"Aye, for sure," said Roger, "we shall burn Black Ivo's gallows to ashes, bowman, and a good end 'twill be."

"By fire!" cried the archer, aghast, "but lord, so soon as they shall see the flames, Sir Gui and his men will sally out upon us!"

"Nay," said Beltane, "for we shall sally in."

"Into Belsaye, mean you, lord?"

"Certes," answered Beltane, "how else may we break open the dungeon?

The night is young yet, but we have much to do--follow!" So saying, Beltane turned and keeping ever within the shadow of the trees, set off towards that distant hill where stood the gallows, black against the moon.

Swiftly they went and for the most part in silence, for Beltane's mind was busied upon many matters.

So betimes they climbed the hill and stood at last beneath the gallows, and, glancing up, Beltane beheld noisome shapes, black and shrivelled, that once had lived and laughed. Forthwith he drew his sword and fell to cutting down the brush, whereat friar Martin, girding up his frock, took Walkyn's sword and fell to likewise.

Now, as Beltane laboured thus, he was suddenly aware of a wild and ragged figure, the which started up before him as if from the very ground. An old man he was, bent with years, yet with eyes that burned fierce and undimmed 'neath h.o.a.ry brows, and shrivelled hands that gripped upon a rusty sword.

"Who are ye," he cried, harsh-voiced, "who are ye that disturb this woeful place? 'Tis here that men are dragged to die--and, being dead, do hang i' the air to rot and rot--and thereby hangs a tale of wolves that howl and birds that shriek, aha!--carrion crows and hook-billed kites--they be well gorged since Ivo came. 'Caw!' they cry, 'caw!'-- soft child's flesh and the flesh of tender maids--aha!--I know--I've watched--I've seen! Ah! since my lord Duke Beltane died, what sights these eyes have seen!"

"Old man," quoth Beltane, bending near, "who art thou?"

"I am the ghost that haunts this place, but, ages since, I was Sir Robert Bellesme of Garthlaxton Keep. But my wife they slew, my daughter ravished from me--and my son--Ah! Christ--my son! They hanged him here --yonder he hung, and I, his father, watched him die. But, by night, when all was still, I crept hither and found a hole to shelter me. And here I stayed to watch over him--my son who hung so quiet and so still.

And the rough wind buffeted him, the cruel rain lashed him, and the hot sun scorched him, but still he hung there, so high!--so high! Yet I waited, for the strongest rope will break in time. And upon a moony night, he fell, and I gathered him in my arms, close here against my heart, and buried him--where none can know--save G.o.d. Many others have I buried also, for the strongest cords must break in time! And folk do say the devil bears them hence, since none are ever found--but I know where they lie--six hundred and seventy and nine--I know--these hands have buried them and I have kept a tally. Ah!--but you, gentle youth, what would ye here?"

"Burn down the gallows," said Beltane, "'tis an accursed thing, so shall it shame earth and heaven no longer."

"How!--how!" cried the ancient man, letting fall his rusty sword, "Destroy Black Ivo's gibbet? Dare ye--dare ye such a thing indeed? Are there men with souls unconquered yet? Methought all such were old, or dead, or fled away--dare ye this, youth?"

"Aye," nodded Beltane. "Watch now!" and hereupon he, together with the others, fell to hewing down the dry brush with might and main, and piling it about the gibbet's ma.s.sy beams, while the ancient man, perched upon a rock hard by, watched them 'neath his s.h.a.ggy brows and laughed soft and shrill.

"Aha!" he cried, "the fire ye kindle here shall set the Duchy in a flame mayhap, to burn Black Ivo with Gui of Allerdale and Red Pertolepe--mayhap! For them, fire on earth and flame in h.e.l.l--aha! To burn the gibbet! 'tis well bethought: so shall carrion kite and jay go light-bellied hereabouts, mayhap, oho! 'Caw,' they shall cry, 'Caw-- give us to eat--fair white flesh!' Yet how may they eat when the gallows is no more?"

Thus spake he with shrill laughter while Beltane laboured until the sweat ran from him, while Walkyn's great axe flashed and fell near by and steel glittered among the underbrush that clothed the slopes of the hill.

Very soon they had stacked great piles of kindling about the gallows'

weather-beaten timbers--twigs below, f.a.ggots above--cunningly ordered and higher than Beltane's head. Now as Beltane leaned upon his sword to wipe the sweat from his eyes, came Roger and Walkyn yet panting from their labour.

"Master," said Roger, "they should burn well, I trow, and yet--"

"And yet," quoth Walkyn, "these beams be thick: methinks, when the others go, one man should stay to tend the fires until the flame gets fair hold--"

"And that man I!" said Roger.

