by Mike Ashley
But now the deathlike stillness was broken by the sound of light footsteps on the staircase, muffled in the sweep of long silken robes. Noiselessly the door of the bedchamber swung open, admitting a breath of sweet odour, more fragrant than the scent which was rising to the windows from rose and lily in the gardens below. In the doorway stood a group of fay ladies like a cluster of bright flowers in sunshine. Crowned they were, each with a circlet of gems, and their loose-flowing raiment shone with heavenly hues that seemed to light up the spot where they stood.
One by one they stepped daintily across the room to the infant’s cradle, there to whisper over the little Prince of Denmark the promise of a fairy gift. The first to hail him was Gloriande, and the gift she bestowed was courage and steadfastness. “Thou shalt be a true knight,” she whispered; “thine honour shall be stainless; and in upholding the right, thou shalt be alike fearless and unwearied.”
The second fay advanced, a glorious vision of brightness, her head crowned with blood-red rubies, and a tunic of golden mail upon her breast. “War and strife I promise thee,” she said sternly; “throughout thy long life, warfare unending, that so thou mayst win martial fame amongst men, and gain Heaven’s blessing by conflict with the paynim.”
These words were barely uttered when another of the group raised her voice, and smilingly took up the war-maiden’s rede. “To that I add a little gift to sweeten thy labour. I give thee victory in every struggle. Whosoe thy foe, thou shalt ever be conqueror.”
The fourth followed with the gift of courtesy and gentle speech. Then came a grey-eyed fay, with parted lips and a rosy blush overspreading her cheek as she promised the Prince the love of fair women and the power of winning their hearts.
The last to glide to the boy’s cradle was the most lovely of the band. She stood a while gazing down on him, then tenderly she whispered: “Ogier, the gift I give thee is mine own love. Not while thou art in the heat of strife, but at the close of thy warfare, thou shalt see me and rejoice in my gift. Till then, Ogier my love, farewell.”
Then, softly as they had come, the fairy visitants stole from the palace to the shore, where the waves were breaking in silver ripples on the sand. A moment they paused in silence, their faces turned towards the west; a moment later and they had vanished, leaving the still slumbering palace unwitting of their visit to little Ogier’s cradle.
Now as to Ogier’s long and honourable life, we must pass it over, strange though that appear when Ogier himself is our hero!
He was, as the world knows, a generous knight, unsurpassed in valour, upright, and greatly beloved by his people. The heathen hordes dreaded to meet him in battle; the evil-doer shuddered beneath his glance. In warfare and in the ruling of his lands he was ever happy; but through the love he bore wife and child, grief no less than joy, fell to his lot. He early lost Bellisande, his sweet wife, and his only child, Baldwin, a winsome bright-eyed lad of great promise, was put to death by the evil-minded Charlot. But even these sorrows did not quench his spirit; bravely he toiled on to a ripe old age, and to the end of his days, Ogier was ever the same stout-hearted warrior.
In the cloudless western sky the sun is sinking softly below the horizon, but over in the east there is an angry look on heaven’s face. Great masses of steel-grey cloud, stained red round the edges by the glow of sunset, are lowering above an ocean of tossing waves that change in colour from a glittering silver to green, grey, and sombre black. No wind ruffles the sea this evening, yet the billows, like a great army in rout, are tumbling and surging wildly as though they would dash down the barrier of bare brown rock which rises sharply in their path. This rugged island is the fatal Loadstone Rock, shunned in holy terror by every seaman. On winter nights, when snugly seated by the fireside, the old sailors may tell the strange rumours they have heard of the Rock, but he who nears it, will never return home to tell his own tale. The ship that tries to pass, is drawn to destruction against its magnetic cliffs, and the crew, if not sucked beneath the waters, die ere long of starvation upon its barren heights.
To-night there is a living man upon the Rock. The sun sets upon the wreckage and bleached bones around him, and while the moon rises to throw her cold white light upon the scene, the lonely figure sits undismayed, awaiting sure death. He is an old man, nobly built; his hair is white, his face furrowed by age, but yet his kingly robes – now tarnished by the salt waves – are borne on shoulders quite erect, and his voice is still fresh and vigorous as he speaks his thoughts.
