Gwalchmai retched. Never since he had parted with Merlin’s ring had he wished more fervently to possess it than now, that he might bring this demon-haunted tower down upon its inhabitants.
In abysmal self-revelation, he felt that he would not move a muscle to escape the doom of the others, if such a thing were possible.
“I thank the God you have revolted, Baron, that D’Aulon left you at Orleans. This would have broken his heart. I wish I had gone with him. I .am leaving at once. Do not try to stop me!”
“It is your privilege, L’Aiglon. For our old friendship, you shall not be hindered.”
Gwalchmai stopped and looked him steadily in the eye.
“Baron, I spit on our old friendship!” And suiting the action to the word, he entered his own room and slammed the door.
He lit a candle and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt he must be changed beyond human recognition. How could a man procure innocent souls for torture, death, and destruction, even though it was unwittingly, without such debasement showing in his face? He looked no different to himself. Was it possible that he looked no differently to others?
He thought: the most terrible thing of all is this. A monster need not be horrible in appearance. It can look just like you!
He made a small pack of his spare clothing and belted on the sword of Roland and of Jeanne. -
He went out All was quiet It was not yet morning. He passed by De Rais* chamber and paused to listen at the door. Behind it he heard the deep breathing of a peaceful sleeper, untroubled by conscience.
He took out the blade and stood there a moment with his hand upon the latch. Then he sighed and slid it back into its scabbard.
“You touched it. You carried it in honor. You held it with pride. I will not dirty it now.”
Softly he passed down the corridor and let himself out at the postern gate.
The country he traversed was level for many miles and by daylight he could see far, but he never looked back once at the accursed castle of Tiffauges.
26 ‘The ’Traveler
Men are such romantics—
Women know their daughters well.
The things they do, the thoughts they think.
The dreams they never tell.
They say a father loves a daughter most.
A mother loves a son.
We thought of that, at the King’s court
Where we saw justice done.
Soldier—Kingmaker—never a wife—
What did she really have from life?
Songs of Huon
From tune immemorial, a trail had been worn through the thick forests of Europe by the feet of those who carried the amber south to the Mediterranean and the others who brought the bronze weapons and tools north to the Baltic.
Towns sprang up where such trade routes intersected, only to disappear when the need for them vanished. Houses sank into ruin and were overgrown again by the patient trees.
Bridges fell into the rivers and were not rebuilt. Again men used fords, for they had forgotten how to make such prideful things as the ancients used.
The seas had become tamed and goods moved in ships instead of by packhorse or the backs of men, and the trail grew narrow and winding. It never quite vanished, for there were those who preferred to dwell in solitude and there were always travelers who used it, who for reasons of their own preferred to avoid the well-trodden ways.
One of these pushed north on a gray December day. It was nearly night and snow was falling. He was surrounded by forest and he was hungry, tired, and cold. Somewhere ahead, wolves were calling, but he moved on the Amber Road as though he was contemptuous of them or had little care for his life.
There was nothing to mark the snow-covered trail, but his feet found it surely, although they sometimes stumbled. He supported himself with his long staff and pressed on. As he did so, he limped.
A little after dark, when the wolves seemed very near, he came suddenly upon a woodcutter’s hut, set in a little clearing. He stopped and looked at the streaks of light showing through the shutters. He stood there for a long moment, making up his mind to go on. A wolf howled. He sighed wearily, went up to the door, and knocked.
A man called, “Who is there?” He did not answer, but stood patiently waiting. After a moment, he knocked again.
The door was opened a crack and the woodsman peered out, ax in hand. He saw the traveler—a tall man, but bowed, clad in a long gray cloak and wearing a broad-brimmed gray hat, pulled down low upon his forehead.
“What do you want?” The traveler said nothing, but stood there quietly.
The woman of the house stood behind her husband, a brood of toddlers clinging to her skirts and another, whom she had been nursing, held in her arms.
