Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  A murmur of approval followed Owen's words; then the officer spoke:

  “Listen all,” he said. “This may be a bad piece of work for us. What about breaking the truce? It's only a horse that has broken it, and the sign and seal of it is on the man's breast. But the other side wouldn't believe this, not if we swore it on the cross. Are we all true men here? Look in each other's face and see that there are no creeping intelligencers among us. Are you all O'Donnell's men or O'Neill's? Raise up your right hand, you that are.” Every hand was raised. “Well, then, I say: bury this man where he lies and quickly, let him go to eternity with that mark upon him. And do you keep silence on what has occurred. Let the spy tell on himself if he can. Is that right, Estercel?”

  “Right,” answered he.

  Soon the earth was smooth and green over what had been a living man but one short hour before. With head bent and folded arms, Estercel walked away from the spot, and the white horse followed behind him. His good name had been cleared; yet there was a sort of terror in men's minds as they watched him go.

  Chapter XXXVI. - The Return

  As Estercel camped in the woods of Ferney and watched the dawn glide from pillar to pillar of his green-roofed tent, a fountain of life and joy sprang up within him. Estercel was a powerful man, but he was clean and pure. He had lived close to natural things, and natural forces had their way with him. From the moment when he had, of his own free will, replaced the ring upon his finger, some barrier of pride or obstinacy, or superstition was broken down. He no longer feared a mysterious enchantment that coerced him. As soon as he ceased to resist, the natural enchantment had its way. More and more vivid with light grew the figure of the young girl within his remembrance: bright as a star grew the fields of Ardhoroe. And this brilliance that was from within now began to pour forth and light up the hill of Ferney and the flat table-lands of Cremorne, where he and Tamburlaine galloped together. Then he came down among his fellows and laughed and wrestled and played. Though his strength was great, so also was his good-nature. He never grew angry in his play or flung his man to hurt him.

  The treaty concluded, Essex and his army withdrew to the southward. Already his baiting and his agony had begun. He was like a man caught in the outer circles of a whirlpool who goes softly enough in the beginning, but for whom waits the horror of the central gulf. Soon he was to take that swift and secret journey to the English court. Soon he was to see the backs of all his friends. He was to find the hand of the old woman that loved him use a whip to strike him. He was to know his wife beset for money bribes by sham gentlemen while she lay in bed with her young babe. He was to see the wise man Bacon whom he had long befriended become so very wise as to plead before the kingdom for the death of the man that had helped him. He was to feel the final madness of revolt and fury, the worse bitterness of a weak humiliation. An honest and generous fool among intriguers, it was to be his fate to die a thousand deaths in one.

  The Ulstermen turned their faces once more to the blue mountains they loved. Behind those mountains lay Ardhoroe. Runners had already gone out with the news of the truce: by hundreds they had started on paths that radiated as wide as Ireland. Like a darting sun-ray, each man sped, scattering rejoicings as he went, drying up the tears of the women whose hearts had beat in pain night and day since their men had gone out.

  Among a thousand women, not one would you find that had suffered more than Sabia. She had made sure that in the great battle all she loved would go down. When the noise of the horses and the fighting men and the war-pipes had passed, a stillness like that of death settled down on Ardhoroe. In late August, the very mountains seem to drowse.

  On a morning after the men were gone, Sabia went along the wood-side following the way they had taken. Clear enough were their tracks upon the path. The little green things of the earth still shuddered where the heavy hoof-marks had been. She pitied them where they lay prostrate. From among the others, she began to seek out the hoof-prints of Tamburlaine, and she soon found them. She knelt down by one and examined it; what a world of small green life lay crushed down within the compass of a three-quarter circlet. Unsheathing the knife that hung at her belt, Sabia cut out a sod containing the perfect hoof-print and carried it in her two hands back to the house where she sought out an earthen platter to hold it. She took it to her own chamber, where she placed it in the narrow window. She was tenderly watering and lifting up the bruised stems of the tiny plants when her nurse entered the room.

