Winchester was a greater city than he had any idea it would be, but he found his way to the house of Lady Adelicia only to learn that she had gone to Normandy, taking with her some of her household. Audrey, her own waiting-woman, had gone with her. d.i.c.kon went down to Southampton and took pa.s.sage to Calais. He had not much money, but a smith as good as he was could get a living almost anywhere. There were plenty of English in Normandy, for both that province and Aquitaine were fiefs held by the King of England as a va.s.sal of the King of France. It was often said that the va.s.sal in this case held more land than his lord.

Without much trouble d.i.c.kon found the Norman castle he sought, but to his dismay, the lady was just about to set out on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

Sir Stephen Giffard, her husband, had been fighting against the Moors in Spain, and she feared that he was dead. She had decided upon this pilgrimage in the hope that her prayers and offerings at the shrine of Our Lady might avail to bring her husband back to her.

The Suss.e.x youth used all his powers of language, which were limited, and all his strength of will, which was great, in trying to induce Audrey to leave service and go home to her people. Audrey was quiet, but she was as set as Blackcap Down.

"'Tis not my own fancy, d.i.c.kon," she pleaded at last, her blue eyes dim with tears. "I ha' no love for strange lands,--nor strange folk neither.

But my lady has been ever kind to me, and she is in great trouble. If she fall ill on the journey there is none but me that knows her ways. I should ha' no peace if I left her in strange hands. 'Tis my duty, d.i.c.kon. There's no two ways of duty for any christened soul."

d.i.c.kon grew bolder at the sight of those tears. "Audrey," he said, "when you come back, and your lady is among her own folk again--then will you break the silver penny with me?"

"Oh," said Audrey shyly and quickly, her eyes downcast, "I'll do that now, if ye like,--d.i.c.kon, lad."

So they broke the coin and each kept half, and said farewell, she for the sake of her duty and he for the sake of his own honor, which was bound up with hers. But after she had gone away he was troubled by many doubts whether he should not have held on, and made her come with him in spite of herself.

Meanwhile he had no mind to return to England, and found work where he was. The little shop of Gaston of Abbeville would have interested any lad in love with the armorer's trade, and it had more attraction for d.i.c.kon than anything else he had found in that place. Wedged in, like a nutsh.e.l.l in the jaws of a nutcracker, between a round tower built by Rollo's men and the far older wall of a Roman basilica, it was partly built of Norman stone-work and partly of oak. Set close to the old Roman road through Gaul, it was in view of any knight or squire or man-at-arms who went by, and it was so arranged that all the contents could be seen at a glance.

The heavy and bulky forge and tools of an English smithy were not to be seen. Since horses were not shod there, little room was needed, and the armorer could lay his hand on any tool he needed without taking more than a step or two. Hammer, tongs, bellows and other belongings not at the moment in use were hung tidily on the walls. Some of these were most skillfully shaped to their use, and also ornamented with carving on the handles. The carving was not only decorative but was so designed as to give a firmer hold to the hand.

Along the upper part of the rear wall and the end wall on the right, supported on corbels of stone, was a narrow gallery, built of oak, the front carved in a series of open interlacing arches. Inside this were suits of costly armor, and weapons of especial value, which the armorer kept for sale. A flight of steps closed in by a paneled oaken part.i.tion descended from this gallery to the ground, and on each step was the straight demure figure of a carved saint in a pointed arch like a shrine.

At the foot the stairway was closed by a door of seasoned oak reenforced by wrought iron hinges extending almost across its width. When this door was fastened the treasures in the gallery were safe from thieves. A little wall-shrine of carved, painted and gilded wood, on the opposite wall, held a statuette of Saint Eloi, the patron of metal-workers. In short, the shop, though small, had been made beautiful with the care of one who loved and reverenced his work.

When d.i.c.kon halted there at the close of a dusty summer day Gaston was engaged in some work for a knight of Saint John, which must be done that night and needed four hands in place of two. The armorer was doing it all himself, with the skill of a master-workman, but using much picturesque French language to relieve his mind.

It did not take a minute after d.i.c.kon got a hammer in his hand, for Gaston's frown to change to a broad and satisfied smile. Here was a helper after his own ideas--strong, deft, and no talker. Like many men who love talk for its own sake the master was not fond of chatterboxes. The job was finished in good and workmanlike fashion, and Gaston, who knew some English, went on talking while he attended to other odd matters and waited for his customer.