He raised his head and looked at her. At the sight of the patch over his right eye, she gave a little gasp and nudged her husband in the back. He frowned and she whispered urgently in his ear. He opened the door a little wider, though somewhat ungraciously, and said, “Pray enter and honor my humble house.”
The traveler inclined his head without speaking and came in with the blowing snow.
There was an inglenook by the big fireplace, and the woman cleared the scurry of children out of it, took the man’s staff, and outer garments. He sat down and held out his hands to the warmth. He was very weary and his hands trembled.
Now they could see that he was dressed all in gray, his tunic and breeches, his heavy shoes and cross-gartered leggings.
She knelt before him and unlaced them and brought a sheepskin to wrap around his bare feet. He leaned his head against the warm stones and submitted patiently. His long white hair fell to his shoulders and, being wet, began to steam.
A little cloud of vapor hung about his head and the light striking through it appeared to the others in the room like a glowing aureole. They looked at him in awe.
It was expectantly quiet in the room. The children watched him with big eyes. The woodcutter sat upon a bench, his chin in his hand, and studied his guest. He also seemed impressed.
The woman swung out a kettle on its crane, away from the fireplace, dipped a ladle into it, and filled a bowl with steaming soup. The ladle grated on the bottom of the kettle. She placed the bowl on the table and put in a wooden spoon. She unwrapped the heel of a loaf of black bread and laid the edge of a knife upon it to cut a slice. She paused, reconsidered, moved the knife a little farther down and made the slice thicker.
She held out the bowl to him. “Eat,” she said.
He did not offer to take it. His hands lay clasped in his lap, but he raised his head and looked at her and she could see the deep lines of pain and resignation in his face.
“Please eat,” she said and held the bowl closer. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He smiled. It was an expression of such sweetness that the breath caught in her throat at the sight of it.
He tried again. The voice was as husky as though it had long lain in disuse. The words were very’low. ‘t “Is there enough for the little ones?”
^pw it was her turn to find it difficult to answer. She said, “All of us have eaten our fill. Do not be afraid for us. You are most welcome here.”
She placedTfie bowl in his hands. They cupped themselves around it, but when he tried to use the spoon it slipped from his fingers.
The woodcutter said, “Wife, get the children to their beds.”
He took the spoon and sat beside the gray traveler and carefully fed him, with long pauses between each spoonful, breaking the bread into small pieces and soaking it for him, bite after bite.
He had seen starving men before.
A little color came back into the gray cheeks. The traveler’s eyes closed in spite of himself. The woodcutter caught him as he was about to fall into the fire, laid him down before it upon the sheepskin and was about to cover the sleeping man as gently as any woman when he noticed the sword he wore.
He unbuckled the belt and was about to stand it up alongside the traveler’s
staff when he paused. He weighed it in his hand and examined it carefully. It was very heavy.
Molten lead had been poured into the scabbard while the sword was sheathed. Under no conditions could that blade be drawn again unless the lead was melted away.
He whispered this to his wife as they lay together in their closed bed. She nodded in the dark. He felt her warm breath against his ear.
“Of course,” she whispered. “He has taken a vow never to kill or hurt anyone again.”
“How can you know that?” he asked, amazed, but she would give him no answer and he set down, in his mind, one more mystery of woman.
In the morning, the sun was shining and the snow had stopped.
The traveler was fed and once more made ready to take the road. On the threshold he turned and held up his hand in grave courtesy.
“Bless this house and all in it,” he said in his rusty voice, then bent quickly and picked up the littlest boy. The child put his arms around the traveler’s neck and the man cuddled him close for an instant, kissed him, and turned away without a backward glance.
The family watched him limp slowly across the clearing, without speaking to one. another. This had been a visitation of great wonder, but there was yet something strange to follow.
Before he reached the trees, a raven dropped down, circled him, and came to rest upon his shoulder. He raised his hand and petted it. It leaned its head against his cheek affectionately and so they went on together, into the forest and out of sight.