  “What's that you've got there, my honey love?” said the old woman inquisitively. Sabia did not answer, so she came over and looked at the platter. “God bless the child, but that's the funny window-garden. I see, I see it all. May the saints watch over the horse and the rider. There should be a charm in that. If you were to say a blessing on it night and morning, maybe it would bring hoof and rider safe home. Yes, yes, a charm there must be.”

  “I never thought of a charm, nurse,” said Sabia sadly. “I only thought perhaps it was the last of him I might ever see.”

  With her fingers she lifted up the little crushed green things, so delicate, so pretty. In her thought she made herself one with them and imagined them standing in the early light, trembling as the earth throbbed beneath them to the sound of the coming riders. From this reverie she was interrupted by an exclamation from her nurse, who was craning her neck in the narrow window.

  “Saints in glory!” said she, “what is this I behold on the road to the castle?”

  Alarmed by her tone, Sabia ran to look out. A procession of two jennets and two donkeys was winding along the lower road, with what appeared to be a bundle of clothes upon each, and each animal led by a man.

  “Oh, woe is me!” cried Sabia. “It is my two aunts, and by the great size of their bundles, they are surely come to stay. My father has certainly broken faith He promised me they should not again be inflicted upon me.”

  “Comfort yourself, my lamb. Is not your old nurse rich in expedients? Shall I be able to charm away a wart and not do the same for these ladies of good pedigree?”

  Sabia half smiled. She saw possibilities of mirth in her nurse's suggestion. Then she shook her head and sighed.

  “What matters a lesser affliction where there is already a great one?” said she. “Where gold and silver are gone, let the copper go after them. I know how it will be. Drive, drive at the spinning wheel. Day and night we shall be at the weaving. And time for it too. There are but two rolls of the woollen cloth and two of the linen left in the house.”

  Thereafter, so great was the activity in the great hall and in the barn below, that not a minute was left to any woman for idle grieving. The two tall spinster sisters in their lemon-yellow robes with red handkerchiefs tied upon their scanty grey locks presided over the dyeing vats and the loom. Companies of pretty bare-footed maids came up to Ardhoroe in the dawn. The sheds where they cleaned and combed the wool and the barn, where they spun were as full of songs as a hedge in springtime, for the mistresses of labour knew well that all work goes ten times better to a song. Yet the hearts of many of the singers were as heavy as lead within. They might forget themselves for an hour in the merry work, but ever and again you would see one stop, and her face grow white while she pressed her hand to her heart.

  So passed the last weeks of August and the first days of September. The little herbs had grown tall and strong in the hoof-print of Tamburlaine. The weaving went on rapidly. The looms turned off hundreds of yards of sound and beautiful woollen stuffs, a noble provision against the winter cold. Brighter and brighter grew the corn. Old men and boys and strong women went out to view it. This year the corn harvest would be theirs to reap. The next day being a clear dawn, they assembled, and the ranks of the corn began to fall before the long row of the sickles. At the end of each rank when the workers stopped to sharpen their sickles, first one and then another would turn to shade their eyes and look down the long paths that led southward to the openings of the hills. Great news, fearful news, might be already o
n the way, running towards them on swift feet. War they were used to: what mattered a good hard fight between friends and neighbours? What else were men for? Unless they were monks? But robbery and extermination, that was a different tale. That was the black thought at the bottom of the foreigners' war.

  Up from Dungannon came the first news to these troubled hearts. Hardly had Tyrone met Essex in the stream by Bellaclynthe, before the news was flying to the north. When the runners were weary, a fresh man would take up the message, and further north it was shouted from hill to hill. Whatever person heard it would catch it up and run with it, then shout it forwards to another who himself ran again, so that not the swiftest winged bird could travel as fast as the news.

