Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  The clock of the castle struck seven. The hearts of Owen Joy and his men beat in their throats as they watched the gates. Tamburlaine plunged and reared; he was becoming more and more ungovernable.

  “It's a pity you haven't more sense,” Owen said. “Here we are on the great day waiting for the master, and you can think of nothing but your own diversion.”

  Tamburlaine rolled his eyes upon Owen in anger and contempt. He tossed his mighty neck and head, lifting Owen off his feet. He sweated, he snuffed the air and uttered a loud and piercing neigh. Now Owen lost his temper and struck the horse. He might as well have struck a thunderbolt, for the horse screamed and shook himself, then reared heaven-high. Throwing Owen to the ground and dashing the turf from his heels, he galloped away free. The men looked at each other in consternation. They knew well that no one could take Tamburlaine unless he came in of himself.

  “Are you hurt, Owen?” they said.

  Owen got up slowly, cursing.

  “The devil's in the horse,” he said and stood scratching his head as he watched him trot in a half circle, coming round in the light breeze like a boat with its white sails spread.

  “Queen of Heaven, is it a bath he wants?” said Maurice.

  Tamburlaine trotted to the edge of the moat and, lifting his head, neighed again and loudly. Putting one hoof before another with extreme caution, he stepped down into the shallow water.

  “It's a drink he wants,” said Owen; “he'll come back of himself;” and he turned his eyes towards the Essex gate looking to see the guard of soldiers and the well-known form of Estercel.

  “What in the world is he doing?” said Maurice, laughing aloud.

  Owen looked. There was the horse scrambling up the rubbish strewn bank on the further side of the ditch.

  “Well,” said Owen, “you'd think that would be the last place a horse would go of himself!”

  They watched him laughing, sure that now he was quiet and, so to speak, reasonable, he would certainly come back. For all the temper had gone out of him, and he stood quietly smelling at the old brown sack the man had thrown out, and now and then lifting his head and looking across at them.

  “Oh, Mary have pity!” cried out Maurice, in so awful a tone, that Owen turned like a shot from watching the gate.

  “Easy, easy, man, what's the matter with you now?” he said, following the finger of the man who with open mouth pointed at the horse.

  “As sure as death,” he said, quaking, “I saw it move. Look at it, look!”

  They all gazed, their eyes starting in their heads, as something like a man's arm came up from the rubbish heap, and a hand touched the horse's neck.

  “Come on, Maurice. Stay with the horses, Michael,” and with a bound, he was off, running like a deer for the narrow plank that crossed the gripe. In another moment, he was by the side of the horse.

  There was the cold plunge into woe for Owen. Where was the guard of soldiers and the beaten drum? Where was all the glory of Estercel? There lay the hero, thrown out like a sucked lemon from the hand, and above him stood his horse, weeping large slow tears from his great eyes while the hand of Estercel, covered with sores, touched the side of his face. For he was alive, was Estercel, and the air revived him. Those awful eyes of his smiled at Owen out of their deep pits, and his thick tongue tried to stammer out a welcome. Owen gasped with rage and grief as he lifted up his master's head. A long string of horrible curses mixed with words of sweetest love and pity came out of his mouth.

  “What have they been doing to you? Are you broken all to pieces, Lord?” he said and, supporting him on his breast, tried over his joints with a gentle hand. “You're never going to die, dear?” Then rousing himself with energy out of his grief, “Come,” he said, “we must get you out of this.”. Looking round at the place they were in, he roared out with rage at the insult. “Can you sit a horse, Estercel?” he asked.

  “Ay,” said the young man.

  Owen shook his head. “You'll go easier by the plank than by the gripe,” said he. Bidding Maurice lift him, he charged him on his back. Stepping softly and easily, he crossed the ditch and lowered him with care on to the grass under the trees.

  “I am thirsty,” said Estercel.

  “Run, Maurice,” said Owen, “see you get a clean drop where the stream runs into the pond.”

  Maurice came back with his leather cap full, and Estercel drank it all.

  “Now, dear, we'll try you,” said he, and he went to the horse who had followed like a dog and bade him kneel down on his knees.

  Tamburlaine obeyed. Owen and Maurice lifted Estercel between them and placed him in the saddle. Then the horse steadily rose. For one moment, Estercel sat upright and looked around, then he sank upon the horse's neck. Weeping, the two servants lifted him down again.

  “I am thirsty,” he whispered, and Maurice ran to the stream once more.

  The stout gentleman who had been walking up and down came forward; the page waited for him at a little distance. Recognising Lord Clancarty, Owen stepped out to meet him and bowed low.

  “I have got him, Lord; but he is hardly to be called alive. He wants some woman to wash and clean him. I fear to handle him: he is so sore.”

  Lord Clancarty stooped down, then raised himself again, horrified. The eyes of Estercel were shut, and his soul was playing in a dream.

  “Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Lord Clancarty. “It is no use for me to try and speak with him now. I have provided for him to be taken to the house of Ann Ahohone at the boundaries of Ring's End. Her I can trust. There he will have nursing and food, and I will come and see him.” Then he stood back to watch how Owen would get him away.

