The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 15

UT the King and Bran and with them one knight Sir Hugh of Assynton went back to the cave above the river. For when he came from tending her Bran found the King pacing to and fro, with his red brow furrowed and the big hands wringing each other behind him while Becket sat and glowered.

"Ha, Bran!" the King shot a glance at him and turned. "Are you man for it?"

"I am your man, brother."

"That was a strange word of hers. In her cave is the heart of Cahors. Go in and on and on, said she. Whither then?"

"To hell," said Becket fiercely. "She would beguile you, my lord. There is some wicked magic in it. She would betray you to the fiend."

"So says the priest. What says the fool?"

"Nenny, nenny, there is no magic but in men's fears."

"And by the rood, so say I! Come then, brother Bran, and leave the priest to his prayers."

You see Bran bearing a brazier of red charcoal and Sir Hugh with a sheaf of torches beneath his arm marching through the night on either side the King. Torches were lit and into the cave they went. It opened out from the narrow entry, it had some pitiful furnishings, sheep-skins upon heather to make beds, wooden platters, a black cooking pot and a rude pitcher. On the grey limestone were strange paintings in red, a bull, little horses, and many hands with the fingers doubled as if in some sign or charm. Farther on the walls narrowed again till the cave was but a cleft in the rock, barely wide enough for one man's shoulders.

"Give me your torch, man," said the King and strode on.

The cleft ran straight for some way, turned sharply and ran straight again and so on winding like a mountain stream. There was no trace of man's work in it, nor of any use by men. For the most part it was tall enough for their height, sometimes water dripped through the rock on their heads, and the air was heavy with the smell of earth but clean. It was hard going, for through much up and down work the cleft climbed steeply, and wet and panting Bran cried a halt.

"Thanks, brother," the King sat heavily down. "I was wondering which of us would first flinch."

"That would I if I dared," Sir Hugh said. "God shield us, I know not whether more I dread to go on or to go back."

"Look you now what a brave beast is a mole," Bran laughed.

"All saints guard us!" Sir Hugh cried out and was silent.

From the darkness ahead came a faint thud and as they listened another.

"There be many ways to die here," Sir Hugh said. "Yet no good death that I see. Will you go, my lord?"

"By my soul, I will go on," the King cried. "I will know what the grandam knew, live or die," and he plucked another torch from Sir Hugh and lit it and strode on. And as they went they heard again that thud murmuring through the heavy air.

On a sudden the cleft widened, they stood in a cave, a great chamber in the rock, and stood upon the bones of men. Sir Hugh started back and crossed himself and said a prayer. The King held his torch high. Grey and gold the shape of a man stood out of the gloom.

"God have mercy, brother," Bran said, "which of you twain does homage?"

The King leaned upon his shoulder. "What said she?" he muttered. "The King of the Dead?" and he cried out. "All hail, King. King and brother, I greet you."

"Oh King, live for ever," Bran said.

The white bones crackled beneath their feet. For the most part the cave was dry, but on one side water fell from the rock above in heavy drops and there stalactites hung. Beneath them, beneath the drip of the water a man sat. He was tall and gaunt, grey as the rock. On his head was a golden diadem and the torch light gleamed in it as though it were the very light that crowned him. In one hand across his grey knees was a sceptre of gold. The other hand was doubled like the red hands painted on the rock of the first cave.

"Look, brother," Bran said, "he makes the sign to his dead knights."

"St. Mary stand for us!" Sir Hugh cried out. "Mock him not, fool. He hears. He looks on us."

For the man gazed at them full with his hollow eyes.

The King strode forward and touched his hand.

"He is stone," he said. "He is turned into stone. God's my life, like a saint above his shrine."

The drip of the lime water had made the dead body its own statue.

"Here is dread magic," Sir Hugh said.

"Earth he was and earth he is. Peace be with his soul," said Bran. "Whither now, brother?"

But the King still stood by the dead king. "What said she? Dead lives, dead lives. See how he is throned upon his dead. He was a mighty one in his hour. What was your kingdom, brother? What men were yours that died to do you honour?"

"Yea, yea, upon his dead he is throned. So the world goes, brother."

The King struck his hand upon the dead king. "Is it well with you? Is it well?" he cried. "Oh God, have mercy upon us."

"Amen, brother, amen. Will you on, still?"

The King turned and gazed about him. "Was it this that she bade me see? God's my life, if this were all, this were enough. What lies beyond?"

Bran pointed to a cleft behind the dead king.

"On then, in God's name."