"If you want to see the world--this is your place. . . . There's not much that goes along this road that doesn't come to Gaston of Abbeville some day. . . . Damaskeening? You'll see as much damaskeened work here as you could in Damascus. . . . Look here, my lad, if you're in want of work, stay with me till snowfall and see the pilgrims, and the knights, and the bowmen, and the free companions with their plunder, go by to the sea. Then ye may go on to Damascus if you're still set on the place, with some hope of not losing your way."

This seemed to d.i.c.kon a rather good idea. In his brief sojourn in Abbeville he had come to see the difficulty of travel in a land where no one understands your questions.

It was as Gaston said. People of all races, kinds and conditions traveled the highway that ran past the armorers' shop. Once Guy Bouverel, whom d.i.c.kon had met once or twice at Wilfrid's house, gave him surprised and pleased greeting. A little later came Padraig, the Irish clerk, on his way to Rouen. Padraig somehow learned about Audrey in the few hours he spent there.

"I thought 'twas more than hammer and tongs that took you out of Suss.e.x,"

he said. "I wish ye luck, but there's no knowing, d.i.c.kon, what they will do when they are seized with this pilgrimage fever."

"'Tis not the la.s.s, 'tis her lady," d.i.c.kon muttered, his head in his hands. "And the worst o't is that I can do nothing but think of her away there among the paynim. A fine lady's train has no call for such as me."

Padraig's brows lifted in humorous but sympathetic understanding. "I see,"

he said. "I'll tell the maid, if I see her, that she'll find none so well worth her while among Saracens--or pilgrims either."

There was a great jousting at Crecy a little later, and Gaston went there to deal with certain knights and princes among the tilters, and left the shop in d.i.c.kon's charge. Restless with the magic of a summer night after he had barred the little place, he wandered away over the white ancient road. He lay down on a gra.s.sy bank, where boughs laden with drifting blossoms hung over an orchard wall, and looked up at the stars, thinking.

"'Tes like what they tell of the Saracens' magic," he said half aloud, "this that makes a man do what's clean against his own will."

"Hammer not cold iron, friend," said a deep voice near by. "Saracen magic is naught save the wisdom of necessity, and that we all learn in our time."

d.i.c.kon looked up at a tall man in a traveler's cloak, who had come through the gate in the wall just then. The upper part of the face was hidden by the hood, but the mouth wore a quiet smile. The voice was that of a knight, and d.i.c.kon got to his feet and bowed. "I know not what you were thinking of when you spoke of Saracen magic," the stranger went on, "but I would I could find an armorer for a bit of work on my dagger. 'Tis a Damascus blade, but there's no gramarye in it, I promise you."

This was something to do at any rate. "An't please you, my lord," d.i.c.kon said quickly, "I am journeyman to Gaston of Abbeville, who is counted the best armorer in these parts. I may be able for the work if 'tis not too skillful."

"I could do it myself," the knight said carelessly, "if I had but the fire and tools. I came but an hour ago, and I must go on to-morrow."

The two went back to the shop, and the fire was kindled, a torch was set in a wrought-iron wall-cresset, and the work begun. d.i.c.kon saw with surprise that the knight himself had no small knowledge of the craft of the armorer.

The dagger was of the finest Saracen steel work, the haft inlaid with gold. Inside it the knight wished to conceal some jewels of no very great value, in a hollow made for the purpose and opened by twisting a round boss on the hilt. This was often done by travelers, since a man's dagger was his companion day and night, and in case of disaster he might thus have at hand the means to pay his way.

"That blade," the knight observed, trying its edge, "was the gift of a Saracen emir I made friends with beyond Damascus. Nay, look not so amazed, lad. They are no more wizards than you or I."

