WHICH SPEAKETH FOR ITSELF

It was not the piping of throstle or sweet-throated merle that had waked my Beltane, who with slumberous eyes stared up at carven canopy, round him upon rich arras, and down upon embroidered bed-covering and silken pillow, while through the narrow lattice the young sun played upon gilded roof-beam and polished floor. So lay Beltane, blinking sleepy eyes and hearkening to a soft and melodious whistling from the little garden below his cas.e.m.e.nt.

Being thus heavy with sleep, he wondered drowsily what great content was this that filled him, and wherefore? Wondering yet, he sighed, and because of the sun's radiance, closed slumberous eyes again and would have slept; but, of a sudden the whistling ceased, and a rich, sweet voice fell to gentle singing.

"Hark! in the whisper of the wind Love calleth thee away, Each leaf a small, soft voice doth find, Each pretty bird doth cry in kind, O heart, haste north to-day."

Beltane sat up broad awake, for Blaen lay to the north, and in Blaen-- But Giles was singing on:

"Youth is quick to speed away, But love abideth ever.

Fortune, though she smile to-day, Fickle is and will not stay, But true-love changeth never.

"The world doth change, as change it must, But true-love changeth never.

Proud ambition is but dust, The bow doth break, the sword doth rust, But love abideth ever."

Beltane was leaning half out of the cas.e.m.e.nt, of the which fact who so unconscious as Giles, busily furbishing armour and bascinet.

"Giles!" he cried, "O Giles--rouse ye, man!"

"How, lord--art awake so early?" questioned Giles, looking up innocent of eye.

"Was it not for this thou didst sing, rogue Giles? Go now, bid Roger have three horses saddled, for within the hour we ride hence."

"To Mortain, lord?" questioned Giles eagerly.

"Aye, Giles, to Mortain--north to Blaen; where else should we ride to-day?"

So saying, Beltane turned back into his sumptuous chamber and fell to donning, not his habiliments of state, but those well-worn garments, all frayed by his heavy mail. Swift dressed he and almost stealthily, oft pausing to glance into the empty garden below, and oft staying to listen to some sound within the ma.s.sy building. And thus it was he started to hear a soft knocking at the door, and turning, beheld Sir Benedict.

"Forsooth, art up betimes, my lord Duke," quoth he, bright eyes a-twinkle, "and verily I do commend this so great zeal in thee since there be many and divers matters do need thy ducal attention--matters of state and moment--"

"Matters of state?" saith Beltane, something troubled.

"There be many n.o.ble and ill.u.s.trious lords come in to pay thee homage and swear to thee divers fealty oaths--"

"Then must they wait, Benedict."

"Wait, my lord--men so ill.u.s.trious! Then this day a deputation waiteth on thee, merchants and what not--"

"These must wait also, Benedict--" saith Beltane, his trouble growing.

"Moreover there is high festival at the minster with much chanting and glorification in thy behalf--and 'tis intended to make for thee a triumphal pageant--fair maidens to strow flowers beneath thy horse's feet, musicians to pleasure thee with pipe and tabor--and--"

"Enough, enough, Benedict. Prithee why must I needs endure this?"

"Such things do wait upon success, Beltane, and moreover thou'rt Duke!

Aye, verily thou'rt Duke! The which mindeth me that, being Duke, it behoveth thee--"

"And yet, Benedict, I do tell thee that all things must wait awhile, methinks, or better--do you attend them for me--"

"Nay--I am no Duke!" quoth Sir Benedict hastily.

"Yet thou art my chiefest counsellor and lord Seneschal of Pentavalon.

So to thy wise judgment I do entrust all matters soever--"

"But I have no warranty, thou cunning boy, and--"

"Shalt have my bond, my ducal ring, nay, the very crown itself, howbeit this day--"

"Wilt ride for Mortain, O lover?" said Sir Benedict, smiling his wry smile.

"Aye, verily, dear Benedict, nor shall aught under heaven let or stay me--yet how knew ye this, Benedict?"

"For that 'tis so my heart would have prompted had I been so blessed as thou art, dear my Beltane. And knowing thou needs must to thy beauteous Helen, I have a meal prepared within my chamber, come your ways and let us eat together."

So came they to a handsome chamber hard by where was spread a goodly repast whereto they did full justice, though talking much the while, until one tapped lightly upon the door, and Roger entered bearing Beltane's new-burnished mail.

"Nay, good Roger," said Beltane, smiling, "need for that is done methinks; we ride light to-day!" But Sir Benedict shook wise head.

"My lord 'tis true our wars be ended I thank G.o.d, and we may sheathe our swords at last, but the woods be full of Black Ivo's scattered soldiery, with outlaws and other masterless men."

"Ha, verily, lords," quoth Roger, "there shall many turn outlaw, methinks--"

"Then must we end outlawry!" said Beltane, frowning.

"And how would'st do it, Beltane?"

"Make an end of the game laws, Benedict--throw wide the forests to all who will--"

"But master, thus shall every clapper-claw rogue be free to kill for his base sport thy goodly deer, or belike a hart of ten, fit for sport of kings--"

"Well, let them in this thing be kings. But I do hold a man's life dearer than a stag's. So henceforth in Pentavalon the woods are free--I pray you let this be proclaimed forthwith, my lord."

Quoth Sir Benedict, as with Roger's aid Beltane did on his armour:

"There is a postern beyond the pleasaunce yonder shall bring you forth of the city and no man the wiser."

"Why, then, bring ye the horses thither, Roger, and haste ye!"

Now when Roger was gone, Sir Benedict arose and setting his hands on Beltane's shoulders questioned him full serious:

"Mean ye forsooth to make the forests free, Beltane?"

"Aye, verily, Benedict."

"This shall cause much discontent among the lords--"