Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  ‘Ha!’ Sir Richard opened his eyes. ‘Houses like flat nests did our Devils make, where their imps lay and looked at us. I did not see them (I was sick after the fight), but Witta told me, and, lo, ye know it also? Wonderful! Were our Devils only nest-building apes? Is there no sorcery left in the world?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Dan, uncomfortably. ‘I’ve seen a man take rabbits out of a hat, and he told us we could see how he did it, if we watched hard. And we did.’

  ‘But we didn’t,’ said Una, sighing. ‘Oh! there’s Puck!’

  The little fellow, brown and smiling, peered between two stems of an ash, nodded, and slid down the bank into the cool beside them.

  ‘No sorcery, Sir Richard?’ he laughed, and blew on a full dandelion head he had picked.

  ‘They tell me that Witta’s Wise Iron was a toy. The boy carries such an iron with him. They tell me our Devils were apes, called gorillas!’ said Sir Richard, indignantly.

  ‘That is the sorcery of books,’ said Puck. ‘I warned thee they were wise children. All people can be wise by reading of books.’

  ‘But are the books true?’ Sir Richard frowned. ‘I like not all this reading and writing.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Puck, holding the naked dandelion head at arm’s length. ‘But if we hang all fellows who write falsely, why did De Aquila not begin with Gilbert the Clerk? He was false enough.’

  ‘Poor false Gilbert. Yet, in his fashion, he was bold,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘What did he do?’ said Dan.

  ‘He wrote,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Is the tale meet for children, think you?’ He looked at Puck; but ‘Tell us! Tell us!’ cried Dan and Una together.

  * * *

  THORKILD’S SONG

  There’s no wind along these seas, Out oars for Stavanger! Forward all for Stavanger! So we must wake the white-ash breeze, Let fall for Stavanger! A long pull for Stavanger!

  Oh, hear the benches creak and strain! (A long pull for Stavanger!) She thinks she smells the Northland rain! (A long pull for Stavanger!)

  She thinks she smells the Northland snow,And she’s as glad as we to go.

  She thinks she smells the Northland rime,And the dear dark nights of winter-time.

  Her very bolts are sick for shore,And we — we want it ten times more!

  So all you Gods that love brave men,Send us a three-reef gale again!

  Send us a gale, and watch us come,With close-cropped canvas slashing home!

  But — there’s no wind in all these seas. A long pull for Stavanger! So we must wake the white-ash breeze, A long pull for Stavanger!

  * * *

  Old Men at Pevensey

  ‘It has naught to do with apes or Devils,’Sir Richard went on, in an undertone. ‘It concerns De Aquila, than whom there was never bolder nor craftier, nor more hardy knight born. And remember he was an old, old man at that time.’

  ‘When?’ said Dan.

  ‘When we came back from sailing with Witta.’

  ‘What did you do with your gold?’ said Dan.

  ‘Have patience. Link by link is chain-mail made. I will tell all in its place. We bore the gold to Pevensey on horseback — three loads of it — and then up to the north chamber, above the Great Hall of Pevensey Castle, where De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on his bed like a little white falcon, turning his head swiftly from one to the other as we told our tale. Jehan the Crab, an old sour man-at-arms, guarded the stairway, but De Aquila bade him wait at the stair-foot, and let down both leather curtains over the door. It was Jehan whom De Aquila had sent to us with the horses, and only Jehan had loaded the gold. When our story was told, De Aquila gave us the news of England, for we were as men waked from a year-long sleep. The Red King was dead — slain (ye remember?) the day we set sail — and Henry, his younger brother, had made himself King of England over the head of Robert of Normandy. This was the very thing that the Red King had done to Robert when our Great William died. Then Robert of Normandy, mad, as De Aquila said, at twice missing of this kingdom, had sent an army against England, which army had been well beaten back to their ships at Portsmouth. A little earlier, and Witta’s ship would have rowed through them.

