Books: Masters of the Guild
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L. Lamprey >> Masters of the Guild
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"I see," said the knight thoughtfully. "But what of a man who will take a
gift with one hand and thieve with the other?"
"Some men," said Hugh of Avalon, "are your friends because you have done
them service, but now and then one is bound to you by service he has done
you--and that is the stronger tie. My swan would not love me as he does if
he came only to be fed."
The cottager had been complaining that Tammuz and his tribe had been
destroying his crops, and wished them punished. The knight had ridden over
to see, and came back doubtful. He said to the cottager that it did not
seem to him like the work of a spiteful neighbor. Was it not possible that
some four-footed creature had ravaged the crops? The cottager did not
believe that it was. He was sure it was Tammuz. Neither knew that a lean
black-haired peasant, lying along close to the limb of a great beech tree,
had heard every word of the conversation and also witnessed the little
scene with the falcon.
The marsh was very dry, and Sir Walter had a mind to ride into it a little
way and see how far one could really go. If wild hogs were rooting about
the place it would be well to know it. Bidding Eleanor wait for him in the
tiny clearing, he and the Prior pushed their horses in among the reeds
where a ridge offered a fair foothold. Marcel, the squires and Roger were
not far off, having great sport.
Roger was rather disappointed in Eleanor. If she objected to killing
things, why had she been so happy to come, and so fond of her falcon? The
truth was that Eleanor had never thought of Mabonde as a cruel bird. It
was the nature of a falcon to kill its own food. The spice of danger in
the keen talons and fierce beak made her pet even a little more
fascinating. But it seemed different, somehow, when she herself sent the
merlin forth to kill. As she sat waiting for her father, she felt that
never again would she wish to fly falcon at quarry.
There was a grunting and squealing, a rustle and crash in the tangled
undergrowth of the bog, and an immense black boar stumbled out into the
open and charged straight at Eleanor's horse. The startled animal reared
and sprang, Marcel and the squires spurred in toward the clearing and
checked the great brute on that side, and Eleanor had all she could do to
avoid being thrown directly into the path of the furious beast. It seemed
incredible that anything so heavy on such short legs and small hoofs could
move so quickly. The wild boar's tusks, several inches long and sharp as
razors through constant tearing and whetting, slashed viciously at the
terrified horse, and in that cramped space his rage was as deadly as a
lion's. Then a roughly-clad, wild-looking peasant dropped from a limb on
the very back of the creature and sunk his knife to the hilt in its thick
bristling neck. With a snort it bolted into the marsh, just as Sir Walter
and the Prior came out a little distance away and the falconer and the
squires came up on the other side. The peasant, who had swung himself up
into another tree, slid to earth and stood staring sulkily, as if half
minded to follow his late adversary to cover.
The knight and the Prior were pale as ghosts, Marcel was shaking from head
to foot, and the lads gazed at Eleanor as if she had come back from the
dead. She almost had. It was an exceedingly narrow escape. Any one but a
very good rider must have been thrown. The wicked tusks of the wild boar
will easily kill a strong hunting-dog, and the tough, hard hide was almost
like armor. Rarely did a boar-hunt end without the killing of at least one
dog and the wounding of a hunter. If there had been the slightest reason
to think that such danger lurked in the swamp, the knight would never have
left Eleanor where he did. But the herd of wild hogs had evidently been
living on the high ground in the middle, and not come out until this
drought gave them foothold.
Sir Walter beckoned to Tammuz, and the man came like a half-tamed dog,
eyeing his lord warily. "You have given me more than mine own life this
day, Tammuz of the Ford," he said a trifle unsteadily. "Kneel." And then
and there Tammuz received his freedom and a hide of land for his own and
his children's after him.
In the following months many hidden things came to light. Tammuz and his
people had enjoyed many a good meal of the flesh of the wild hog, which is
better than that of common swine. They had not encouraged strangers to
come about, partly from a natural dislike to company and partly because
they did not wish to be held responsible for anything that might happen. A
boar-hunt, even with the big powerful mastiffs and the best of steel
spears, was dangerous enough to be called the sport of kings, and it was
only through long practice and unusual strength and agility that the
marshmen had been able to kill any of the herd at all.
