvagh murmured above his horse's ears:

  “Oh bitter piercing sting of death, here is my heart for you. Outmatch the bitterer sting of love, the way I shall go free.”

  Chapter XXXV. - The Revenge of Tamburlaine

  Tamburlaine had an extra feed of the precious oats from his master that night because of the peaceable charity he had shown towards the four starved children. Both horse and master were objects of much pride and affection. Two days after their arrival, Estercel was chosen out to join a picked troop of fifty horses that were Tyrone's bodyguard. Because of the great swiftness and power of Tamburlaine, they were deputed to bring news of the approach of Essex and his army. More than once, Estercel had to gallop for his life before bands of Essex's horse thrown out to reconnoitre. Sometimes he caught sight of the plumes and helmets of the main army, and then his heart would bound in his breast as he thought of the coming struggle. At each spring of his horse making homeward across the hills, the joy of freedom would run in his veins like a clear draught from the wells of life. And the image of the brown girl would rise before him, awaking his soul.

  Little by little, the army of Essex drew on. Who does not know of the meeting between these two leaders, Essex and Tyrone, the most honourable men of their day? Neither poisoner, torturer, bribe-taker, nor wordbreaker was Essex. Nor was Tyrone. But while the last was a wise and foreseeing leader of men playing to its utmost advantage an inevitably losing game — the game of the small against the large — the first was a creature without prudence whose gusty emotions fooled his will. Yet it was one of the purest wills of his time. See his letter to the Privy Council: “Only your Lordships must and will pity Ireland and pity the army committed to my charge.”

  It was on the eighth day of August that these two enemies met on either side of the ford of Bellaclynthe. It was a picture full of colour and splendour of life: the hills and woods, the orange-tawny-coated horsemen, the white-coated infantry, the plumed helmets of the officers, the glancing of the weapons, the shining groups that surrounded Essex. On the other side, the bodyguard of Tyrone in steel helmets and cuirasses occupied a hill, a continual fluttering movement among them caused by the stamping and chafing of their high-mettled horses. Among them stood Tamburlaine, still as a statue, his neck raised, snuffing the wind that came across the river, charged with the scent of a foreign soldiery. As he blew through his nostrils, he thought deeply, remembering his enemies, his imprisonment, and his misery.

  Seeing all the array of Tyrone's army, Essex conceived the idea of treating with him as an ally. He “pitied Ireland.” Instead of a wasted, mourning, famine-stricken country, he saw a fair and prosperous land united under one wise and strong leader. In that he was capable of such a vision, he proved himself a statesman. But at the same time, he thought himself stronger than he was. He did not judge that right needs to go armed with a triple strong armour. Right, mild and gentle, never won something in the kingdoms of this bloody world. Even Christ came to his own, not by his doctrine, but by the shock of mortal encounter with opposing force. Those were violent times; times when men might see an aged and saintly bishop dangling from the end of a rope in the market-place merely because he was a bishop and pious. There were violent passions brewing in the palace of Nonsuch that boded no good for Essex.<
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  Down he rode to the ford, generous, over-confident, carrying gifts and honours in his hand that were no more real than dead-sea apples. Seeing him coming, Tyrone galloped his horse down the banks and urged him into the water till he stood shoulder-high. Then the two met and in deadly earnest spoke for near an hour. Cecil's friends on the hillsides beyond smiled together. “Treason, treason!” they cried. “We have him now. He is plotting alone with the arch-traitor out of our hearing.”

  Historians have wondered on what they conversed. The wonder is that an hour sufficed. Were not all the proofs of Cecil's treachery in Tyrone's hand to show to Essex? Had not Tyrone's sworn men on the Dublin council been approached with Cecil's bribes? Were not Essex's officers creatures of Cecil's? Had not nineteen of them petitioned Essex in writing against this very expedition, in fiat defiance of the Queen's commands? Think of all Tyrone would have to say and urge: James of Scotland was his friend; the whole sympathy of Christian Europe was at his back. “Get but the Queen's ear, she loves you well,” he would say. “Oust Cecil and the Cecilians. I will govern here as your man, you in England as the Queen's minister, and you and England will be powerful as England never was before.” Elizabeth would have been well pleased if Essex had shot Tyrone as he stood in the water. Why keep faith with a base bush-kern, an idol, a golden calf? She was to be very little pleased when she heard of the treaty concluded next day: a treaty of peace which was hailed on both sides with an outburst of joy.