The man and wife stood there, looking after him for a long moment, then looked at each other with a question hi their eyes.
The woman crossed herself, hesitated in doubt, and falter-ingly made the sign of the Hammer.
Her lips quivered.
“I know it had to be. I know the world has changed. I know it must be better so, or it could not have been—but to see him! To see him so and hi such guise! Why did it have to be us to give Odin One-Eye shelter? What little we could give him! And he asked for nothing!”
She threw her apron up over her head and began to sob. Her husband took her in his arms and held her close.
“Aye, woman, the times be hard—even for the gods.”
Not everyone he met took Gwalchmai for a homeless god. Some saw him as he was, a footsore wanderer with a purpose and an objective. He came upon them unheralded, he never begged, he seldom spoke. His muteness was respected, for it was not a rare thing for a pilgrim, or a sinner who was expiating a penance, to take a vow of silence.
He stayed with some for a single night, if shelter was offered; with others he made his home for months or even years as the mood struck him.
All children loved him, for they sensed the love he had for them. He could not take his eyes away from them, especially the very young, and they came to him as though drawn by a lodestone.
He tended sheep; he cut wood; he taught swordmanship in the houses of the great. He was regarded as a lucky guest in some castles—as a worthless tramp in others.-
He took his place in the long lines waiting where abbeys fed the poor, or he pulled cresses by the rivers edge and ate fish of his own catch. Somehow, as he moved north, he managed to exist.
He did not hurry, for a man who has an indefinite appointment with destiny is in no need to make haste.
He had no companion but the raven. Those who saw him pass remarked in awe upon the close affection which the twain held for each other.
He had no other friend upon his long journey and with the raven there was no need for speech. Yet he remembered speech. His mind was crowded with memories. They haunted him; they consoled him; they came to him as pictures in the night, or as illusions, as he walked or sat quietly resting.
There was the picture hi which he saw himself talking with Gilles de Rais, Lieutenant-General of Brittany, Counselor of the King and Marshal of France, held in chains as a common criminal and confined in the tower of the Castle of Nantes.
It was a private conversation, for De Rais, although his guilt was in no doubt and his end assured, still had the privileges of his rank.
At that moment Gwalchmai held no hot rancor toward his former friend, for his own guilt, however unwitting, lay dismally upon him and he felt that it was by the merest whim of fortune that he did not also find himself a prisoner.
“How goes the labor?” asked De Rais. “Do the English still run?”
“It goes well, my Lord,” said Gwalchmai. “Your efforts have borne much fruit. The Duke of Burgundy has made a lasting peace with the King and he furnished part of the ransom money for the Duke of Orleans.”
“Orleans has returned to his city? Then the last of the four things the Maid predicted has come to pass! Ah! That is good news.”
“La Tremouille has fallen out of countenance with the King and has received a dagger thrust in his fat belly. No, it unfortunately did not kill him. I trust he has more suffering hi store.
“The English are being hunted out. Rouen still holds, but they have lost much else. They hold Harfleur, Caen, and Falaise, and*are strong only in Guienne.
“The Bastard is Lieutenant-General now and the army is hi high spirits. The King is as indolent as ever, but he is getting worried.
“There is talk of a new trial for the Maid, but all expect it to come to naught.”
“By the scarlet flowers of Hell, it shall not! She shall have justice! I swore it and I still do!
L’Aiglon, I ask you to do one thing, not for me but for her. Not for friendship, for I know that is dead between us, but if you feel yourself in my debt for your ransoming from the dungeons of Rouen, discharge that debt now and feel free. Can you find the Maid’s brothers?“
“Strange that you should ask, my Lord. A week gone, the Duke of Orleans gave Pierre the He aux Boeufs as his holding, for his able services. He dwells there with his mother, Isabelle.”