The first time that Tammuz ever entered the castle was on the night of the
grand boar-hunt after the marsh was drained, when Sir John Courtenay, Sir
Guilhem de Grantmesnil, Sir Yves de Vescey, and King Henry himself with
several of his courtiers, went forth to slay the monster of the marsh, and
the head of the three-hundred-pound brute was borne in triumph into the
hall. The second time was on a dark night a little later, when he slipped
in at the gate, no one knew how, and asked to see Sir Walter Giffard.
It was a serious tale he had to tell. The Welsh were on their way to
invade England, knowing that the King was between Shrewsbury and Chester
and had no very great force with him. Tammuz was among the disaffected
peasants who had been relied upon to aid the enemy. But for a long time
now he had had growing doubts about lending his aid to such work. He was
neither blind nor foolish, and he could not help seeing that the people of
the farms and hamlets dwelt in greater security and comfort than they ever
had before that he could remember. He was well aware also that if the
Welsh crossed the border the lords of the frontier castles would suffer,
whoever else did or did not. When Tammuz thought of the brave and spirited
little maiden who had had pity on the woodcock her falcon killed, and her
gracious mother who had nursed sick children and heard the troubles of the
poor, ever since she came to that rude land, he did not like to think of
the torch and the pike of the half-barbaric Welsh let loose upon the
valley. Therefore he had finally made up his mind to come and warn his
lord of the peril in good season.
The knight wasted no time. He sent swift messengers to rouse the
neighboring castles, armed guards turned out to patrol the marches,
another messenger rode eastward to call the King and his troops to the
threatened border. Moreover, the Norman lords did not wait for invasion;
they made the first move themselves. They had no mind to risk their people
and their homes if the thing could be avoided. Thanks to Tammuz, they knew
in what direction the enemy might be expected, and some of the Welsh
chiefs, seeing what was afoot, refused to join in the war at all.
The actual trial of strength took place on bare moorland some ten miles
from the castle of the Giffards. From the battlements it was possible to
see in a very distant way what went on. Lady Philippa, Eleanor and Roger
stood together at a high window, and saw morions glitter in the sun,
lances ranged like an orderly mass of reeds, and at last the King's banner
dipping and lifting over the uneven ground as his reenforcements rode up.
Then far through the fine cold air came trumpet-calls, and the enemy
emerged from their cover in the woods. In comparison with the disciplined
and controlled forces of the English, they seemed a motley rabble.
Moreover, the Norman crossbowmen and the English archers with their long
bows had the pike-bearing Welsh at a terrible disadvantage. This Roger
explained, hopping with excitement, for he was full of information
gathered from Ralph the bowyer, his firm friend.
The battle was a brief one. Before sunset Sir Walter Giffard and his men
came riding home to tell of a speedy and easy victory.
"'Tis all the better," said the knight, as Lady Philippa helped him remove
his armor. "There is no use in chasing these half-wild chiefs through
their forests. Some day perhaps they will come to us of their own accord.
They know now that it is hopeless to attempt to beat us back from our own
frontier, and I think they will not readily try it again. There is wisdom
in Hugh of Avalon. As he says,--the truest service ever comes by the road
of the wild swan."
THE LANCES
Straight stood we with our brethren in the wood--
High-crested, strong, and proud,
Fearing no fury of the threatening storm--
Our chanting voices loud
Rose to the mighty bourdon of the gale,
The yelling tempest or the raging sea,
Chanting and prophesying of great days
In centuries yet to be.
The falcon flying down the windy sky,
The swallow poised and darting in the sun,
The guillemot beating seaward through the mist--
We knew them every one,
And heard from them of trumpets wakening war,
Of steadfast beams that roofed our people warm,
Of ships that blindfold through uncharted seas
Triumphant rode the storm.
Now come we to the battle of our dreams,--
The trumpets neigh, the ranks are closing fast
In that stern silence that men keep who know
This hour may be their last--
That they, like us, may riven and useless lie
Ere once again the bright steel greets the sun.
This only pray we--that we may not die
Until our work be done.