  Such a shout came to the reapers in the cornfields, such a shout came to the ears of Sabia as she watched on the castle-top. The voice of joy coming out of the south, out of the unknown! Women fell weeping on each other's necks; children hung upon their skirts and begged the news of them. Before that loud cry, sounding like a trumpet among the hills, all grief fled and rejoicing burst out. The big chests were opened, and holiday garments of bright colours were taken out ready to welcome the men of the north on their return. That day and next day, and the next, runners came in bringing more and more news. The army was on the move, the men of the north were coming home. The women had no time for sleep — just an hour here or an hour there, what did it matter? Those men were coming home who might have been returned to them bloody, broken, or never at all. Therefore in every house and hut the beds were laid smooth for them, the feast made ready, the cup filled, and the clean garment prepared.

  At Ardhoroe, Sabia worked and sang with the rest. Her eyes scarcely saw the visible world; they were bent solely upon the future which was now turned to gold. When the white horse and his rider came out of the misty south, along the hill paths, and up the borders of the woods, she saw them translated into another world that was hung midway between visible and invisible, a world where the dream is a substantial thing, dominating the solid, controlling the issues of life.

  Chapter XXXVII. - Bread and Honey

  In the early morning, Sabia stole out of doors, a filled basket on her arm. The noise of the feasting, the feet of the dance, the throbbing of the harps still drummed in her ears. Her whole being was vibrating. She seemed to hear the pulsation of her own blood like a bell ringing far away that called her to a high ceremony.

  Out of doors was silence. The first of the September mists swam like a white sea, fifteen feet deep upon the ground. The round tops of hills and trees rose up islanded in a lake of milk. Especially upon the river, the mist rolled in heavy fleeces, white as snow.

  Descending the castled hill, Sabia plunged into the chill white fog. It cooled her soon; every leaf shook down its moisture upon her as she passed. Not a sound could be heard. After the noise and shouting of the night before, it seemed as if earth herself slept, having drawn white coverlets about her face. Sabia made her way to the top of a hill that she had noticed a little way off as standing out of the mist. Once there, she was glad to wrap herself in the folds of her good blue mantle while she sat leaning against a birch tree, waiting for the sun to break forth. Already the upper heavens were filmy blue, and the trembling borders of the mist were beginning to rise and flee.

  It cannot be said that she was altogether surprised when a shimmering and movement broke the curtain of vapour, and the white horse's head appeared followed by the figure of Estercel walking by his shoulder.

  Sabia rose and stood by the birch tree.

  “Good morning to you, Estercel,” said she. “Ah, send the horse away. I am frightened of him since I heard the tale of his killing.”

  Estercel stood a little distance off. The horse stood, too, his neck stretched out, his eyes regarding the girl by the tree.

  “Send him away,” she repeated; “if you saw his face now as he looks at me! there is too much sense in it.”

  “I am sorry you are afraid of him,” said Estercel. “I felt that way myself at first. I did not want to have him near me. But he grieved so much, that I soon forgave him. Look at him now; he is fretting directly.” And in truth, the horse's head was drooping down.

  “But to kill!” said the girl; “it was very bad of him.”

  “He is no worse than a man,” answered the other. They stood in silence for a moment.

  “Sabia, do speak a kind word to him,” he went on; “he has a noble heart: do not vex him.”

  Doubtfully, the girl looked at the vast creature. Then stooping, she uncovered her basket and, taking a piece of wheaten loaf from it, held it towards him without a word. Tamburlaine lifted up his head and snuffed at it, then turned his neck away.

  “His feelings are hurt,” said Estercel.

  “It is a wonder to see him so gentle,” said she. “I had been thinking of him as quite otherwise. Indeed, I love him. There never was such a horse and never will be again. Did he not bring you home? Ah, never, never will I forget that day.”

  Going to his side, she flung her arms about his neck, reaching up on tip-toe to do so. Very grateful was the horse. He laid his velvet nose upon her shoulder, he snorted, he tossed his maned head up and down. Finally, he took the bread from her hand and ate it thankfully, for it was gently given. After which, because his heart was set at ease, he began to gambol, flinging up his heels behind.

