Love Among the Ruins

by Warwick Deeping

  XIX

  As a wind sweeps clamorous into a wood, so Modred and his fellows,household knights, streamed into the great hall of Avalon, where theLord Flavian sat at supper. Bearers of angry steel, fulminators ofvengeance, vociferous, strong, they poured in through the screens like amill race, bearing a tossed and impotent figure in their midst. Theirswords yelped and flashed over this bruised fragment of humanity.

  A gauntlet of steel was dashed often into the white face. Hands clawedhis collar, clutched his body. Dragged, jerked onwards, buffeted,beaten to his knees, he sank down before the Lord Flavian's chair, bloodstreaming from his mouth and nostrils, specking his white habit,drabbling the floor. Then only did the flashing, growling circle recedelike waves from a fallen rock.

  Modred, a black man, burly, a bigot to honour, stood out a giant beforehis fellows. His great sword quivered to the roof; his deep voice shookthe rafters.

  "Blood, sire, blood."

  The man in the white habit quailed, and held up his hands.

  "Let me smite him as he kneels."

  "Sirs, give me the courtesy of silence."

  Flavian started from his chair and looked at the man, who knelt, huddledinto himself, at his feet. It was a scene replete with the grimcynicism of life. Here was a man of mind and genius, cowering,quivering before the strong wrath of a dozen muscular illiterates. Herewas the promulgator of bold truths, an utter dastard when the physicalpart of him was threatened with dissolution. Not that this event was anyproof against the moral power of pagan self-reliance. Not that therewas any cause for the bleating of sanctimonious platitudes, or thepointing of a proverb. A true churchman might have carved a fine moralfable out of the reality. It would have been a fallacy. Fra Balthasarwas a coward. He had none of the splendid mental anatomy of a Socrates.He would have played the coward even under the eye of Christ.

  Silence had fallen. Far away, choked by the long throats of gallery andstair, rose the wild, passionate screaming of a woman. It had therebellious, blasphemous agony of one flung into eternal fire. Withoutmodulation, abatement, or increase, malevolent, impotent, ferocious,piteous, it pealed out in long, tempestuous bursts that swept into theears like some unutterable discord out of hell.

  The kneeling man heard it, and seemed to contract, to shrink intohimself. His white habit was rent to the middle; his ashy face splashedover with blood. He tottered and shook, his hands clasped over the napeof his neck, for fear of the sword. His tongue clave to his palate; hiseyes were furtively fixed on the upreared yard of steel.

  Torches and cressets flared. Servants stared and shouldered and gapedin the screens; all the castle underlings seemed to have smelt out thebusiness like the rats they were. Modred's knights put them out withrough words and the flat of the sword. The doors were barred. OnlyFlavian, the priest, and Modred and his men took part in that tribunalin the hall of Avalon.

  Flavian stood and gazed on Balthasar, the man of tones and colours. TheLord of Gambrevault was calm, unhurried, and dispassionate, yet notunpleased. The man's infinite abasement and terror seemed to arrest himlike some superb precept from the lips of a philosopher. He had the airof a man who calculates, the look of a diplomat whose scheme has workedout well. From Balthasar he looked to Modred the Strong, the torchlightlurid on his armour, his great sword quivering like a falcon to leapdown upon its prey. The distant screaming, somewhat fainter and lessresolute, still throbbed in his ears. He thought of Dante, and the_bolgias_ of that superhuman singer.

  Going close to the Dominican, he spoke to him in strong, yet notunpitying tones. Balthasar dared not look above the Lord Flavian'sknees.

  "Ha, my friend, where is all your fine philosophy?"

  The man cringed like a beggar.

  "Where are all your sonorous phrases, your pert blasphemies, yoursubtleties, your fine tinsel of intellect and vanity?"

  Balthasar had no word.

  "Where is your godliness, my friend, where your glowing and superhumansoul? Have we found you out, O Satanas; have we shocked your paganheroism? Be a man. Stand up and face us. You could hold forth roundlyon occasions. Even that Saul of Tarsus was not afraid of a sword."

  Balthasar cowered, and hid his face behind his hands. He began towhimper, to rock to and fro, to sob. The grim men round him laughed,deep-chested, iron, scoffing laughter. Modred pricked the priest's neckwith the point of his sword. It was then that Balthasar fell forwardupon his face, senseless from sheer terror.

  Flavian abandoned philosophic irony, and addressed himself to Modred andhis knights.

  "Put up your swords, sirs; this man shall go free."

  "Sire, sire!" came the massed cry.

  "Trust my discretion. The fellow has done me the greatest service of mylife."

  "Sire!"

  "He has given me liberty. He has gnawed the shackles from my soul. Youare all my witnesses in this, and may count upon my gratitude. But thisman here, he has danced to my whim like a doll plucked by a string. Formy liberty has he sinned; out of Avalon shall he go scatheless."

  The men still murmured. Modred shot home his sword into its scabbardwith a vicious snap. Flavian read their humour.

  "Do not imagine, gentlemen," he said, "that your vigilance and yourloyalty to my honour can go unrewarded. Modred, your lands are heavilymortgaged, I free you at a word, with this my signet. To you, Bertrand,I give the Manor of Riesole to keep and hold for you and yours. To allyou, good friends, I give a hundred golden angels, man and man. Andnow, sirs, as to madame, my wife."

  They gathered round him in curious conclave, Balthasar lying in theirmidst.

  "Sir Modred, you will order out my state litter, set the Lady Duessatherein, and have her borne with all courtesy to Gilderoy, to herfather's house. Then you will take these gentlemen who are my truefriends and witnesses, and you will ride to Lauretia, to make solemndeclaration before Bishop Hilary. He has already received my earlierembassage. After this affair, we have no need of ethical subtleties andclerical conveniences. You will obtain a dispensation at his hands._Ex vinculo matrimonii_. Nothing less than that."

  They bowed to him and his commands, like the loyal gentlemen they were.Modred pointed to the prostrate Balthasar, who was already squirmingback to consciousness, with his fingers feeling at his throat, as thoughto discover whether it was still sound or no.

  "And this fellow, sire?"

  "Pick him up."

  Balthasar had found his tongue at last. He was jerked to his feet, andheld up by force, with the handle of a poniard rammed into his mouth tostem his garrulity.

  Flavian read him an extemporary lecture. There was something like asmile hovering about his lips.

  "Go back to your missal, man, and forswear women. They are like strongwine, too much for your flimsy brain. I have more pity for you thancensure. Say to yourself, when you patter your prayers, 'Flavian ofGambrevault saved me from the devil once.' And yet, my good saint, Ihave a shrewd notion that you will be just as great a fool two monthshence."

  The man gave a scream of delight, and attempted to throw himself atFlavian's feet. His superlative joy was almost ludicrous. Half a dozenhands dragged him back.

  "Take him away--who cares for such gratitude!"

  As they marched him off, he broke like an imbecile into hystericallaughter. Tears streamed from his eyes. He mopped his face with thecorner of his habit, laughed and snivelled, and sang snatches of tavernditties. So, with many a grim jest, they cuffed Fra Balthasar out ofAvalon.

  At the end of the drama, Flavian called for tapers, and marched in stateto the chapel. He knelt before the altar and prayed to the Madonna,whose face was the face of the girl Yeoland.