“For a man of my many years, my strength has stood me well. ’Tis seven weeks since our boat was cast on this rock, five days since the last of the crew died with our last crumb of bread between his lips, and still I am alive. If God had not willed me to die here, I had had strength enough to end my days, sword in hand, upon the field of battle. How glorious to have drawn my last breath beneath the banner that waved our challenge to the paynim foe!
“Thou must find thee another leader, Charlemaine, to take my place and drive back these heathen bands from the fair land of France, for never more shalt thou see me take the field. Ah, never didst thou guess that Ogier’s bones would rest upon a lonely seagirt rock! And yet this death, so different from what he hoped to meet, grieves not thine ancient knight now that he sees it close at hand.” And Ogier knelt down to thank God in simple words for thus ordering his end.
As night darkened, he fell into a deep slumber, from which he awoke before dawn; but the darkness that still overhung land and sea was suddenly dispelled by an unlooked for light which broke upon his eyes ere he had been long awake, and which steadily increased in ruddy brightness, while at the same time his ears caught the sound of sweet music.
“This is the dawning,” he murmured, “not of an earthly day, but of eternity. Death steals upon me; how pleasant, how gentle its approach!”
Just then he fancied his name was whispered through the air. Taking it to be a summons, he rose and crossed the island towards the east, whence the voice seemed to have come, and from where the light was still streaming.
The music had ceased, and the rays were already growing somewhat dim, yet across the sea, as he raised his eyes eagerly to the east, he could descry a shining palace of gold in the midst of green lawns and shady groves of trees! But even as he gazed upon the scene, the light faded, the palace was lost in the darkness, and sea and sky became alike grey as the night around.
Imagining that the vision and the semblance of music had arisen from his own worldly thoughts, he sat down to turn his mind resolutely towards graver concerns; but the pulse of life beat stronger and stronger in his veins, and after trying for some time to centre his thoughts on approaching death, he gave up the effort, and started instead to climb down the rocky eastern side of his prison, whither he felt drawn in search of further revelations.
It was no easy task to swing himself from ledge to ledge, hanging, sometimes by one hand alone, above the sea which foamed far below. In time, however, he safely reached the base of the rock, where the only foothold was upon the wrecks, which the angry billows dashed ceaselessly to and fro against the fatal magnet cliffs. From one piece of floating timber to another, he leaped out towards the east, until he reached the outermost wreck, where, steadying himself against the rush of the sea and the blinding dash of spray, he stood with his good sword Courtain in his grasp, expectant only of death.
At that moment he heard again a strain of music floating through the air, and a bright speck of light appeared moving on the ocean towards him, rapidly growing in size until he saw it was a gilded boat. His first thought, that this was another wreck to be added to those already drawn to the Rock, was soon disproved, for although unguided by human hand, it steered its course unerringly through the troubled seas and drew up safely by the wreck where Ogier was standing. Believing that, whatever its course, it was intended to bear him from the island, he sheathed his sword Courtain, and stepped into the skiff. There was neither oar nor rudder in the little boat, but oarsman and helmsman were not w
anted, for no sooner had the old knight seated himself amongst the cushions in the stern than the skiff shot lightly from the Rock; and he, giving way to overpowering sleep, knew nothing more of his passage.
When he awoke it was to find the boat lying moored in a shaded nook at the edge of a quiet stretch of water. He sprang ashore and, half-alarmed by the rare beauty of the place, drew his sword and murmured a holy prayer; yet as he went forward a step or two, his fears that it might be an unhallowed spot vanished, and he fancied he had come to Paradise. The meadows bore a wealth of gay flowers, the air was soft and birds sang sweetly from blossom-laden trees. The loveliness of the scene, however, was presently dulled to his senses by a new feeling of feebleness. His limbs grew stiff, each step was taken with greater difficulty; his eyes were dim and even his memory was failing, for he could not recall whence he had come, or aught of his past life. His growing weakness he took calmly. It was the hand of death upon him, he supposed, and he was well content to have it so, since he was already in Paradise. Slowly he wandered down a green alley until he reached a wicket-gate opening on the fairest of gardens; then, turning fainter, he staggered to a fountain over which two white-thorns shed their blossoms, while close by sounded the minstrelsy that he had heard faintly on the isle. Here he sank down unconscious, and all his thoughts melted to heavenly dreams. Through these dreams came the murmur of a sweet voice: “Ogier, Ogier, how long thou hast been in coming!”