"No, no," frowned Walkyn, "an one of us must die, it shall be me--"

But now came the ancient man, leaning upon his ancient weapon.

"No, children," said he, "'tis for age to die--death is sweet to the old and weary: so will I tend the fire. Yet, beseech thee, grant me this: that these my hands shall fire the gallows whereon they hanged my son, long ago: young was he, and tall--scarce yet a man--they hanged him yonder, so high--so high--so far beyond my care: and the carrion birds--kites, see you, and crows--and the wind and rain and dark--Ah, G.o.d! my son! I am but an old man and feeble, yet, beseech thee, let this be the hand to fire Black Ivo's gibbet!"

Then Beltane took from his pouch flint and steel and tinder and gave them to the old man's trembling fingers as Giles o' the Bow came running with the stalwart friar behind him.

So, while the five stood hushed and wide of eye, the old man knelt before them in his rags and struck flint to steel. Once he struck, and twice--and behold a spark that leapt to a small flame that died to a glow; but now, flat upon his belly lay Giles and, pursing his lips, puffed and blew until the glow brightened, spread, and burst into a crackling flame that leapt from twig to twig. And when the fire waxed hot, Beltane took thence a glowing brand, and, coming to the other great pile, fired it therewith. Up rose the flames high and higher until they began to lick, pale-tongued, about the gibbet's two great supporting timbers, and ever as they rose, Walkyn and Roger, Giles and the friar, laboured amain, stacking logs near by wherewith to feed the fires.

"Enough," said Beltane at last, "it shall suffice, methinks."

"Suffice?" cried the old man, his eyes bright in the ruddy glow, "aye, it shall suffice, sweet boy. See--see, the timbers catch e'en now. Ha!

burn, good fire--eat, hungry flame! O, happy sight--would my dear son were here--they hanged his fair young body, but his soul--Ha, his soul! O souls of hanged men--O spirits of the dead, come about me, ye ghosts of murdered youth, come and behold the gibbet burn whereon ye died. What--are ye there, amid the smoke, so soon? Come then, let us dance together and trip it lightly to and fro--merrily, merrily! Hey boy, so ho then--so ho, and away we go!" Hereupon, tossing up gaunt arms, the old man fell to dancing and capering amid the sparks and rolling smoke, filling the air with wild talk and gabbling high-pitched laughter that rose above the roar of the fires. And so in a while Beltane, sighing, turned and led the way down the hill towards the glooming shadow of the woods; but ever as they went the flames waxed fiercer behind them and the madman's laughter shrilled upon the air.

Swift-footed they plunged into the underbrush and thus hidden began to close in upon Belsaye town. And of a sudden they heard a cry, and thereafter the shattering blare of a trumpet upon the walls. And now from within the waking city rose a confused sound, a hum that grew louder and ever more loud, pierced by shout and trumpet-blast while high above this growing clamour the tocsin pealed alarm.

Thus, in a while the trembling citizens of Belsaye, starting from their slumber, stared in pallid amaze beholding afar a great and fiery gibbet whose flames, leaping heavenward, seemed to quench the moon.

CHAPTER XIII

HOW THEY BRAKE OPE THE DUNGEON OF BELSAYE

Being yet in the shade of the woods, Beltane paused, hearkening to the distant uproar of Belsaye town and watching the torches that hovered upon its walls and the cressets that glowed on tower and bartizan.

"Messire Beltane," quoth the friar, setting his rumpled frock in order, "are ye minded still to adventure breaking ope the dungeon of Belsaye?"

"Aye, verily!" nodded Beltane. "Know you the city, good friar?"

"That do I, my brother: every lane and street, every hole and corner of it--'twas there I first drew breath. A fair, rich city, freed by charter long ago--but now, alas, its freedom s.n.a.t.c.hed away, its ancient charter gone, it bleeds 'neath a pale-cheeked tyrant's sway--a pallid man who laughs soft-voiced to see men die, and smiles upon their anguish. O Belsaye, grievous are thy wrongs since Ivo came five years agone and gave thee up to pillage and to ravishment. O hateful day! O day of shame! What sights I saw--what sounds I heard--man-groans and screams of women to rend high heaven and shake the throne of G.o.d, methinks. I see--I hear them yet, and must forever. Jesu, pity!" and leaning against a tree near by, the stalwart friar shivered violently and hid his eyes.