He must have divined the questions trembling on d.i.c.kon's lips, for when the work was done he still sat in the doorway and seemed in no haste to go. The white moon flooded the place and with the glow of the brazier made curious blended lights and shadows. The knight had thrown aside his cloak, and showed himself bronzed, keen-faced and active, like one who had done his part both in council-hall and camp. "It is like this," he went on, clasping his knee with brown strong hands. "This Christendom of ours is all ringed round with heathenesse--Moors, Danes, Bulgars, Arabs, Turks-- peoples white, brown, black, but caring naught for those things which are dear and precious to Christian men and women. I have been where the beacons flashed from hill to hill along the sh.o.r.e of Britain to warn the villages of Danish pirates. I have seen the Moors from Barbary come swarming over the borders of Granada and Andalusia until the Christians were all but driven back into the mountains. Our faith is not their faith, our oaths are not their oaths, nor our ways their ways.

"Now the paynim of the desert live not in towns and cities as we do, but in tents. The wealth of a chief is in his flocks and herds,--sheep and goats, camels, the swift desert horses. The wealth of a sultan is in the lances he can call to his banner in time of war, under their own leaders.

There is only one war-cry that makes one host of them all, and that is 'Allah-hu!' Saladin might promise ten times over, and thousands of his subjects would never know it or be bound by it. And what can you do when a promise is of no value?

"It is the same with the heathen who come raiding over the North Sea. They plunder and pillage as they list, whether it be palace, abbey or nunnery that lies in their way. Honor has no meaning to those who prey on the helpless."

"My lord," said d.i.c.kon hesitatingly, "you mean that--that--honor is for all men--though they take no vows?"

The stranger's voice rang like steel on steel. "Honor is for all true men- -and women--king or knight, merchant or peasant, bond or free. A slave may be loyal to his master--the master must keep faith with the slave. Christ died for all--for their souls, not their houses of stone or brick or timber. Do you think, if He were on earth now, He would choose to be served only by those of gentle blood?"

This was a new thought to d.i.c.kon, though he had always known the stories of the healing of the blind and the leprous, and the birth at Bethlehem.

The knight went on, rising and taking up his cloak, "As for the magic you have heard of, it is nothing but the practice of centuries. The desert chiefs, from whom the Moslems are mostly descended, are ever wandering from place to place, where their beasts can find grazing. Hence all their wealth must be carried on pack saddles. They can make with their many- colored shawls and rugs a palace out of a tent pitched for the night. They work leather, iron, bra.s.s, because this can be done without long stay in any one place. And when a people can have but few luxuries they grow very skillful in the making of those few. They carry their wisdom in such matters, as they do their wealth, wherever they go, and hand it down from father to son. That is all the sorcery they use.

"I have told you these things because a man should have neither overmuch fear nor any contempt for his enemy, and these paynim are, or may be at any time, our enemies. Our faith must be as this dagger, ready for service by day or night, but for defense, not for a.s.sa.s.sination. Since Saladin has come to the throne there is a stirring among the tribes that worship the false prophet, and they may be once more dreaming that they may conquer the world for Islam. They can never do it, but they may force us to another Crusade in time. I am on my way to England now to make report to the King of what I have seen. I hope that some day we may meet there. If ever you want work, Sir Gualtier Giffard on the Welsh border will bid you welcome if you say that you were sent by Hugh l'Estrange."

Moved by sudden impulse d.i.c.kon told in a few words the story of Audrey's service and their promise. The knight held out his hand in open kindliness. "You did well," he said. "Every man who keeps faith with his neighbor, every good soldier, every wise and gentle monk, and more than all, every true woman, is a link in a great chain that makes for the safety of Christendom. A token is a small thing,--yes--but what is our Cross itself but a token? I would wish my own lad Roger to have acted as you did."

AWAKENING

Before the snows are melted that cradle the mountain streams, Before the bear and the dormouse rouse from their winter dreams, Before the earliest linnet flutes forth his roundel clear, There comes an authentic moment that marks the turn of the year.

A brightness in the sunshine, a hint of life in the air, A soft mist veiling the hilltops that were so brown and bare, Nothing to note or ponder, nothing to see or hear,-- But there is a mystic difference that marks the turn of the year!

Light as the wings of a sea-mew in the rush of startled flight, Cool as the touch of clover, shy as the dews of night, Strong as the love of freedom, sudden as panic fear, The restless gypsy longing wakes at the turn of the year.

Why do we toil and swelter over the task we hate?

What is to keep us fettered to the benches of sullen Fate?

There is nothing half so fleeting,--there is nothing half so dear As the unfulfilled desire that comes with the turn of the year!

X

FOOLS' GOLD