So on they went still and climbed a steep way and in a while thrusting through a narrow crevice came into another chamber. But this was bigger far, this was vaulted and pillared, and a stairway came down into it. "By my faith it is a crypt," the King said. "Warily, now, warily. Keep back your torches. What stands above?" Sir Hugh was left with the torches saying his prayers and Bran and the King stole up. They came into vast dim spaces, where windows glimmered in the moonlight. "It is a church, it is the cathedral, it is St. Stephen's of Cahors. God's my life, she spoke true, the very heart of Cahors, the altar built upon dead lives," and to the altar he strode and fell upon his knees. Bran knelt beside him.…

"For what did you pray, brother?" the King said.

"For the woman who is dead and the child who lives."

The King strode on. "I prayed I know not what," he said. "Let us be gone. There is too much for a man to do in the world."

They made good speed through the rock and when they were out again in the clean air by the river-side "St. Mary be thanked," cried Sir Hugh, casting his torch into the water and watching it splutter out as he wiped his brow. "I would like ill to go that road again."

"Ill or well, could you find me a hundred stout fellows who would follow you up that road?"

"My lord? Yes, by my faith. I could find five hundred would follow me to hell if you bade."

"Be sure of all your men. Seek them out presently and march them down to the river by stealth in the dawn. Go you in then and muster there in the crypt and when St. Stephen's clock rings noon break out into the town and strike for the walls. We will make assault and it shall go hard but we have Cahors."

"Nay, then was it for this we went? My lord, you are a great captain and by the rood I will not fail." He ran on to the camp.

"Tell him of fighting and he takes heart," the King laughed.

"Oh, Henry, my brother, was this your prayer?" Bran said sadly.

"Nay, Bran, I looked afar. Farther than I can see. But a man must clear his way." So, silent, they came to their tents, but after Bran took mattock and spade and buried the woman by the river, without priest, not without prayer.

In the morning early, a solemn Chancellor came to the King and told him that Sir Hugh had led off many good swords.

"Na, na, that no man knows, Thomas," the King smiled.

"I have been proud to think I had the ordering of your host, my lord."

"And so you have, my friend. Set it in array, and when noon strikes, make assault upon the main gate and break in."

Becket stared at him. "Be sure it shall be done, my lord. I have urged you to it this many a day. But perhaps you thought it was fear in me."

"Why, are you bitter yet for last night's work? So am not I. All men fear, some this thing, some that. Be sure I trust you well."

"Yet you speak with a different voice," Becket said sullenly. "But I am your true servant."

"And my friend, man."

"If you will, my lord." While the army was yet unready, trumpets sounded from the walls and the great gate opened and there rode out a knight. On he came alone and the gate clashed behind him, and as he came he sang, that same song mocking at Henry, the mongrel King, Angevin and Englishman, half leopard, half fox. He rode on to the gathering ranks as though alone he would charge the army.

"Who is this paladin?" the King laughed. "By my soul, it is the golden eagle on his shield. It is Bertrand's own arms. Sure, Bertrand's self it cannot be. He has lain quiet behind his walls all this while. He is no knight-errant or he is much belied. Why should he come forth now?"

Along the front of the unready array the knight rode, turned and rode back and in the midst flung down his gauntlet. "God's my life, he is their champion, be he who he may."

"He is their Goliath," Becket said. "Let me be your David, my lord."

"You?" the King considered him. "I have other work for you."

"I ask it of your love of me," Becket cried.

"Go then in God's name," and Becket ran shouting for his horse and his helm.

"Last night rankles in him yet, brother Bran. He must needs show his mettle."

"Yea, yea. Yet the man is a true man according to his wit."

"I have a place for him," the King smiled. "I love him well."

Becket rode out with lance and shield and he saluted the knight of Cahors, who gave no sign nor waited but rushed upon him. Becket had not more than time to put his horse to the gallop before they met. The knight of Cahors struck his shield fair and he reeled in the saddle and lost his lance. But that lance's point was aimed at the head of the knight of Cahors and as he stooped it drove into his throat between the plates of his mail and he crashed down. Becket turned his horse and sprang from the saddle, sword out, and bestrode his body.

"Yield you, sir knight of the eagle," he cried.

But the man lay still and blood welled out of his neck. "A priest," he gasped, "a priest to shrive me."

"Name your name, for you are vanquished," Becket said. "Bertrand. Bertrand of Cahors," the man gasped. "A priest for the love of God! Ah, Christ, the witch!" and he writhed and blood flowed out of his mouth.

The King came up. "A brave, knightly course, Thomas," he cried and kissed him. "What, is he sped?"

"Sped he is," Becket said sombrely, "and unshriven and unabsolved. It is Bertrand himself."

"God's my life, a miracle!" the King cried. "The man was a minstrel, a hunter of women, a craven. None saw him fight ever."

"It is in my mind that witch sent him to his death."

"Why, man, she is twelve hours dead."

"He died crying on her name."

The King crossed himself. "God is over all," he said. "The man wronged her daughter. Take him up in honour. He died like a man. Go cry aloud to Cahors that its lord is dead. And at noon we set on." And Becket gave lance and shield to a squire and rode to and fro setting the army in array.