  Yet it was on that same day that Estercel suffered one of the sorest griefs of his life: he lost faith in his horse. Having got a pass from Tyrone, he crossed over to greet Sir Henry Harrington who had sent him a message, desiring to speak with him. Estercel, in fine spirits because of the general rejoicing in the camp, came down to the ford with Tamburlaine behind him, leaped on his back to cross the water and then took his way over to the hillside which was covered with the tents of the English troops. Tamburlaine followed on up the hill. Estercel looked back at him once. Seeing his eyes were somewhat wild and his look nervous and troubled, he bade him return across the water; but this Tamburlaine would not do. He came forward and laid his head on his master's shoulder, saying quite plainly: “I smell old dangers. It is not possible for me to leave you.”

  A trooper with simple red cheeks that spoke of the plough led them to Sir Henry Harrington's tent. There in the door stood that friendly person, with a volume of his translations from Ariosto under his arm.

  “As I'm a Christian,” he said to Estercel, “the pair of you are more splendid than ever. I have had a commission to see you myself and report upon your condition. A certain person will be glad to hear of your good health. For some reason, because I fancy of idle words let slip, she conceived herself to be the cause of your imprisonment.”

  “Most certainly,” said Estercel gravely, “she was the cause of my release. Perhaps, you can give me news of her. I have often wished to know if she did well where she was going.”

  Sir Henry Harrington laughed. “She has come to great preferment,” said he. “She is become one of Her Majesty's maids of honour. Her majesty was pleased to say that the lady reminded her of her own youth being of the same complexion.”

  “And is she happy in that office?” asked Estercel.

  “The great Eliza is a very lioness,” said Sir Henry, laughing. “She has a mighty paw. Many is the brave slap the fair cheek of Mistress Meraud has come by. And being a tempestuous damsel, I am told she bears it ill. The court is not what it was. Own godson of Her Majesty's as I am, I am afraid to go near her. But God bless my soul, man, what is the matter with your dragon of a horse?”

  Estercel turned round. One glance was enough. He rushed to the side of Tamburlaine and, seizing the bridle, wrenched upon it. The aspect of the animal was grown terrific: every hair upon his neck stood up stiff. There was no wind stirring, yet the locks of his mane rippled and waved. His ears were laid back and every tooth in his head showed in his open red mouth. Estercel knew the signs of his battle fury. In deadly anxiety, he wrestled with him in silence, forcing down the jaw by means of the powerful bit, striking him again and again with flat hand in the face. With this rage upon him, if he were loosed among the tents and the picketed horses, he would trample and scatter all before him.

  A crowd soon gathered to watch the silent battle. It did not last long, for the creature, whatever it was, that had kindled the wrath of Tamburlaine had quickly vanished. Estercel knew well that his strength would be no more than straw against him, were he once fully roused. His relief was great when he found the fixed fury of the animal slowly relaxing, the hairs beginning to lie once more upon his rough neck. Then he turned his attention to the outer ring of the crowd, but saw nothing that suggested a possible cause. He was not sure but that he saw the thin legs and peculiar physiognomy of Sir Xylonides Bullen at the back of the crowd. If it was so, he vanished at the next moment. The voice of Sir Henry Harrington came from the interior of the tent.

  “Fair young sir,” said he, “may I beg you to remove that apocalyptic beast from my neighbourhood? I shall report favourably on the physical condition of both of you. I had looked forward with pleasure to reading you passages from my translation of the “Orlando Furioso,” but at present I am only anxious for the departure of your obnoxious satellite.”

  A crowd followed Estercel as he left the tent. He leaped on the back of Tamburlaine and galloped down to the river, crossed the ford and away for a wild gallop along the wood-side, often speaking bitterly in the ear of his horse as he rode.