“So much the better. L’Aiglon, I would require you to take this purse of gold to the Maid’s mother. Bid her use it to make a journey to the Pope, in Rome, and beg his intercession in the Maid’s behalf, that her character be cleared and she be rehabilitated in the eyes of the people. Will you undertake this commission and remain in France until the deed is accomplished?”
“Right gladly, my—Liege! For this I can forgive you much!”
He took the purse. Then he put his hand through the bars again and took the hand of De Rais. “And yourself? Do you have what you need? Can I do aught else for you?”
De Rais smiled wanly. “Here I do not need money. Soon I shall need nothing but your prayers. I dare not pray for myself. The pleading would fall on deaf ears.”
Gwalchmai looked at him without speaking. He pressed De Rais’ hand with warmth and sympathy. After all, there was nothing more to say.
There was the terrible scene hi the court where Gwalchmai saw De Rais tried, and sentenced after hearing his confession of horror piled upon horror. At the first hearings he had met the charges with defiance and bravado, but as the massive evidence built up against him his bluster vanished and he became as resigned as he had been in the dungeon. He kept his eyes downcast.
Suddenly he fell upon his knees, weeping, and entreated the Bishop of Nantes to remove the ban of excommunication under which he had been burdened. The Bishop, convinced of his repentance, did as he wished.
He began his confession, freely and in full; *
“What I did, I did driven by my own imagination and my desire for the knowledge of evil. I will tell you the truth and everything as it happened. I will say to you all things as they are and enough to kill ten thousand men.”
And so the fearful tale went on. Murder, torture, excesses, blasphemy, demon-worship—he spared himself nothing. His voice trembled, but he continued.
A woman, perhaps the mother of one of the slaughtered children, gave a piercing scream and fainted. The priests and judges shuddered.
The Bishop of Nantes rose from his seat. He moved toward the crucifix that hung above the judges’ tribune and taking
his-black cowl, he veiled the face of the Saviour.
De Rais fell upon his knees, sobbing. “Oh, God, my Redeemer, I ask pardon and mercy! I renounce the Devu and all his works!”
He turned upon the stunned and horrified spectators.
“Oh! Parents of those innocents I have cruelly murdered, I beg the ‘charity of your prayers. Beseech Heaven, I pray you, that I may still be redeemable. I wish to remain your Christian brother. Forgive me! Forgive the ill I have done you, as you yourself desire pardon and mercy from God.”
Sometimes Gwalchmai started awake, with a pounding heart, reliving the scene at the gibbet.
De Rais, the first to die, commended his soul to Saint James and Saint Michael, whose intercession Jeanne, his angel, had asked at her death.
All three of the sentenced were hung, but were cut down while still quick and hurled alive into the waiting flames of their blazing pyres.
From none of those coiling towers of black smoke did any white dove arise.
There were more pleasant pictures to review as time dragged on and Gwalchmai journeyed into the northlands on his way back to where his seemingly fruitless traveling had begun. He seemed no nearer than ever to accomplishing his impossible mission of turning over the continent of Alata to a Christian monarch.
He consoled himself with memories.
There were the lush fields of Domremy, where the young girl, Jeanne, had watched her sheep, had listened in ecstasy to the sweetness of the Angelus, had run and played and dreamed.
He walked and mused where she had first received her commission through her Voices and dedicated herself to duty and virginity, “for as long as God willed.”
Here she had given herself little to games and frolics—as little as she could! That revealing phrase! , Here stood the Ladies Tree, where she, with the other young people of the village, had come to dress its branches in May to the honor of the Fairies and the joy of being alive hi spring.
And here stood lonely Gwalchmai, in a later May, in the December of his life, with flowers in his hand, watching butterflies fluttering about the ancient tree.
There was a pale-green one among them! There was a leaf-hopper with a speck of red upon it at his feet; there was suddenly beside him a languid, smiling fellow with a cithern slung across his back. That casual, sardonic bow—that elegant thrusting forward of the leg—that Huon!
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