  He began by taking the saddle off Tamburlaine, rolling his own mantle into a pad for his broad round back. Next, he unbuckled the saddle-girths and Tamburlaine's bridle rein and, joining them, made a long band. Once more, they raised Estercel and charged him on the horse's back, laying him down at his ease, with his head on the broad white neck. It was a hard matter to dispose of the long legs of Estercel. In the end, one was doubled up, and the other hung down. Over him they spread his own mantle, and then Owen passed the bands around and, pulling gently but firmly, bound him down.

  Owen went round and looked his master in the face. “How are you now, lord?” he said. “Is it very uneasy with you?”

  Estercel opened his eyes. “It is the best bed I have had this many a day,” said he, and his voice was louder and something clearer.

  All this time, the horse had stood as patiently as though he were twenty years old and the son of an ass, obediently kneeling and raising himself, occasionally putting forth a huge warm tongue to lick at the hand or face of Estercel. Now at the clearer sound of his voice, he lifted up his head and, whinnying, turned himself about to see his master's face. Owen clapped his hand upon his bridle.

  “Reach me the rein off the bay horse, Maurice,” he said; “he'll be going off with the master next.”

  It was now well after eight o'clock, and a soft windy dusk was coming down. Under the trees it was fairly dark. All decent and quiet folk were indoors for fear of the cut-purses and, worse still, the cut-throats that ranged about at this hour. The last crow and the last jackdaw had settled for the night, and the soft-winged and soft-footed creatures that love the night had begun to come from their hiding-places.

  This was the hour that Tamburlaine loved. He lifted his head and blew clear through his nostrils. His heart swelled within him with an emotion of love and pity that was half fear.

  The black page crept forward to say farewell. She took the hand of Estercel in her own, covered as it was with unhealed sores, and kissed it. Estercel opened his eyes upon her and smiled, and she bent forward and left a kiss on his thin and haggard cheek. The horse turned his head round and looked closely at the page's face. Meraud stroked his forehead. “I'll not forget how you would not hurt me!” she said.

  Tamburlaine tossed his head snorting loud, for he distrusted that countenance. He
remembered too much. The sudden movement twitched the rein out of Owen's hand. Tamburlaine felt himself free and started a few feet away, standing to shake his head and look around him. He was angry with Owen since he had struck him, and he despised him for a fool because the blow was causeless and Owen himself stupid and in the wrong. Seeing him go free, Owen and Maurice ran forward together to take the rein. Their rapid movement startled him in his excitement, and he trotted out from among the trees making a wide circle.

  Owen saw his mistake. “Hold back,” he shouted to Maurice. “Take him easy, or he'll be off.”

  Tamburlaine stood for a minute there on the grass, his forefeet spread wide apart, his hind feet drawn up together, his head and strong neck rocking between his shoulders. His heart was beating fast and drumming in his ears like the noise of battle. The uneasy weight on his back frightened and disturbed him at once. Fear of unknown calamity beset him: fear of darkness, of men's cruelty half understood, of narrow and miserable prison. The odour of the whole city was hateful to him. Every breath of his body, every drop of his blood cried out for his home in the north.

  He saw the three men coming forward to take him, he heard their voices of hypocritical softness and knew well what they would be at. The earth began to fly in clods from his pawing feet, a sign of his rising temper. Wildness came upon him that was half terror, half delight. He trotted a few steps forward. Then with a mad bound that nearly shook the life out of Estercel, he was off! He heard the shouting behind him, but ten seconds of that mighty speed left it far away. He knew the road to St. Mary's Ford. Once there, he took the cold water gingerly and with caution. He got across, though the depth and force of the stream would have swept a lesser creature down and away. Dripping like a dog, he came out, stood a moment to listen to the faint groan of his master, then off with him into the Stony Batter, the paved highway that led to the north. Far away behind, he heard the shouting on the other side of the river, but that soon faded away.

  For Owen recalled his men, and they stood in a little group looking upon each other in dumb distress. Slowly, Owen shook his head up and down, his lips compressed in bitterness.

  “We've done finely,” he said, “finely for the master. He's off to the north. And the master will die on his back.”

  “Oh, what sense has a horse?” said Maurice.

  “More than you anyway, this one has,” said Owen angrily. “Come, boys, we might as well try to be catching the north wind, but we must ride after him this night.”

  Returning to their horses, they found Lord Clancarty and the black page were gone. Owen knelt down and laid a blighting curse on the city of Dublin and its inhabitants, and more especially on the red-headed witch girl who had betrayed his master. Then not feeling quite sure whether his curse was heard, he rose up and, fetching a handful of hay and straw from the nose-bag of one of the horses, he spoke a Druid curse upon them both that was ten times more powerful and withering than any Christian sort and threw the wisp in the direction of the town. Satisfied in his mind, he watched the wind idly carry it away.