IX
THE SWORD OF DAMASCUS
Dickon the smith stood under the great oak tree that sheltered the forge,
weary and sick at heart. There was no better man of his inches in all
Sussex, but the world is not always good to see, even at nineteen.
Dickon's world had been empty ever since the departure of Audrey of the
Borstall Farm, cousin to Edwitha, the wife of his friend Wilfrid the
Potter.
Audrey had made one brief visit to her old home since she had gone to be a
maid to Lady Adelicia Giffard, and in that time not only Dickon but other
youths of the neighborhood had found her comely. Tall and straight and
lissome, with the blue eyes and yellow hair of her people, white as milk
and fair as a wild rose, she was a girl to be remembered--Audrey. But she
cared for none of them and went back to Winchester with her lady. Since
that time Sussex had been no home for Dickon.
He had learned all that any smith of those parts could teach him and all
that he could teach himself, or he might have set his mind to his work. To
Dickon work was more than bread and meat; it was the heart of life. Now
his unquiet mind returned to an old ambition of his, to be a master
armorer. This desire dated from a day in his early teens, when in his
father's absence a Templar stopped to have his horse shod. Dickon could
shoe horses as well as anybody. But when the knight wished a bit of
repairing done on his helmet it was beyond the lad's knowledge, and the
work had to wait until old Adam Smith came back from Lewes.
Meanwhile Dickon had eyed with a great fascination the Templar's sword, a
magnificent piece of steel-work, blade and scabbard ornamented with
curious inlay-work of gold. He dared not ask about it even if he could
have made his question understood. The knight spoke only Norman and a
little mixed French and English, and Dickon knew scarcely a word of any
language but Saxon. When his father had come home and the knight had gone
on his way, Dickon asked eager questions.
"'Tis a sword of Damascus," the old smith said shortly. "Belike he got it
where he's been--in the Holy Land."
"Is't holy work then?" The boy knew as much of Palestine as he did of the
planet Mars, the folk of his acquaintance being little given to
pilgrimage.
Adam Smith snorted. "Nay, 'tis paynim work. Damascus is a heathen city. I
mind somebody telling me that the only man that could forge that steel had
been carried off to another country, so that no more of it could be made.
They have a won'erful knowledge of metal-work, those infidels."
"Belike Satan taught 'em," grunted Wat of the Weald. "I don't hold wi'
such trickery myself."
Adam straightened his back and shook his white head. "Satan never did work
as good as yon sword," he chuckled. "'Tis a joy to the touch. Nay, lad,
Satan teaches men to be idle--that's his cunning."
Dickon grinned, for Wat was never known to work save when driven, and like
many others of his temper, looked at all devices for the increase of
output with disfavor. Evidently there was no light on the subject of
Damascus blades to be gained here, but the boy never forgot the look of
that sword.
As he grew up he saw and heard other things which fitted in with the
memory--Toledo blades that were said to be Moorish work, damascened and
jeweled daggers, now and then a piece of splendid armor worn in
tournaments where royalty itself looked on--Milanese and Spanish work rich
with gold. But always the keenest edge and finest steel came of that
mysterious heathen forging. Now, thinking of Audrey out in the great
world, he determined to see that world for himself and find out whether
he, a common smith's son, had any chance of learning the secrets of the
Armorer's Guild.
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. Dickon went down to Southampton and took
passage 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 vassal of the King of France. It was often said that the
vassal in this case held more land than his lord.
Without much trouble Dickon 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 Sussex 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, Dickon," 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, Dickon. There's
no two ways of duty for any christened soul."
Dickon 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,--Dickon, 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 Dickon
than anything else he had found in that place. Wedged in, like a nutshell
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 partition
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 Dickon 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 Dickon 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 Dickon 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
Dickon 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 Sussex,"
he said. "I wish ye luck, but there's no knowing, Dickon, what they will
do when they are seized with this pilgrimage fever."
"'Tis not the lass, 'tis her lady," Dickon 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 Dickon'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 grassy 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."
Dickon 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 Dickon 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," Dickon
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. Dickon 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 Dickon'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 shore 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 Dickon 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 Dickon, 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, brass, 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.
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