But there was no fight in Cahors. When the clock chimed noon and guarding heads under shields like a tortoise in its shell, men marched to the great gate and plied axe and crowbar, few stones fell upon them, few bolts were shot. Sir Hugh's band breaking out of the cathedral and storming through the streets found none gather against them and to the gate they came and drove away the guard and flung it wide or ever it was broken and with banners and trumpets the army marched in. Never was town more lightly won.

That night the King supped in Bertrand's hall.

"How say you now, Thomas?" he lay back and looked through his eyelashes. "Was my witch of the devil? She has given us Cahors this day."

"Who knows that?" Becket shrugged. "Let the dead bury their dead, my lord. And give God the glory."

"If you fall by the way, you have had your day and we shall forget your story," Bran droned. "But to win us our prize on dead friends we must rise and so we give God the glory."

The King played with his wine cup. But Becket laughed. "The fool hath found no man righteous, no not one. Vanity of vanities, saith the fool, all is vanity."

"Nenny, nenny, that was a wise man's thought, brother. The fool, he likes his world and the fools that are in it."

Becket turned from him. "What now, my lord? We have well begun. But in war to use good fortune is all. My mind is that we strike swift at Toulouse."

Still the King played with the cup and after a while he said: "I shall not see Toulouse, friend. What is in my mind is not war."

And Becket too was silent awhile before he spoke, but he did not hide anger: "Say you so, my lord? This is not the mind I know."

The King looked up. "I am my own man, friend," he said gently enough.

"You are the King, my lord. But I thought I had your mind to keep as I keep your seal."

"And so you do. I tell you I make an end of this war of ours and back to England go I."

"Here is an end of it all!" Becket said bitterly. "You were to conquer France, you were to win a great empire, you were to lead Christenty against the heathen. And back to England you go! By the rood, my lord, men will say you are something unstable."

The King laughed. "Now he will tell me that I fear! So it is, friend. I fear to be throned upon men that I slew. Dead lives, dead lives! I will waste none on my glory or I dare not die and go among the dead."

"By my faith, my lord, you are a changed man this day."

"Speak out, man. Say I am bewitched, like Bertrand who came seeking death. It is in your mind."

"God forbid, my lord," Becket crossed himself.

"And so He does, friend. I see clear. I see my work."

"What it is now I know not," Becket's head fell.

"In mine own realm, man. God's my life, there is enough to do."

"Not for me, my lord. Not for me now. I am not"

"You are a true man and a strong man and you I need. There is the Church for you. Go you to Canterbury, Thomas."

Becket started. "I answered that before, my lord."

"Aye, when there was other work to hand. Now my work lies at home, and there is no place greater than Canterbury."

Becket sat frowning. "I dare not, my lord. No man can serve two masters. If I should be Archbishop I must serve the Church, not you, and I am your man and you made me. How should I stand against you?"

"What, man, a friend is a friend and you are true and tried. I fear you not. What should you fear?"

Becket looked at him from under a troubled brow. "Fear? Always we talk of fear now."

Just then the child stole into the hall and made for Bran where he sat on a stool by the King and running stumbled and fell against Becket. He started up with a cry and struck at her, but his arm stayed in the air and the child huddled into Bran's bosom.

"Little one, little one, I was weary for you," he said, "take Bran away," and he went out with her in his arms. "The witch's child!" Becket said, staring at the King. "I tried to strike her and I could not. The strength went out of my arm. Oh my lord, that woman was the fiend's own minister."

"God have mercy, friend," the King laughed, "it is a good Christian fiend that stays a man striking a child." Becket leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes. "I know not," he muttered. "I am not what I was nor you neither, my lord. God watch between us."

The King grasped at the hand on the dark head and Becket took his and kissed it.

Bran was carrying the child up the winding stair. "There be flowers that must close when the sun goes down, little flower," he said.

"Do not you be angry," she touched his cheek. "The dark man was angry. But your King laughed at me with his eyes. Laugh, Bran. I want, I want people to laugh. This castle does not laugh."

He set her down in a little room high in the tower, where a silver bar of moonlight cut across the gloom.

She looked about her and held to him. "Do not go. It is lonely here, and grim. There have been evil things here."

"Has been is not. There is no evil where you are, little flower."

"The dark man thinks me evil. Is he a priest, Bran?" "A priest he is and a priest will be, but what is that to you or me?"

"All priests are fierce," she said, and shrank. "Will he be with you always?"

"Nenny, nenny, you have the world to know, little maid, a goodly kind world with gentle priests that save poor folks lost in the dark. And Thomas the priest is a right good man and serves his master as well as he can."

"Who is his master?" the child said. "He is fierce. How shall he serve?"

"Little one, little one, the good God is over all."