  “This is worse than all!” cried Sabia. “There is not room for such frolicking on this little hill!”

  However much delight Estercel might take in him, his prancings were inconvenient in a narrow place, and Estercel sent him away down the hill, where he wandered, feeding, in and out of the fast fleeing veils of mist.

  Left by themselves, the young man and woman became silent. Then Sabia, holding by a branch of the birch tree and feeling as much fear as any mouse, began to talk fast in a loud cheerful voice about she knew not what. Neither did Estercel, for he paid no attention to her words. Presently, turning about, he took her in his arms and set a kiss upon her mouth, after which she talked no more, only wept in silence within his arm. After a time, however, when he had let her go free, she became cheerful again, for the sun was growing brighter each minute, and under their eyes the wreaths of vapour rose up and vanished away.

  Estercel had two pieces of stick, warm and dry, in his leather satchel, and with them he soon made a little flame and kindled a fire. Sabia emptied her basket and laid out a fine breakfast of bread and meat, and honey for herself. Taking the empty basket, she ran quickly down the hill and soon gathered some dozens of mushrooms, for they were very plentiful in the fields about. These she strung on a long willow wand, and Estercel helped her to roast them by turning the wand round and round over the flame of the wood fire.

  While they ate their delicious meal, the sun shone out, and the last mist wreath went up in smoke. The lovely colours of day appeared. Overhead, two larks sang in their spirals. Estercel and Sabia, sitting together, eating bread and honey on the hill, drank in all the sweetness of life to the uttermost. Estercel looked away over hill and valley, and river to where distance in her blue gown held up the finger of mystery.

  “It is a fine morning,” said he.

  “It is indeed,” said she, “and a beautiful country.”

  “It's a pity to think of anything bad coming to it,” said he, looking down towards the blue gates of the hills.

  “Ah, well,” said Sabia, “that's all over now, thanks be to Him. It's grand to think of all Ireland under one name, and a roof on every church, and bread in the hand of every child.”

  “Don't be too sure of anything,” said Estercel. “You never can tell what's going to happen. There's something deceitful to me in this peace. I heard a lot, and I learned a lot down in that heart-breaking town. It's our land they're wanting to get. It's our blood they want to see: they'll make the earth run with it yet.”

  Sabia's bright face clouded over; then slowly it cleared again. She turned, and her eye rested upon Estercel.

&nbs
p; “Brown girl,” he said, “dear brown one of my heart, shall we be married on Sunday?”

  “I would rather,” said she, “for us to be married some time next year or the year after.”

  “Sunday next is far better, and so let it be,” said Estercel. “You never can tell what is going to happen. Let us take our joy while we may.”

  “Oh, my heart!” said Sabia. “Why in the world did I meddle with the ring?”

  “What is done is done,” answered Estercel. “For myself, I am right thankful to you. The heart must have an idol, Sabia. Without love, the world is very cold and a dangerous place also. I have a feeling that the charm in the ring kept me safe while I was in that desperate Dublin.”

  He put an arm about her, and she crept close to his side, wrapping up her fears in love. Estercel sat looking out before him at the opening between the hills, whereby the shadows might pass in.

  “Ay,” he said, “the world's a dangerous place. But come what may, we shall have each other, and the blessing of Almighty God, and our lives before us, and who can say more than that?”

  Part 3

  Petya Lehmann's Historical Series

  Next book in this series: B02 (France) – in progress

  * * * *

  The following titles of the 1st historical series – “Generation 1480 – 1560” – are available online on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnesandnoble.com, and Worthreads.com:

  * * * *

  A01 (India) – THE CRYSTAL BOWL OF LIFE

  “King Errant” by Flora Annie Steel

  “The Firebrand of the Indies” by Elsie K. Seth-Smith

  The lives of two great men of the time are here presented, in two separate novels, by two authors.