down through the woods of avalon rode the lord flavian of gambrevault, down towards the forest track in the grey face of the dawn. in the meadows and beyond the orchards, water shone, and towers stood mistily. the voice of spring pulsed in the air, songs of green woods, the wild wine of violets, pavements of primrose gold. birds piped lustily in wood and thicket, and the ascending sun lavished his glittering archery from the chariots of the clouds.

the lord flavian was inordinately cheerful that morning, as he rode in green and red through the prophetic woods. heart and weather were in kindred keeping, and his youth sang like a brook after april rains. the woods danced in dew. far on its rocky hill the towers of gilderoy would soon beckon him above the trees. beneath the shadow of the cathedral tower stood a gabled house with gilded vanes and roofs of generous red. there in gilderoy, in a room hung with cloth of purple and gold, white arms waited, and the bosom of a golden helen held love like a red rose in a pool of milky spikenard.

picture a slim but muscular man with the virile figure of a young david, a keen, smooth face, a halo of brown hair, eyes eloquent as a woman's. picture a good grey horse trapped in red and green, full of fettle as a colt, burly as a bull. picture the ermined borderings, the jewelled clasps, brigantine of quilted velvet, fur-lined bassinet bright as a star. youth, clean, adventurous, aglow to the last finger-tip, impetuous to the tune of thirty breaths a minute. youth with all its splendid waywardness, its generosities, its immense self-intoxications. youth with the voice of a golden summer in its heart, and for its plume the gorgeous fires of eve.

wealth often breeds apathy and parsimonious instincts. it is the beggar whose purse bursts with joy, whose soul blazes generous red upon the clouds. as for flavian of gambrevault and avalon, he was rich but no miser, proud yet not haughty, sanguine but not vicious. like many a man inspired by an instinctive idealism, his heart ran before his reason: they not having come cheek by jowl as in later years. he was very devout, yet very worldly; very ardent, yet over hasty. mark him then, a lovable fool in the eyes of philosophy; a cup of mingled wine, both white and red. he was a great lord; yet his serfs loved him.

the lady duessa's parents, good folk, had been blessed with aspirations. gambrevault and avalon had bulked very gloriously under the steel-blue vault of pride. moreover, their daughter was a sensuous being, who panted for poetic surroundings, and lived to music. a boy of twenty; a passionate, dark-eyed, big-bosomed houri of twenty and five; bell, book, and ring--such had been the bridal bargain consummated on church principles five years ago or more. a youth of twenty is not supremely wise concerning the world, or his own heart. the lord flavian's marriage had not proved a magic blessing to him. parentally sealed marriage deeds are the edicts of the devil.

quickly are the mighty fallen, and the chalices of love broken. it was no mere chance ambuscade that waited open-mouthed for flavian, lord of gambrevault and avalon, warden of the southern marches, knight of the order of the rose, as he rode that morning to gilderoy, a disciple of venus. in a certain perilous place, the road ran betwixt walls of rock, and under the umbrage of overhanging trees. twenty men with pike and gisarme swarming out of the woods; a short scuffle and a stabbed horse; a gag in the mouth, a bandage over the eyes, a mule's back, half a dozen thongs of stout leather. that same evening the lord flavian was brought like a bale of merchandise into fulviac's guard-room, and tumbled on a heap of straw in a corner.

they were grim men, these forest rangers, not given to pity, or the light handling of a feud. a poniard point was their pet oath, a whip of the sword the best word with an enemy. they bit their thumb nails at creation, and were not gentle in the quest of a creed. fulviac heard their news, and commended them. they were like the ogres of the old fables; the red blood of a lusty aristocrat smelt fresh for the sword's supper.

the girl yeoland was at her prayer-desk with a blazoned breviary under her fingers, when fulviac came to her with tidings of the day's capture. she knelt with her hands crossed upon her bosom, as fulviac stood in the darkened doorway. to the man she appeared as the madonna in some picture of the annunciation, the yellow light from the lamp streaming down upon her with a lustre of sanctity.

"they have brought the boar home."

"dead?"

"nay; but his corpse candle walks the cavern."

for the girl it was a descent from spiritual themes to the stark realism of life. she left her prayer-desk with a little sigh. her hands trembled as she drew a scarlet cloak about her, and fastened it with a girdle of green leather. her eyes dwelt on fulviac's face with a species of dusky pain.

"come," he said to her.

"whither?"

"to judge him."

"not before all, not in the guard-room."

"leave it to me," he said. "be forewarned. we deal with no mere swashbuckler."

they went together to fulviac's parlour, where a great brazen lamp hung from the roof, and a book bound in black leather lay chained on the table. yeoland took the man's carved chair, while he stood behind her leaning on the rail. she was paler than was her wont. now and again she pressed a hand to her breast, as though to stay the too rapid beating of her heart.

two guards bearing partisans came in from the guard-room with a man bound and blindfold between them. a third followed, bearing a two-handed sword naked over his shoulder. he was known as nord of the hammer, an armourer like to a norse volund, burly, strong as a bear. the door was barred upon them. one of the guards plucked the cloth from the bound man's face.

in the malicious imagery of thought, yeoland had often pictured to herself this flavian of gambrevault, a coarse, florid ruffian, burly and brutal, a fleshly demigod in the world of feudalism. so much for conjecture. what she beheld was a straight-lipped, clean-limbed man, slim as a cypress, supple as good steel. the face was young yet strong, the grey eyes clear and fearless. moreover there was a certain lonely look about him that invoked pity, and angered her in an enigmatic way. she was wrath with him for being what he was, for contradicting the previous imaginings of her mind.

