The Brethren by H. Rider Haggard - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)

H. Rider Haggard, Delphi Classics

• Publisher: Delphi Classics (Parts Edition)
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781788771764
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

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Chapter One: By The Waters of Death Creek

From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf, his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips, notwithstanding his father’s Norman blood.

At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the slow grace which marked her every movement.

“Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?” she asked in her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent, seemed quite different to that of any other woman.

“I think so, Rosamund,” he answered. “It would serve to pass the time, and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we rode so far to seek, the time — is somewhat long.”

“Shame on you, Wulf,” she said, smiling. “Look upon yonder sea and sky, at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple—”

“I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your back and at Godwin’s left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father’s effigy upon his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword, the same cold, silent face staring at the sky.”

“Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes — that is, if the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire,” interrupted his brother.

Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his blue eyes.

“No, I think not,” he answered; “the deeds you may do, and greater, but surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk’s cowl at the last — unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two — for I have been wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth — a maid’s thoughts are her own — but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and should be skimmed.”

Rosamund sighed. “I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of strange learning—”

“And women are men’s slaves!” interrupted Wulf. “Still, it is natural that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins, and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess” — and he bowed the knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his earnest reverence—”say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?”

She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen.

Presently she answered him with another question.

“And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D’Arcy and a Christian maid?”

“The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill either, and for the second — why, faiths can be changed.”

Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time.

“Wulf, Wulf,” he said sternly, “keep watch upon your tongue, for there are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth—”

“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.

“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”

“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately, perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said, “You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty and wisdom.”

“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad, the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother — who, indeed, in such a case would do right to slay me.”

“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so very hard to choose between death and duty?”

“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than life.”

“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or — love?”

“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though those within it watched us.”

“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”

“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”

“Fish,” said Wulf; “we are at peace in Essex.” Although Rosamund did not look convinced, he went on: “Now for Godwin’s thoughts — what were they?”

“Brother, if you would know, of the East also — the East and its wars.”

“Which have brought us no great luck,” answered Wulf, “seeing that our sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his heart, which lies at Stangate yonder.”

“How better could he die,” asked Godwin, “than fighting for the Cross of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!”

“Aye, he died well — he died well,” said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and his hand creeping to his sword hilt. “But, brother, there is peace at Jerusalem, as in Essex.”

“Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter — he whom we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months gone — told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin, sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red upon the holy sands of Palestine?”

Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.

“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!” — and he looked at Rosamund, who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes—”go when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.” And suddenly his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a field—”A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!” Then he sheathed his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!”

Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said:

“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that will part us. But” — and her voice broke somewhat—”such is the woman’s lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not why” — and she shivered a little—”it comes into my heart that Heaven often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the sunlight. I am afraid — of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first, my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”

“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously. “What is there for you to fear in a nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”

“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at

Steeple, but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.

“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without count.”

Then they turned and entered the old church — one of the first that ever was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad, the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day. Here they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their horses, which were tied in the shed hard by.

Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at Steeple — one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of Stangate on his right. It was this latter path they chose, since at low tide the going there is good for horses — which, even in the summer, that of the inland track was not. Also they wished to be at home by supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the father of Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and perhaps come out to seek them.

For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry of curlew and the lap of the turning tide. No human being did they see, indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and again by fishermen. At length, just as the sun began to sink, they approached the shore of Death Creek — a sheet of tidal water which ran a mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three hundred yards in breadth. They were well mounted, all three of them. Indeed, Rosamund’s horse, a great grey, her father’s gift to her, was famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear of shouting men or flashing steel.

Now the ground lay thus. Some seventy yards from the shore of Death Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path, beyond which were a swamp and the broad river. Between this tongue and the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands. It was an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which could lie alongside of it even at low tide. This mole had been much destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level.

Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick eyes of Wulf, who rode first — for here the path along the border of the swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file — caught sight of a large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole.

“Your fishermen have landed, Rosamund,” he said, “and doubtless gone up to Bradwell.”

“That is strange,” she answered anxiously, “since here no fishermen ever come.” And she checked her horse as though to turn.

“Whether they come or not, certainly they have gone,” said Godwin, craning forward to look about him; “so, as we have nothing to fear from an empty boat, let us push on.”

On they rode accordingly, until they came to the root of the stone quay or pier, when a sound behind them caused them to look back. Then they saw a sight that sent the blood to their hearts, for there behind them, leaping down one by one on to that narrow footway, were men armed with naked swords, six or eight of them, all of whom, they noted, had strips of linen pierced with eyelet holes tied beneath their helms or leather caps, so as to conceal their faces.

“A snare! a snare!” cried Wulf, drawing his sword. “Swift! follow me up the Bradwell path!” and he struck the spurs into his horse. It bounded forward, to be dragged next second with all the weight of his powerful arm almost to its haunches. “God’s mercy!” he cried, “there are more of them!” And more...