by Jack
Trials by combat at common law in Erith were carried out on a duelling ground of sixty feet square. Each litigant was allowed an iron shield, and could be protected by armour, provided that they were bare to the knees and elbows, and wore only leather shoes on their feet. Both combatants were properly clad.
Into the hush the Master of the Field bawled, ‘The combat is to begin upon my signal, and conclude before sunset. Before fighting, each litigant must swear an oath disclaiming the use of witchcraft for advantage in the combat.’ He stated the oath, which both men repeated after him: ‘Hear this, ye justices, that I have this day neither eat, drank, nor have upon me, neither bone, stone, ne grass; nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft, whereby the law of mortal man may be abased, or the law of eldritch forces exalted. So sain me.’
‘Either combatant may end the fight and lose his case by crying out the word “craven”, which acknowledges “I am vanquished”. The party who does so, however, whether litigant or champion, will be punished with outlawry. Otherwise fighting will continue until one party or the other is dead. The last man standing wins the case. Champions, before I give the signal, do you have any final requests?’
‘I do,’ said Hawkmoor.
‘What is your will?’
‘I wish for a private word with my adversary.’
‘Granted, but first you must both lay down your weapons.’
Both champions did as the master of the field ruled, and met one another in the very centre of the field of honour. There Hawkmoor bent his head and whispered something to his opponent, whereupon the latter, whose stricken countenance was ashen pale, now took on an expression of dazed puzzlement.
They parted, walked back to their positions, and took up their swords.
Laurelia whispered, ‘Mazarine, what can you mean? Why do you believe Lord Fleetwood will sacrifice himself?’
Her friend was sobbing. ‘He wants to save me. Knowing I could not afford to hire a skilled swordsman, he had two choices; either he could volunteer as my champion and risk losing the fight to a mercenary who had the advantage over a crippled man, or he could represent the earl and throw the fight. He chose the latter ...’
‘Oh! But surely —’ Laurelia was prevented from saying more, for the Master of the Field raised his right hand.
‘Champions,’ he shouted, ‘Lay on!’
The duel began with the contenders circling one another warily, weapons at the ready. Hawkmoor was a skilled swordsman — far better than Wakefield, who handled his blade as clumsily as if he had hardly so much as touched a weapon in his life. This inequity was plain to the watchers, to whom the outcome appeared so inevitable that they had ceased betting on it. They waited, downcast, for Hawkmoor to win. Their mood was low; they had expected a’ close fight of fire and fury, between two worthy adversaries — not the slaughter of a well-meaning but misguided pen-pusher by one who was infinitely his superior. Some turned their faces away, unwilling to witness the sad death of such a courageous young man.
Steel chimed on steel. The snow slid treacherously underfoot and both combatants were hard put to keep their balance. Wakefield flailed his weapon as a thresher might beat at a stook of corn. Plainly, Hawkmoor could have finished off his opponent at any time, had he chosen to do so.
‘Leave off! Leave off!’ Mazarine screamed, struggling to break free from the restraining grasp of her friends. They would not let her approach the duelling-circle, which was patrolled by marshals whose job it was to shove all would-be trespassers unceremoniously out of the way. ‘Stop the fight!’ Mazarine cried. ‘Hearken — I will marry Lord Rivenhall. There is no need for this!’
Summoning every ounce of effort she shook off her well-meaning captors, ran through the crowd and burst into the cleared space. At that moment Wakefield had his back turned, but Hawkmoor, who was facing her, had her in full view. The combatants had just mutually disengaged to take a brief respite from their efforts. Both were breathing hard; Wakefield staggered as if he were about to topple over. Having torn a purple ribbon from her hair Mazarine flourished the streamer aloft, calling Hawkmoor’s name aloud. In that instant the young lord’s gaze met hers and his eyes flashed, as if in recognition or farewell. He drew his sword into the vertical position, point upwards, and bowed in formal salute. One of the marshals seized Mazarine by the arms and pinioned her, but from the moment Hawkmoor had set eyes on the damsel he stood motionless. She stared, uncomprehending, as his opponent, half blinded by sweat, unaware of her presence and delirious with exhaustion, resumed his unskilled swiping. Hawkmoor did not move so much as a finger, nor did he flinch when Wakefield, who had been stabbing wildly at the air, chanced to strike him hard below the ribs.