flavian of gambrevault stood bound before her, an aristocrat of aristocrats, outraged in pride, yet proud beyond complaint. the self-mastery of his breeding kept him a stately figure despite his tumbling and his youth, one convinced of lordship and the powerful splendour of his name. the whole affair to him was illogical, preposterous, insolent. a gentleman of the best blood in the kingdom could not be hustled out of his dignity by the horse-play of a bevy of cut-throats.

possibly the first vision to snare the man's glance was the elfin loveliness of the girl, who sat throned in the great chair as on a judgment seat. he marked the rose-white beauty of her skin, her sapphire eyes gleaming black in certain lights, her ebon hair bound with a fillet of sky-blue leather. moreover, it was plain to the man in turn that this damoisel in the red gown was deciphering his features in turn with a curiosity that was no vapid virtue. as for fulviac, he watched them both with his amber-brown eyes, eyes that missed no movement in the mask of life. to him the scene under the great brazen lamp was a study in moods and emotions.

the aristocrat was the first to defy the silence. he had stared round the room at his leisure, and at each of its motionless figures in turn. the great sword, slanted in gleaming nakedness over nord's shoulder, appeared to fascinate him for the moment. despite his ambiguous sanctity, he showed no badge of panic or distress.

ignoring the woman, he challenged fulviac, who leant upon the chair rail, watching him with an enigmatic smile.

"goodman in the red doublet," quoth he, "when you have stared your fill at me, i will ask you to read me the moral of this fable."

fulviac stroked his chin with the air of a man who holds an adversary at some subtle disadvantage.

"messire," he said, "address yourself to madame--here; you are her affair in the main."

the warden of the southern marches bowed as by habit. his grey eyes reverted to yeoland's face, searching it with a certain courteous curiosity that took her beauty for its justification. the woman was an enigma to him, a most magical sphinx whose riddle taunted his reason.

"madame," he began.

the girl stiffened in her chair at the word.

"you hold me at a disadvantage, seeing that i am ignorant of sin or indiscretion against you. if it is a question of gold----"

"messire!"

he swept her exclamation suavely aside and ran on mellifluously.

"if it is a question of gold, let me beseech you to be frank with me. i will covenant with you instanter. my seneschal at gambrevault will unbolt my coffers, and ease your greed. pray be outspoken. i will renounce the delight of lodging here for a purse of good rose nobles."

there was the faintest tinge of insolence in the man's voice, an insolence that exaggerated to the full the charge of plunder in his words. whether he hinted at blood money or no, there was sufficient poison in the sneer to fire the brain and scorch the heart to vengeance.

the woman had risen from her chair, and stood gripping the carved woodwork with a passion that set her arms quivering like bands of tightened steel. the milk-white calm had melted from her face. wrath ran riot in her blood. so large were her pupils that her eyes gleamed red.

"ha, messire, i bring you to justice, and you offer me gold."

the man stared; his eyes did not quail from hers.

"justice, madame! of what sin then am i accused? on my soul, i know not who you are."

she calmed herself a little, shook back her hair from her shoulders, fingered her throat, breathing fast the while.

"my name, messire? ha, you shall have it. i am yeoland, daughter of that rual of cambremont whom you slaughtered at the gate of his burning house. i--am the sister of those fair sons whom you did to death. blood money, forsooth! god grant, messire, that you are in honest mind for heaven, for you die to-night."

the man had bent to catch her words. he straightened suddenly like a tree whose throat is loosed from the grim grip of the wind. he went grey as granite, flushed red again as a dishonoured girl. the words had touched him with the iron of truth.

"hear me," he said to her.

"ah, you would lie."

"by heaven, no; give me an hour's justice."

"murderer."

"before god, you wrong me."

he stood with twitching lips, shackled hands twisting one within the other. for the instant words eluded him, like fruit jerked from the mouth of a thirst-maddened tantalus. anon, his manhood gathered in him, rushed forth redly like blood from a stricken throat.

"daughter of rual, hear me, i tell you the truth. i, flavian of gambrevault, had in my pay a company of hired 'spears,' rough devils from the north. the braggarts served me against john of brissac, were half their service drunk and mutinous. when lententide had come, their captain swore to me, 'lording, pay us and let us go. we have spilt blood near gilderoy,' scullion blood he swore, 'give us good bounty, and let us march.' so at his word i gave them largesse, and packed them from gambrevault with pennons flying. methought they and their brawlings were at an end. before god and the saints, i never knew of this."

yeoland considered him, strenuous as he seemed towards truth. he was young, passionate, sanguine; for one short moment she pitied him, and pondered his innocence in her heart. it was then that fulviac plucked at her sleeve, spoke in her ear, words that hardened her like a winter frost.

she stared in the man's eyes, as she gave him his death-thrust with the sureness of hate.

"blood for blood," were her words to him.

"is this justice!"

"i have spoken."

"monstrously. hear me----"

"messire, make your peace with heaven, i give you till daylight."

the man stumbled against the table, white as the moon. youth strove in him, the crimson fountain of life's wine, the wild cry of the dawn. his eyes were great with a superhuman hunger. fulviac's strong voice answered him.

"hence, hence. at dawn, nord, do your duty."

该作者其它作品

《the red saint》