  ‘“And now,” said De Aquila, “half the great Barons of the North and West are out against the King between Salisbury and Shrewsbury, and half the other half wait to see which way the game shall go. They say Henry is overly English for their stomachs, because he hath married an English wife and she hath coaxed him to give back their old laws to our Saxons. (Better ride a horse on the bit he knows, I say!) But that is only a cloak to their falsehood.” He cracked his finger on the table, where the wine was spilt, and thus he spoke: —

  ‘“William crammed us Norman barons full of good English acres after Santlache. I had my share too,” he said, and clapped Hugh on the shoulder; “but I warned him — I warned him before Odo rebelled — that he should have bidden the Barons give up their lands and lordships in Normandy if they would be English lords. Now they are all but princes both in England and Normandy — trencher-fed hounds, with a foot in one trough and both eyes on the other! Robert of Normandy has sent them word that if they do not fight for him in England he will sack and harry out their lands in Normandy. Therefore Clare has risen, FitzOsborne has risen, Montgomery has risen — whom our First William made an English Earl. Even D’Arcy is out with his men, whose father I remember a little hedge-sparrow knight nearby Caen. If Henry wins, the Barons can still flee to Normandy, where Robert will welcome them. If Henry loses, Robert, he says, will give them more lands in England. Oh, a pest — a pest on Normandy, for she will be our England’s curse this many a long year!”

  ‘“Amen,” said Hugh. “But will the war come our ways, think you?”

  ‘“Not from the North,” said De Aquila. “But the sea is always open. If the Barons gain the upper hand Robert will send another army into England for sure, and this time I think he will land here — where his father, the Conqueror, landed. Ye have brought your pigs to a pretty market! Half England alight, and gold enough on the ground” — he stamped on the bars beneath the table — ”to set every sword in Christendom fighting.”

  ‘“What is to do?” said Hugh. “I have no keep at Dallington; and if we buried it, whom could we trust?”

  ‘“Me,” said De Aquila. “Pevensey walls are strong. No man but Jehan, who is my dog, knows what is between them.” He drew a curtain by the shot-window and showed us the shaft of a well in the thickness of the wall.

  ‘“I made it for a drinking-well,” he said, “but we found salt water, and it rises and falls with the tide. Hark!” We heard the water whistle and blow at the bottom. “Will it serve?” said he.

  ‘“Needs must,” said Hugh. “Our lives are in thy hands.” So we lowered all the gold down except one small chest of it by De Aquila’s bed, which we kept as much for his delight in its weight and colour as for any of our needs.

  ‘In the morning, ere we rode to our Manors, he said: “I do not say farewell; because ye will return and bide here. Not for love nor for sorrow, but to be with the gold. Have a care,” he said, laughing, “lest I use it to make myself Pope. Trust me not, but return!”‘

  Sir Richard paused and smiled sadly.

  ‘In seven days, then, we returned from our Manors — from the Manors which had been ours.’

  ‘And were the children quite well?’ said Una.

  ‘My sons were young. Land and governance belong by right to young men.’ Sir Richard was talking to himself. ‘It would have broken their hearts if we had taken back our Manors. They made us great welcome, but we could see — Hugh and I could see — that our day was done. I was a cripple and he a one-armed man. No!’ He shook his head. ‘And therefore’ — he raised his voice — ’we rode back to Pevensey.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Una, for the knight seemed very sorrowful.

  ‘Little maid, it all passed long ago. They were young; we were old. We let them rule the Manors. “Aha!” cried De Aquila from his shot-
window, when we dismounted. “Back again to earth, old foxes?” but when we were in his chamber above the Hall he puts his arms about us and says, “Welcome, ghosts! Welcome, poor ghosts!” ... Thus it fell out that we were rich beyond belief, and lonely. And lonely!’

  ‘What did you do?’ said Dan.

  ‘We watched for Robert of Normandy,’ said the knight. ‘De Aquila was like Witta. He suffered no idleness. In fair weather we would ride along between Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other — sometimes with hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both on the Marsh and the Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets from Normandy. In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower, frowning against the rain — peering here and pointing there. It always vexed him to think how Witta’s ship had come and gone without his knowledge. When the wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf’s edge he would go and, leaning on his sword among the stinking fish, would call to the mariners for their news from France. His other eye he kept landward for word of Henry’s war against the Barons.