Fancying himself in heaven, he strove to answer as though he were addressed by his great Master.
“Nay, nay,” said the voice, “not yet art thou in Paradise, Ogier. Long may it be ere thou goest on that last journey, now that thou hast reached me, mine own love! Ah! at length the happy day has come when I may give thee again the beauty and freshness of youth, and fit thee to enjoy the love thou didst gain from me even in thy cradle, long years ago.”
Life seemed ebbing fast from him as he struggled to shake off the feeling of someone touching his forehead and calling him sweet names. Was it the shade of his young wife (her very name now lost to him) who, years past, had gone to her rest beneath the hawthorns of God’s-acre in old St Omer? Was this a troubled dream of things past that haunted him in the shadow of death?
No, it was not so. Once again he swooned, but ere consciousness left him, he felt the soft pressure of a living hand and knew that a ring had been slipped upon his finger.
His eyes opened on the same scene – with what a difference! No longer was his body weak or his mind frail as an old man’s. The strength of youth was within him; he was entering on a new life.
At the first glance he thought the garden unchanged, but, as he looked around him a second time, he saw that it now held in its midst a lady whose marvellous beauty enhanced ten times the charm of the scene. So young she seemed that he would have thought her a maiden in her teens, but that her glorious eyes were filled with the wisdom of more than a mortal lifetime. Her raiment matched her loveliness. The finest cloudy veilings fell to her sandals where jewels gleamed against her snowy feet; a ruby shone like a star upon her breast, and her golden locks were wreathed with sweetest rosebuds.
Ogier had sprung to his feet, and as she moved towards him, her eyes seeking his, and her arms outstretched in welcome, he faltered out a question as to where he stood, and in whose presence.
The fair one answered: “Thou hast come to Avallon to dwell with me, Morgan le Fay, whose love was pledged to thee whilst thou wast yet an infant in the Danish palace.” She told of how she had visited his cradle with her sister fays those many years ago. “Yet am I young as then, for our youth is eternal; and now that thou art in Avallon, thou shalt be young and changeless too. See, I shall show thee the charm by which thou hast been restored to the strength of early manhood.”
She pointed, as she spoke, to a heavy gold ring with curious figures traced upon it, which now encircled one of Ogier’s fingers, and told how, when she had placed it there a little while ago, the marks of old age had straightway vanished from his form. “So long as thou wearest it,” she said, “death will not touch thee.”
At first, overcome by the fay’s beauty, he had been enraptured with his new surroundings, but soon a great longing for his old life of warfare upon earth swept over him, and he felt that all before him was dreamlike, dreary and unreal. Morgan read his thoughts, and with a smile linked her hand in his, and drew him toward the castle beyond her gay gardens. “Come, love,” she whispered, “our life is fairer than that earthly one for which thou mournest. Thou wilt be happy, aye, radiantly happy, when thou hast forgotten thy stormy past. Bethink thee how thou wouldst even now have been dead, had not I slipped the ring upon thy finger and so kept life within thee. Wilt thou not give me thy love in return for mine already given?”
Across the daisied grass they had passed to a doorway in the castle, round which clustered a group of fair maids singing joyous welcome to Ogier and strewing flowers upon the way. Through long, cool corridors they came at length to a throne placed at the end of a hall, and there, when Morgan had led the hero up the steps, a young girl advanced from the band, and laid at his feet a golden crown. This Morgan placed upon his head, bidding him, in gentle words, forget the world and rise to enjoy the new life in Avallon. At the magic touch of the Crown of Forgetfulness his last regrets vanished; the past was blotted out, and all he knew was that he had now a share in the joys of a wondrous glad and peaceful country. No trouble henceforth met him in Avallon, where base or mischief-making men were unknown; only the noble-hearted (whom men thought dead) were borne like Ogier from earthly seas to these pain-forgetting shores, where all was happiness and content.