Blood gushed. The crowd gave a mighty, gasping shout: it was a mortal blow.
Lord Rivenhall’s champion sank to the ground, which now seemed thickly strewn with bright rose petals. The marshal released Mazarine, who ran to the wounded man and fell to her knees, cradling his head in her lap. Like a black swan against the crimson snow she drooped over him in her mourning raiment, while Wakefield stood dazedly by, swaying unsteadily, his sword arm hanging limply by his side.
The dying man’s blood-soaked hair fanned out across Mazarine’s skirts. ‘I love you,’ she sobbed, her lips close to his beautiful face. ‘I love only you. I was forced to send you away from the cottage because Rivenhall had broken into my bedchamber and vowed to kill you if I betrayed his presence.’
Hawkmoor, his handsome face as pale as the marble of a tomb, looked up at her one final time, sighed once, and swooned.
Wakefield uttered a hoarse shout of horror. The sword fell from his hand. ‘He told me he would permit the death blow,’ he moaned. ‘I would not believe him!’
The Master of the Field crouched beside Mazarine. He felt for the pulse of the fallen man, and put an ear to his chest, then shook his head and rose to his feet.
‘I declare,’ he said, ‘that the victor is the champion of Mistress Blythe!’
* * * *
CHAPTER SEVEN
Over and over old battles are fought,
Dearly — so dearly was victory bought
Centuries earlier. Yet in these days,
When the shang wind blows the conflict replays.
Over and over wraith-lovers must part;
Fond kisses, sad looks and a desolate heart.
Over and o’er the dim shipwreck plays out —
Seen, but unheard, drowning sailor-ghosts shout.
Triumph and sorrow, delight and regret,
Are printed on winds that can never forget.
That which time’s passing forsook and let go
Returns in a vision when unstorm winds blow.
Without delay the constables moved in to take charge of the earl who, the moment his representative was unexpectedly struck down, had made a desperate attempt to fight free of the crowds and make good his escape.
‘You’re for the shackles, my lord!’ said the Chief Constable smugly, bustling him away. Steward Ripley made no attempt to impede the instruments of the law but stood by, grimacing.
‘Liar! Liar!’ the crowd jeered as the earl was escorted from the clearing. Evidently they considered that Providence had ruled accurately. Rivenhall was a deeply unpopular citizen.
Laurelia’s father supported Wakefield as he tottered from the scene, and the body of Hawkmoor was borne away on a litter.
‘Put him in my sleigh!’ cried Mazarine, her voice raw with pain. ‘As his nearest free living relative I claim him!’
Through the wintry landscape Mazarine’s hired sleigh drove, and on the way her tears fell upon Hawkmoor like pearls, half-frozen. It was not until they had almost reached home that she thought she noticed something that made her spirits leap with a mighty lurch. Was that a tiny flicker of his lids?
‘Professor Wilton,’ she gasped, hardly daring to shape the words lest they prove to be unfounded, ‘I believe Fleetwood lives yet!’
And it was true. Extraordi
narily, by the slimmest of threads, a thread that unravelled by the minute, the young man still clung to life.
At the cottage Laurelia’s father devoted all his energies to ministering to the patient. On a bed Hawkmoor lay, hovering between life and death, while Mazarine nursed him. All that night she kept vigil at the patient’s bedside. Her friends took turns to keep her company, praying to Providence that Hawkmoor would be saved. Despite all efforts he remained without consciousness; unspeaking, unmoving, his lashes dark against the waterlily pallor of his skin. At length Mazarine dozed, dreaming that her sweetheart lay dead upon a catafalque. When she wakened, weeping, he still lived, the slightest of pulses beating in his temples.
