Swords From the West (97 page)

"For Dion!" shouted Giles the bowman, fitting another shaft to his bow.

"Dion-Dion!" voices echoed. A group of village men who had been coming along the road and had been drawn to the field by the sound of weapon play now ran forward. The five surviving Boar's men drew back toward the castle with no thought but flight.

"My horse, Giles," cried Michael, "Help me up, for these cow herders of the village have come hither instead of to the castle, and I must-reach the gate."

Climbing into the saddle, he spurred his horse up the road and vanished into the wood ahead of the fugitives, as the dozen stout fellows led by the red-faced hunter and the priest came into the field to stare at the bodies.

"The gate, lads!" Giles cried at them. "The Boar's brood is still at the gate."

Midway to the castle, the Dion men encountered three of Trigault's band hastening down the road. "How now, my bucks?" demanded Giles, confronting them.

"We seek Sir Trigault," cried one of the three. "A strange lord rode wounded to the gate, and bade us hasten to the tilt field where our master hath need of us-"

"Aye, to bury him!" Giles roared with laughter. "Down with your arms, my bucks! " And when the village men had taken their weapons from the three, binding their wrists behind them and leading them along, Giles chuckled again. "By good Saint Denis, lads, this mad fighting man hath a way with him. Mark ye how he doth hocus and pocus these swine?"

They hastened on, and in a moment came to the outer barbican gate, which had been opened to let out the three men-at-arms. The drawbridge had been lowered and at the far end of it Michael sat his horse, with drawn sword, and shield resting upon his foot.

He did not turn his head, but when he heard Giles and the hunters run shouting upon the bridge, he said to these Boar's men: "Throw down your steel, for your Boar carries his brawn no more, and this castle is mine."

And when they had done so, he turned to the village men. "Take up all weapons, but do these fellows no hurt. Muster them all, let them pack up their gear and foot it away from the Dion lands-every wench and churl of them."

"Yea, master!" cried the red-faced hunter. "We'll see to it-only get thee down and have thy hurt bound up."

Michael's gray eyes fastened upon him. "I will see to it. Whoso sets his foot within these walls obeys me or goes out."

He kept his saddle at the bridge until the last of Trigault's people vanished down the road under escort, and the sledges appeared bearing meat and wine from the tavern. With them came village folk and women who had heard of the taking of the castle. They stood staring in the gate at the crusader in his blood-stained surcoat until Michael summoned them.

"Clean me this donjon hall," said he, "and fetch in wood for fires and torches. Five long years have I passed beyond the sea. My eyes have seen the stars bright over Bethlehem, but never a Yuletide have I had till now. Haul me in a great fair log, and pour out the good mead, and light up-light up!„

He bade the hunters break open the hogshead in the courtyard and help themselves. One brought him the first goblet filled, and he drank slowly. "Go ye," said he, "to the stable. Saddle the best horse and lead him down to the hut of Sir Errart's children. Ask Father Jehan to go with ye, and ask the maid Ellen and the young cub of Dion to ride hither to this feast we shall have."

Then he went into the hall, leaning on a man's arm, and sat him down in the high seat by the hearth. He bade them take Sir Errart's shield and hang it again upon the chimney piece, where it had been before; but Sir Errart's sword he placed beside him.

Out in the courtyard where the cups passed'round as the men hauled in the Yule log, Giles great voice was lifted in song:

The women at the kitchen fire heard, and their high voices echoed:

But Black Michael sat, chin on hand, gazing into the flames. He did not look up when the great log, decked with bright holly, was brought in. When a silence fell upon the hall and the robed figure of Father Jehan appeared, with Ellen beside him, and the burghers of Dion behind them, Michael got to his feet and turned toward them. Taking Rob by the hand, he led the boy to the fire and pointed to the shield.

"Look, Rob," he said slowly, "the shield of Sir Errart hath come back." He picked up the long bare sword that he had cleaned carefully. "And here is the sword that he bore-that he carried as a man should, as I know well. Now have I brought it back to its right place, and it is thine."

The boy's eyes grew round as he looked at the heavy sword. He went closer to the fire and, stretching out his chilled hands, suddenly smiled. "There is a bear i' the courtyard," he cried, "that walks and carries a staff!"

"Aye, so," quoth Michael, and faced the daughter of Sir Errart.

"Ellen," he said, "now am I master of Dion. The Boar and his brood will trouble you no more. This Yule cheer have I made ready for you, if you will share it."

"You are not Sir Errart, my father," she cried, "though you have come hither to his home with his weapons. Nay, these years is he dead."

"I know it well," answered Michael. "For I took his arms after his death."

The girl's dark eyes burned into his. "Then name yourself, my lord-for I will not be the guest of a nameless man."

"I am not nameless, nor am I mindless," Michael smiled. "I am Michael o' Nial, who hath followed the wars for a living. Land other than this have I none, for the good king made me a knight after a deed in battle. Friends have I none, other than those who are here, because my comrades left their bones beyond the sea. I have Dion, and I will hold it."