  Owen had good reason to be satisfied, for a heavy punishment was preparing for Meraud. Three days afterwards, she stood by the side of Lady St. Leger on board the good ship “Falcon” and watched the wide stately ring of blue mountains dropping away from before her face. Ten minutes more, and Lady St. Leger was on her back below in a miserable cabin, and Meraud attending upon her. The English lady did so scold and trounce her, calling her Irish ape and fool and worse, that between such peevishness and the motion of the vessel Meraud wept many a salt tear before she reached England's shore. And many a tear did she weep in England too before she came to power and place; many a hard English box of the ear taught her to regret Irish woods and mountains, the free air and the free spirit of her early youth. More than once she thought to return, for there was in her nature a heroic wildness, but stronger was the lure that for ever enticed her. She had looked early into pleasure's magic glass, had seen therein the cold eyes, the hard heart, and the passion-fed lips of pleasure herself; and the glamour had passed upon her. Forever turning aside in repentance, continually redeeming ambition by true greatness, she was yet rendered incapable of simplicity.

  Chapter XXIII. - The Ride

  There were men on the road to the north that night who witnessed the passing of Tamburlaine in the twilight. Seeing the strange burden he carried, more than one would have stood forward to hold him had they dared. But he appeared of so unnatural a greatness as he leaped forth white as cream through the curtains of the dusk, that they shrank back, afraid it might be a fairy horse and that ill luck might follow.

  Tamburlaine was bound for home, a home that he passionately desired. He carried with him the thing he loved most in the world; and behind his back lay fear. He had every reason for swift going, and mighty swiftly he went. And each spring of the powerful creature meant anguish to the bones of his master. At first, his breath died away in him, his head and heart fainted. Then old use and wont awoke in him and taught him to measure what slight movement he could make to the rise and fall of the gallop. The liquid pureness of the air revived him, and the warmth of the horse's broad back beneath him saved him from perishing of the deadly chill of his faintness.

  Without pause or slackening, Tamburlaine held on his way till he reached the tiny city of Swords. The ghosts of the dismantled abbey and dead churches rose up within its walls like trees in a winter. Silence that was all sadness sheeted it down. Not an echo was heard of all the choir of bells that had rung there for more than a thousand years.

  Tamburlaine checked his gallop on the bank above the stream. He was breathing hard, having sped come seven miles without a break. A dog barked below, and another answered him. He had no mind to have them after him with a helpless master on his back. He raised his head and gazed about him remembering the road he had travelled before. He looked seawards and saw the bulk of Lambay rising from dim water.

  A deep, deep sigh from his master called him out of his thoughts. With the softest and gentlest whinny of love he turned his head. Estercel reached out a hand to him and touched his face. In a low whisper, Estercel began to say to him the old words of affection. All their mad play and madder ridings came back to them both, and their joy was great.

  “Oh, rascal, son of a rascal,” muttered Estercel in his thick hoarse tones, “have you run away with your master? Kill or cure now it is, sure enough. Have you anywhere in your head the sense to get us both home to Ardhoroe? You must be wise for both, O white swan, wings of the day, snow-wind, sky-runner!”

  So he praised and flattered him. Then of a sudden, his strength failed him. His horse seemed to him nothing but a beast after all, with no hands to help him. Tears began to run out of his eyes, and his head sank down. “Almighty God,” he muttered, “will I ever hold out? I'm afraid I'll be dead before morning.”

  Such a strange complaining coming from his master puzzled and worried the horse. He shook his head impatiently, blew through his nostrils and prepared to descend the bank and cross the rapid little stream. There was a light in the fort that guarded the opposite bank. Seeing this, he took his way up-stream for a hundred yards, then down the bank. Had he been alone, he would have gone down head first in a couple of bounds, but now instinctively kept himself level, going carefully sideways and letting his hind-quarters down first.

  Below it was very dark. Only the reflection of the pale light of the moon glimmered on the stream. The sound of its fast running water roused Estercel, and as the hoofs of the horse splashed it up, he raised himself.

  “Stand!” said he; the horse stood like a statue, glad to obey once more. He tried to reach the water, but it was not high enough. “Go on!” he said, and the horse took his careful steps, turning his head and waiting for the word to stop. The rapid water was now above his knees, nearly to the shoulder. He stopped and Estercel bent over and raised water in the hollow of his palm and drank again and again. It was sweet as milk and exceedingly pure. When he could drin
k no more, he bowed his wretched face and head, longing the while to plunge his whole sick body in, he who swam like an otter and laughed at the cold.

  When it was over, and he could drink no more, he patted the white sides of the obedient creature and said:

  “Now, my brave fellow, shall we make for home and Ardhoroe?”

  At the words, the horse burst into a loud neigh. The voice of his master had spoken aloud the desire of his heart. With a bound, he was up the opposite bank. Shaking his head and mane, he took one glance heavenward and around with his owl's eyes that loved the night. Then throwing himself on the neck of his desire, he abandoned the highway and rushed straight as an arrow for the north.

  Then followed a night of cruel toil. For Estercel, the hours passed in a dull dream, broken by moments of bodily anguish and illuminated by moments of exquisite delight. In his weary dreaming, he would fancy himself under the torture in his prison. Then at some wilder leap of the horse beneath him, he would open his eyes to see the dark lovely shadows of rock and tree, the merry stars and the delicate light of the half-moon above him. In place of the foul odours of his prison, he smelt the unpolluted sweetness of the temperate wind and knew himself a prisoner only to his horse.