Come morning, Professor Wilton said, ‘There is no hope. I am sorry, Mistress Blythe. He will soon cross death’s threshold.’
‘As long as he breathes I will continue to hope!’
On the second night Mazarine sat drooping by Hawkmoor’s bedside when all others were abed. In his slumber he now twisted and struggled, as if doing battle with an invisible foe, and his skin was hot to the touch. The wind, blowing from the direction of distant Somerhampton, carried the notes of the town hall’s bell tolling the stroke of midnight. As the note faded from memory Mazarine gave a start, for someone stepped towards her from the shadows and the stillness of the house, and it was none other than Thrimby.
‘Fear not,’ said the withered creature, laying a small paw-like hand gently on her arm.
‘My friend!’ exclaimed the young woman, trembling. ‘I supposed you never stirred from Kelmscott Hall. How came you here?’ for she had heard no sound of his approach — no footsteps, no knock at the door. Even the dogs, though fully recovered from their dose of hemlock, had stayed silent.
‘Never mind,’ said Thrimby, glancing about the room. ‘Alas, the young lord chose to slight good Thrimby’s sound advice. Instead he chose to throw the fight, and now he’s paid the price.’
‘Did you send for him, Thrimby? Did you ask him to fight on my behalf? He wanted to be certain Rivenhall lost the duel, so instead of following your suggestions he allowed himself to be struck down. He is terribly ill ... oh, it is too much to bear!’
‘Ye must be swift to outwit death,’ said Thrimby, ‘for there’s one way to save,’ he paused for effect then went on, ‘your love who’s near his final breath, and keep him from his grave.’
‘Save him?’ Mazarine gasped. ‘How?’
‘Be strong, have courage and take heed. Trows hold a healing spell — so you must seek them with all speed if you would make him well.’
‘I would indeed make him well,’ Mazarine said vehemently. ‘Tell me what I must do, dearest Thrimby! How shall I find the Grey Neighbours and how should I entreat them to help?’
‘Thrimby knows where to find them!’ The shrivelled fellow leaned even closer to Mazarine, so that she could smell the strange scent of him, like the leaves of wormwood after rain, and he told her what she must do.
‘Tomorrow eve the moon shines bright
Upon the winter snow,
Then you must face the threats of night
And solitary go.
Beside the frozen forest pool
They’ll hold their revelry
Where wind and stars and wild things rule;
But you must fearless be.
Bring silver as the promised fee,
But wear no warding charm.
Show courage, truth and courtesy
And they’ll do you no harm.’
He told her more, then sat at her feet with his arms curled around his bent knees and sang an odd little song. Mazarine’s head began to nod and she fell into another doze. When she awoke Thrimby was gone. She looked out of the window but all footprints had been obliterated by the gently falling snow.
Somehow Hawkmoor clung to life throughout the following day. Mazarine informed her friends of what had passed, and told them she had made up her mind to follow Thrimby’s directions. ‘Beside the frozen forest pool can only mean Coome Pool, which lies on the other side of Firgrove,’ she said.
They tried to persuade her not to attempt such a foolhardy enterprise. Wakefield Squires, once he had rested a day or two, was barely troubled by the bruises he had sustained during the duel. ‘To ask you to wear no wight-repellent charm, in the dead of night?’ he exclaimed. ‘No talisman, no iron, nothing of the colour red? What is Thrimby thinking of?’
‘To go alone into the forest at midwinter? What are you thinking of, Mazarine?’ cried Laurelia.
‘How can you be certain they are truly trows, these creatures Thrimby has found in the forest?’ asked Professor Wilton. ‘If they turn out to be gypsies, then they are not bound by the same codes as immortal beings. Gypsies, being humankind, can tell lies and break promises. Even if these folk prove to be the Grey Neighbours, you will not necessarily be safe. Quite probably you will be throwing your life away!’