"That is easily to be seen," cried the girl. "Oh, you are hard of hand and bitter of heart, but did you think I would come as a bidden guest to the hall that should be ours?"

"Not as a guest," Michael said. He went down on one knee before her. "Nay, Ellen, for I am after asking your blessed self to be wife of mine and mistress of Dion. Far wandering and bitter of heart as I am, never have I beheld so fair a maid, and from the moment when I met you, I thought only that I must be asking for you, as I am now. Hasty it must seem to you, but I am not a patient man, and what I want I ever take."

Ellen flushed and held high her head.

"For this I give you thanks, Sir Michael," she said slowly. "Still I think you seek to make a gift of Dion to Rob and to me. Well do I know that only a man like you could hold together castle and lands, and so you have honored me, by asking-"

"Is it my love you doubt, Ellen? Think you I would have gone against death for aught else?"

Father Jehan stepped to the girl's side. "He is sorely hurt, my child," he said.

For an instant longer the girl stared into the clear eyes of the man kneeling before her. Then she clasped his head between her hands. Bending down, half shyly and half fiercely, she kissed his scarred cheek and lips.

Putting his arm about her waist, he turned to the priest. "Ellen o' mine," he whispered, "I have brought hither the wedding gown you would not touch in your house. And now, Father Jehan, you will be wedding us in the chapel here, for I am not a patient man."

Midnight, and they were all asleep within the walls-Giles and the hunters sprawled in the courtyard or watching at the gate. In her old room Ellen slept at last, the gown of velvet hung against a chair; Rob, weary and content, curled beside her, and her hair unbound, spread upon her pillow.

Snow drifted upon the roof, wrapping the walls in silence, and sifting fitfully down the chimney upon the Yule log that still glowed red. On a quilt before the hearth lay Michael, awake and in pain because the priest had only now finished the setting of his broken rib and the dressing of his wound. In the high seat, Father Jehan sat musing upon the pallid face of the master of Dion.

"Some say," the priest murmured, "thou art mad, and others hold thou art a doomsman, sent upon the Boar for his sins ... But I think not so. In this day, my son, thou hast lied, and taken the lives of three men. And what more? The maid thou hast wed, she loves thee greatly."

"As I do her," Michael said.

"And what more?"

Michael did not answer at once. Aye, the father knew there was something more ... His mind went back two years, to a dark night within the lines of the Christian army before Bethlehem. The stars bright over the road the Magi had trod, and on Michael's knee the head of a dying man who was his comrade. The words spoken last by Errart, "Michael, will you care for my children? They will be in want." And his answer, "I will do that."

It was finished now, and he had kept his word. To do it he had come to Dion, and taken it.

"Faith," he said to the priest, "there is no more to say."

Adventure magazine, where many of the tales in this volume first appeared, maintained a letter column titled "The Camp-Fire." As a descriptor, "letter column" does not quite do this regular feature justice. Adventure was published two and sometimes three times a month, and as a result of this frequency and the interchange of ideas it fostered "The Camp-Fire" was really more like an Internet bulletin board than a letter column found in today's quarterly or even monthly magazines. It featured letters from readers, editorial notes, and essays from writers. If a reader had a question or even a quibble with a story, he could write in and the odds were that the letter would not only be printed but that the story's author would draft a response.

Harold Lamb and other contributors frequently wrote lengthy letters that further explained some of the historical details that appeared in their stories. The relevant letter for this volume follows. A second letter comes in response to a query from an Adventure reader, also printed here.

As with other Lamb Bison collections, the prefatory comments of Adventure editor Arthur Sullivan Hoffman also are printed here, along with occasional additional connecting comments between question and response letters. Extensive additional notes about Lamb's take on crusader history can be found in the appendix to one of this book's companion volumes, Swords from the Desert.

The appendix concludes with a short note from a Collier's editor about "The Bells of the Mountains."

July I, 1921

Something from Harold Lamb concerning his story ["The Grand Cham"] in this issue:

Historically this battle-Angora-is pretty much as presented in the story. Likewise the events leading up to it.

Clavijo is an historic liar. See Hakluyt. I have touched up his native ability and advanced the date of his "embassy" a year or so, to get him into the battle. Incidentally, the episode of the ring belonging to Tamerlane is related in Hakluyt. Clavijo, it seems, was much taken aback at hearing that the Tatar's ring was reputed to change color when a falsehood was told. At the moment, Clavijo was telling some pretty tall fibs about the grandeur of Spain, and he shut up when he heard about the ring.

1922

Magic-Lanterns and coyote dogs. But is there any question about dogs crossing with wolves? This letter from our cache dates back a year or more:

Pasadena, California.

I don't know whether this letter is going to be legible, because it is written on a moving train, but it's the only time I can snatch a few minutes to write to you at all.