"Why, good brother Martin," said Beltane, setting an arm about him, "doth memory pain thee so, indeed? good Brother Martin, be comforted--"

"Nay, nay--'tis past, but--O my son, I--had a sister!" said the good friar, and groaned. Yet in a while he raised his head and spake again: "And when Duke Ivo had wrought his will upon the city, he builded the great gibbet yonder and hanged it full with men cheek by jowl, and left Sir Gui the cruel with ten score chosen men for garrison. But the men of Belsaye have stubborn memories; Sir Gui and his butchers slumber in a false security, for stern men are they and strong, and wait but G.o.d's appointed time. Pray G.o.d that time be soon!"

"Amen!" said Beltane. Now, even as he spake came the sound of a distant tucket, the great gates of Belsaye swung wide, and forth rode a company of men-at-arms, their bascinets agleam 'neath the moon.

"Now!" spake the friar, "and you are for Belsaye, my brother, follow me; I know a way--albeit a moist way and something evil--but an you will follow,--come!" So saying Friar Martin set off among the trees, and Beltane, beckoning to the others, followed close. Fast strode the friar, his white robe fluttering on before, through moonlight and shadow, until they reached a brook or freshet that ran bubbling betwixt flowery banks; beside this strode the tall friar, following its winding course, until before them, amid the shadow--yet darker than the shadow --loomed high an embattled flanking tower of the walls of Belsaye town; but ever before them flitted the friar's white gown, on and on until the freshet became a slow-moving river, barring their advance--a broad river that whispered among the reeds on the one side and lapped against rugged wall on the other.

Here the friar stayed to glance from gloomy wall and turret to fast waning moon on their left, then, girding up his gown, he stepped down into the reeds, and a moment later they saw him--to their amaze-- fording the river that flowed scarce knee deep.

So, needfully, Beltane followed, and, stepping into the water found his feet upon a narrow causeway cunningly devised. Thus, slowly and carefully, because of the flowing of the water, they came betimes to where the friar waited in the shadow of the ma.s.sy wall; yet, even as they came near, the friar waved his arm, stooped--and was gone; whereon my Beltane stared amazed and the three muttered uneasily behind him.

But, coming nearer, Beltane espied above the hurrying waters the curve of an arch or tunnel, and pointing it to the others, took a great breath and, stooping beneath the water, stumbled on and on until it shallowed, and he was free to breathe again.

On he went, through water now breast-high, with slimy walls above him and around, seeing naught by reason of the pitchy blackness, and hearing only the smothered splash of those behind, and gasping breaths that boomed hollow in the dark. Yet presently he saw a gleam before him that broadened with each step, and, of a sudden, was out beneath the sky--a narrow strip wherein stars twinkled, and so beheld again friar Martin's white frock flitting on, ghost-like, before. In a while he brought them to a slimy stair, and climbing this, with ever growing caution, they found themselves at last beneath the frowning shadow of the citadel within the walls of Belsaye town. Now, looking north, Beltane beheld afar a fiery gallows that flamed to heaven, and from the town thitherward came a confused hum of the mult.i.tude who watched; but hereabouts the town seemed all deserted.

"The dungeons lie beneath our feet," whispered Friar Martin. "Come!"

So, keeping ever in the shadow of the great square keep, they went on, soft-treading and alert of eye till, being come to the angle of the wall, the friar stayed of a sudden and raised a warning hand. Then came Beltane with Walkyn close behind, and peering over the friar's broad shoulders, they beheld a sentinel who stood with his back to them, leaning on his spear, to watch the burning gallows, his chain-mail agleam and his head-piece glittering as he stirred lazily in time to the merry lilt he sang softly.

Then, or ever Beltane could stay him, Walkyn o' the Dene laid by his axe, and, his soaked shoes soundless upon the stones, began to steal upon the unconscious singer, who yet lolled upon his spear some thirty paces away. With great body bowed forward and hairy fingers crooked, Walkyn stole upon him; six paces he went, ten--twenty--twenty-five-- the soldier ceased his humming, stood erect and turned about; and Walkyn leapt--bore him backward down into the shadow--a shadow wherein their bodies writhed and twisted silently awhile. When Walkyn rose out of the shadow and beckoned them on.

So, following ever the friar's lead, they came to a narrow doorway that gave upon a small guard-room lighted by a smoking torch socketed to the wall. The place was empty, save for a medley of arms stacked in corners, wherefore, treading cautiously, the friar led them a-down a narrow pa.s.sage and so to a second and larger chamber where burned a fire of logs. Upon the walls hung shining head-pieces; cloaks and mantles lay where they had been flung on bench and floor, but none was there to give them let or hindrance. Then Friar Martin took a torch that smoked near by, and, crossing to the hearth, reached down a ma.s.sy key from the wall, and with this in his hand, came to a door half hidden in a corner, beyond which were steps that wound downwards into the dark, a darkness close and dank, and heavy with corruption.