A hundred years had passed since the aged Ogier had last been seen upon earth. In those hundred years many a change had befallen the lands in which he had dwelt, and in France, unhappily, these changes had all been for the worse. A cruel, lingering war oppressed her sorely; the heathen foe once more overran the land, besieging cities and laying waste the fertile country.
At the gates of Paris, one spring day, stood crowds of anxious folk pressing round each horseman who rode up to the city walls, and questioning him eagerly of the progress of the foe. Was Harfleur still safe? Did Andelys stand in need of help? And was it true that the Pont de l’Arche had been burnt down? To these and such-like questions each new-comer gave a different answer, and the crowd turned from him impatiently to waylay the next traveller.
Towards sundown a party of three rode up to the gates. Two serving-men followed their master, their eyes fixed on him with doubt and awe, as though striving to determine in what way he differed from other men. He was apparently quite young, for though his face was bronzed, it was still fresh and unfurrowed; his bright golden hair and grey eyes were as a boy’s, and the look on his face was radiant as an angel’s. In height he far surpassed the men around him, his giant-like form rendering more conspicuous the old-fashioned dress and armour which he wore.
The warders examined his pass, and asked his name and from what city he came. The Ancient Knight, he replied, was the name people gave him in St Omer, the town he had just left. Then, heedless of the questions showered on him, as on all the other wayfarers, he stared pityingly at the sergeants before him.
“Saint Mary!” said he, “if that is all the stature ye reach nowadays, ‘tis no wonder the pagans are victorious! When the Hammer-bearer took the field, his men were of a different pattern!”
His words savoured so strangely of bygone times that the group around him ceased their talk, and gazed in wonder at the speaker. A mocking laugh broke the silence. “Charlemaine has risen from the tomb to save our city!” cried a voice in the crowd.
At the name of Charlemaine the horseman started in his saddle, knit his brow and seemed as though he would speak. No words, however, came to his lips, and gathering up the reins with a sigh he rode onwards to the city.
The Ancient Knight was none other than Ogier, and his return from Avallon was on this wise.
One day Morgan le Fay appr
oached him, and told how France was suffering from the onset of fierce tribes whom none could drive back. Would he don his armour and champion the cause of that Christian country, she asked him, if, under a spell, he were borne back to the world which he had left a hundred years ago? So long as he wore the magic ring, he could not suffer death nor lose his youthfulness; and once the pagans were subdued, he would be wafted, as before, to Avallon, his fame immeasurably increased by this new exploit.
To Morgan’s proposal Ogier gave willing assent. Beneath her potent spell he fell into a trance during which the mysterious voyage was accomplished, and he awakened to find himself on the Flemish coast; thence journeying to St Omer, the town he knew so well in the old days, he had ridden through the desolated country to join the forces that were mustering in Paris.
His antique dress and old-world talk had roused as much wonder in the country roads as at the gates of Paris, though the simple peasants were less apt to mock at his appearance than were the quick-witted townsmen. But if the French folk thought it strange to see a man of his stamp in their midst, it was stranger for Ogier himself to visit old haunts peopled with a new generation. The memory of Avallon had grown dim, and all his thoughts were given to the world in which he moved again.
Now, the King of France lay besieged by the enemy at Rouen, in dire need of help from his capital. When Ogier entered Paris he learned that the Queen was holding a muster of troops in the square before her palace, and that many knights had gathered to swear fealty, and march, at her orders, to relieve Rouen. Accordingly he made his way to the palace, joined the crowd of soldiers, and awaited his turn to approach the Queen, who, beneath a royal canopy in the open square, was receiving the oaths of fealty from eager lips.
At length his turn came, and he knelt before a handsome woman, tall and dark-haired, whose eyes lit up with surprise and approval as she saw his striking carriage. Then as he rose, the Queen inquired his name and from what country he had come. Once again he replied that men called him the Ancient Knight; as to his home, it was so long since he had left it, to take up his abode in a far country, that he had no recollection of it whatever. That answer made the Queen the more curious to discover the mystery of this old-world young knight, but as there was then no leisure for talk, she bade a page conduct him to the palace, where he should have refreshment, and await her coming. She wished, said she, to appoint him to some command, and to give him his orders that same day.