  ‘Many brought him news — jongleurs, harpers, pedlars, sutlers, priests and the like; and, though he was secret enough in small things, yet, if their news misliked him, then, regarding neither time nor place nor people, he would curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe. I have heard him cry aloud by the fishing boats: “If I were King of England I would do thus and thus”; and when I rode out to see that the warning-beacons were laid and dry, he hath often called to me from the shot-window: “Look to it, Richard! Do not copy our blind King, but see with thine own eyes and feel with thine own hands.” I do not think he knew any sort of fear. And so we lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber above the Hall.

  ‘One foul night came word that a messenger of the King waited below. We were chilled after a long riding in the fog towards Bexlei, which is an easy place for ships to land. De Aquila sent word the man might either eat with us or wait till we had fed. Anon Jehan, at the stair-head, cried that he had called for horse, and was gone. “Pest on him!” said De Aquila. “I have more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for every gadling the King sends. Left he no word?”

  ‘“None,” said Jehan, “except” — he had been with De Aquila at Santlache — ”except he said that if an old dog could not learn new tricks it was time to sweep out the kennel.”

  ‘“Oho!” said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, “to whom did he say that?”

  ‘“To his beard, chiefly, but some to his horse’s flank as he was girthing up. I followed him out,” said Jehan the Crab.

  ‘“What was his shield-mark?”

  ‘“Gold horseshoes on black,” said the Crab.

  ‘“That is one of Fulke’s men,” said De Aquila.’

  Puck broke in very gently, ‘Gold horseshoes on black is not the Fulkes’ shield. The Fulkes’ arms are — — ’

  The knight waved one hand statelily.

  ‘Thou knowest that evil man’s true name,’ he replied, ‘but I have chosen to call him Fulke because I promised him I would not tell the story of his wickedness so that any man might guess it. I have changed all the names in my tale. His children’s children may be still alive.’

  ‘True — true,’ said Puck, smiling softly. ‘It is knightly to keep faith — even after a thousand years.’

  Sir Richard bowed a little and went on: —

  ‘“Gold horseshoes on black?” said De Aquila. “I had heard Fulke had joined the Barons, but if this is true our King must be of the upper hand. No matter, all Fulkes are faithless. Still, I would not have sent the man away empty.”

  ‘“He fed,” said Jehan. “Gilbert the Clerk fetched him meat and wine from the kitchens. He ate at Gilbert’s table.”

  ‘This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, who kept the accounts of the Manor of Pevensey. He was tall and pale-coloured, and carried those new-fashioned beads for counting of prayers. They were large brown nuts or seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his pen and inkhorn they clashed when he walked. His place was in the great fireplace. There was his table of accounts, and there he lay o’ nights. He feared the hounds in the Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep on the warm ashes, and would slash at them with his beads — like a woman. When De Aquila sat in Hall to do justice, take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so write it in the Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to feed our guests, or to let them depart without his lord’s knowledge.

  ‘Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down the stair: “Hugh, hast thou ever told my Gilbert thou canst read Latin hand-of-write?”

  ‘“No,” said Hugh. “He is no friend to me, or to Odo my hound either.” ‘“No matter,” said De Aquila. “Let him never know thou canst tell one letter from its fellow, and” — here he jerked us in the ribs with his scabbard — ”watch him, both of ye. There be devils in Africa, as I have heard, but by the Saints, there be greater devils in Pevensey!” And that was all he would say.

  ‘It chanced, some small while afterwards, a Norman man-at-arms would wed a Saxon wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had watched him well since De Aquila spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave. Since De Aquila would give them a field of good land, if she were free, the matter came up at the justice in Great Hall before De Aquila. First the wench’s father spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the hall rang and the hounds bayed. De Aquila held up his hands. “Write her free,” he called to Gilbert by the fireplace. “A’ God’s name write her free, before she deafens me! Yes, yes,” he said to the wench that was on her knees at him; “thou art Cerdic’s sister, and own cousin to the Lady of Mercia, if thou wilt be silent. In fifty years there will be neither Norman nor Saxon, but all English,” said he, “and these are the men that do

  * * *

  ‘A’ God’s name write her free, before she deafens me!’