‘I would rather be dead than watch him die,’ declared Mazarine. ‘It is perilous, but I will dare! And no one who is my friend will gainsay me!’ She gathered together all her silver ornaments — filigree bracelets, rings, chains — and exchanged all her gold coins for silver, then placed the entire hoard into her jewel-casket, closed the arched lid and locked it.
That night, against all advice from her companions, she borrowed Professor Wilton’s grey mare and, wrapped in her warmest cloak, rode out alone, according to Thrimby’s instructions.
By the radiance of the full moon she entered the dim forest and travelled along the narrow winding paths. When she came close to Coome Pool she dismounted as Thrimby had bidden, tied the mare to a tree-bole and continued on foot, carrying the casket. The air nipped and slapped at her face. Fear set her trembling; with every step she expected to be set upon by unseelie agencies of the night, and torn apart. Every shadow might harbour some malignant incarnation waiting to pounce.
Presently the faint strains of fiddle music came to her ears, so thrilling yet hair-raising that it was as if the fiddler sawed upon the listener’s very nerve-strings. As she climbed to the top of a rise she witnessed a throng of figures dancing beside the pool.
Mirror images of the tall, glacial fir trees that in places crowded to the water’s brink hung suspended in the broad expanse of ice. Through the boughs brilliant moonshine struck in glinting lances. Half a dozen bonfires flamed from the snow like flowers of crimson glass. In the night sky the lunar orb hung close to the horizon; a gigantic disc, palely shimmering, against which the dancers were silhouetted in black.
The quaint folk moved clumsily. Some cavorted in a bounding, ludicrous style, others danced artistically, with elaborate though irregular steps. By the silver radiance of moon and the red glow of flame they danced to a thin music like the piping of reeds, backed by a boisterous beat made by rattling snares and the deep, rhythmic thud of a bass drum.
The human watcher stopped a little way off, in the shelter of the trees. The revellers kept up their antics without appearing to notice her, and she dared to edge closer, dreading that they might suddenly disappear, for if they were wights then they would loathe being spied upon, like all of their kind. Though she moved slowly across the hummocky snow she made no secret of her approach, so as to avoid being accused of stealing up to catch them unawares.
The closer she came to the dancers and musicians, the more clearly she perceived them. Surely they could not be gypsies, for they were too outlandish to be human! Like children, they were small and slight in stature. Their heads were large, as were their hands and feet. Their long noses drooped at the tips and their drab hair hung in lank strings. Each and every one of them stooped and limped to varying degrees. All were clad in rustic raiment dyed several shades of grey, or else weathered and washed to greyness, and the women — or trow-wives — wore fringed shawls tied around their heads. In counterpoint to their plain clothing, silver metal glinted like starlight at their wrists and necks, their ears and ankles.
Mazarine was not more than twenty yards aw
ay when the music stopped in mid-flight and, as one, the revellers turned to stare at her. When a figure started up from a hummock close at hand she jumped, and almost dropped the casket.
‘Whit be dee after, ma vire, whinkin’ here sae brauely ootadaeks?’ said a deep voice.
The speaker confronting her on the low mound looked like a dwarfish man, though bigger than the rest, and fiercer looking. A silver fillet encircled his greasy locks and he was wearing a cloak embroidered with silver thread. By his size and relative magnificence he looked to be their leader, or their king. A heavy ornamental chain chinked and swayed about his thick, short neck, and earrings like polished coins dangled from his lobes. Inexplicably he carried in his hand a large silver spoon with a curved handle and a deep bowl, rather like a soup ladle. His dialect resembled the common language of Erith, but not so closely as to be fully intelligible.
Mazarine barely comprehended his meaning but, falling to her knees in a deferential pose, she stated her case, begged for his help and offered the gift of the casket, unfastening the lid. The others gathered around, speaking in some unfamiliar language. The young woman was terrified, yet at the same time she could not help feeling something akin to both pity and liking. There were children amongst these folk, and some of the wives carried babies in their arms. These strange, shrunken people seemed innocent and simple yet, in some unfathomable way, dangerous. Above all, there was that about them which felt alien; something indescribable and incomprehensible in human terms.