  That same afternoon Estercel walked and talked with Calvagh along the river banks. Their horses followed them on a loose rein. Suddenly, Estercel felt the rein pulled from his hand. He turned round, and there was Tamburlaine once more transfigured by rage, mouth open, his head and neck stretched out straight and stiff. Estercel made one spring for his bridle, but the horse bounded into the air, all four hoofs at once, and with a scream rushed by him.

  A tall man in leather jacket and breeches was going along before them, at some distance off. Seeing the horse make like an arrow in his direction, Estercel shouted aloud in warning. The man, who had paid no attention to the noise of hoofs behind, turned now and, seeing the frightful beast so close, threw up his arms and, shrieking, turned to run. But the horse was upon him. His broad chest struck him down, and he rolled on the ground. Calvagh and Estercel were both swift runners, but there was no time for them to save him; the speed of Tamburlaine was the speed of the thunderbolt. They saw him rear himself up and descend again, trampling the shrieking man. When they reached his side, there he was, quietly sniffing at his helpless prey. Seeing his master come, he raised his head, trotted a little distance off and began to crop the grass.

  The woods were full of O'Neill's camping soldiery. On hearing the outcry, more and more men ran out from among the trees, making a ring about the dead man. They stripped him to find his injuries. There, right above his heart, was the crushing print of the horse's hoof, an almost incredible spectacle. There was no other mark upon him at all. More and more doubtful grew the faces of the men; here was something quite intolerable. A peculiar shadow falls upon a beast who has shed man's blood. He becomes a murderer. A stain is on him, and men look at him with horror. Tamburlaine was quite unconscious of the glances sent in his direction. But Estercel felt them all like a knife in his heart. An officer of O'Donnell's was among the crowd, and he said gravely to Estercel:

  “Did your horse ever do the like of this before?”

  “Never in his life,” said Estercel.

  “Well, he mustn't do it again, that's all,” answered he.

  “Life isn't safe with him,” said another.

  “Does anyone here recognise this man?” asked Calvagh.

  The outside men crowded into the ring, but no one could say they knew him or had seen him at any time.

  “If he was only a foreigner, you could excuse the horse,” said one, “for he knows them for enemies and he has been bred a fighter as we
all know. But this man is Irish. From the cut of his jacket and breeches, I would say he belonged to the south.”

  “Owen himself says the horse is terribly revengeful,” said another. “He once gave him a slap in the face, and he never forgave him because he wasn't the master.”

  “Where's Owen now?” said the officer. “Let us hear what he has to say.”

  With shout and whistle that ran along the woods, sent on from one to another, Owen was called. Presently, he came running, out of breath, shocked to the heart with what he heard and all on fire to take the horse's part. He pushed his way into the ring and, kneeling down, examined the dead man.

  “God Almighty,” he exclaimed, “here's a vengeance! Right on the heart! He's smashed his very heart! It's more than mortal. He has more sense than a man. Shoot him, did you say? Shoot me first. Ah, he's done well. Do I know the man? Ay, do I! I'd know him among a hundred though I saw him but once.”

  Then on his knee by the dead man, while the dense ring closed round, Owen told the story of how he had freed the horse and the persecuted state in which he had found him, of how they were pursued and he and the horse had hidden and watched this man and two others run down the street in the moonlight; of how the hair had risen on the horse's neck, and he had grinned and laughed when the man had run by. Estercel had drawn near to hear. Owen stopped and pointed at the face.

  “Now,” said he, “look at the red head of him, look at that big nose. That's a face you wouldn't soon forget. And that horse has the memory of ten men and the scent of a trained hound. He saw him and marked him down in the camp. And here he lies. As a spy and a traitor, he was coming creeping among us, and he's met his fate, well deserved!” and as he spoke, Owen rose up and kicked the dead man with his foot. “The horse is a lesson to us,” he said. “If I could meet with the master of this man, him that betrayed and tortured Estercel, I'd do as the horse did, give it him right on the heart; and too good a death in the end!”