  * * *

  our work!” He clapped the man-at-arms that was Jehan’s nephew on the shoulder, and kissed the wench, and fretted with his feet among the rushes to show it was finished. (The Great Hall is always bitter cold.) I stood at his side; Hugh was behind Gilbert in the fireplace making to play with wise rough Odo. He signed to De Aquila, who bade Gilbert measure the new field for the new couple. Out then runs our Gilbert between man and maid, his beads clashing at his waist, and the Hall being empty, we three sit by the fire.

  ‘Said Hugh, leaning down to the hearthstones, “I saw this stone move under Gilbert’s foot when Odo snuffed at it. Look!” De Aquila digged in the ashes with his sword; the stone tilted; beneath it lay a parchment folden, and the writing atop was: “Words spoken against the King by our Lord of Pevensey — the second part.”

  ‘Here was set out (Hugh read it us whispering) every jest De Aquila had made to us touching the King; every time he had called out to me from the shot-window, and every time he had said what he would do if he were King of England. Yes, day by day had his daily speech, which he never stinted, been set down by Gilbert, tricked out and twisted from its true meaning, yet withal so cunningly that none could deny who knew him that De Aquila had in some sort spoken those words. Ye see?’

  Dan and Una nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Una gravely. ‘It isn’t what you say so much. It’s what you mean when you say it. Like calling Dan a beast in fun. Only grown-ups don’t always understand.’

  ‘“He hath done this day by day before our very face?” said De Aquila.

  ‘“Nay, hour by hour,” said Hugh. “When De Aquila spoke even now, in the Hall, of Saxons and Normans, I saw Gilbert write on a parchment, which he kept beside the Manor-roll, that De Aquila said soon there would be no Normans left in England if his men-at-arms did their work aright.”

  ‘“Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila. “What avail is honour or a sword against a pen? Where did Gilbert hide that writing? He shall eat it.”

  ‘“In his breast when he ran out,” said Hugh. “Which made me look to see where he kept his finished stuff. When Odo scratched at this stone here, I s
aw his face change. So I was sure.”

  ‘“He is bold,” said De Aquila. “Do him justice. In his own fashion, my Gilbert is bold.”

  ‘“Overbold,” said Hugh. “Hearken here,” and he read: “Upon the Feast of St Agatha, our Lord of Pevensey, lying in his upper chamber, being clothed in his second fur gown reversed with rabbit — — ”

  ‘“Pest on him! He is not my tire-woman!” said De Aquila, and Hugh and I laughed.

  ‘“Reversed with rabbit, seeing a fog over the marshes, did wake Sir Richard Dalyngridge, his drunken cup-mate” (here they laughed at me) “and said, ‘Peer out, old fox, for God is on the Duke of Normandy’s side.”‘

  ‘“So did I. It was a black fog. Robert could have landed ten thousand men, and we none the wiser. Does he tell how we were out all day riding the Marsh, and how I near perished in a quicksand, and coughed like a sick ewe for ten days after?” cried De Aquila.

  ‘“No,” said Hugh. “But here is the prayer of Gilbert himself to his master Fulke.”

  ‘“Ah,” said De Aquila. “Well I knew it was Fulke. What is the price of my blood?”

  ‘“Gilbert prayeth that when our Lord of Pevensey is stripped of his lands on this evidence which Gilbert hath, with fear and pains, collected — — ”

  ‘“Fear and pains is a true word,” said De Aquila, and sucked in his cheeks. “But how excellent a weapon is a pen! I must learn it.”

  ‘“He prays that Fulke will advance him from his present service to that honour in the Church which Fulke promised him. And lest Fulke should forget, he has written below, ‘To be Sacristan of Battle’.”

  ‘At this De Aquila whistled. “A man who can plot against one lord can plot against another. When I am stripped of my lands Fulke will whip off my Gilbert’s foolish head. None the less Battle needs a new Sacristan. They tell me the Abbot Henry keeps no sort of rule there.”