Love Among the Ruins

by Warwick Deeping

  XXXIX

  In a cave whose narrow mouth cut a rough cameo from the snow and azureof the sky, a man lay sleeping upon a bed of heather. The surge of thesea rose from the bastions of the cliff, where foam glittered andswirled over the black rocks that thrust their dripping brows above thetide. Gulls were winging over the waves, whose green crests shonebrilliant under the sun. On a distant headland, bleak and sombre, thetowers of a castle broke the turquoise crescent of the heavens.

  In one corner of the cave a feeble fire flickered, the smoke therefromcurling along the roof to vanish in a thin blue plume of vapour. Besidethe bed lay a pile of armour, with a broken casque like a cleft skull tocrown it. Dried herbs and a loaf of rye bread lay on a flat bouldernear the fire. The figure on the heather was covered by a stained yetgorgeously blazoned surcoat, that seemed an incongruous quilt for such acouch. Near the cave's entry a great axe glittered on the floor, an axewhose notched edge had tested the metal of many a bassinet.

  Down a rough path cut in the face of the cliff scrambled a gaunt,hollow-chested figure, doubleted in soiled scarlet, battered shoes onfeet, a black beard bristling on the stubborn chin. A red cloth wasbound about the man's head. He breathed hard as he clambered down thecliff, as though winded by fast running. Sweat stood on his forehead.Beneath him ran the sea, a pit of foam, swirling and muttering amid therocks.

  He reached the entry of the cave and dived therein like a fox into an"earth." Standing by the bed, he looked for a moment at the unconsciousfigure with the air of one unwilling to wake a weary comrade from hissleep. At last he went down on his knees by the heather, and touchedthe sleeping man's cheek with the gentle gesture of a woman. The figurestirred at the touch; two thin hands groped over the green and azurequilt. The kneeling man gripped them in his great brown paws, and heldthem fast.

  "Modred."

  The voice was toneless, husky, and without spirit.

  "Sire."

  "Ah, these waking moments. It had been better if you had let me rot inGambrevault."

  "Courage, sire, you wake to a better fortune."

  "There is new life in your voice."

  "The King has come at last."

  The man on the heather raised himself upon one elbow. His face lookedgrey and starved in the half gloom of the cave. He lifted up one handwith a gesture of joy.

  "The King!"

  Modred of the black beard smiled at him like a father. His handstrembled as he put the man back gently on the heather, and smoothed thecoverlet.

  "Lie still, sire."

  "Ah, this is life, once more."

  "Patience, patience. Let us have no woman's moods, no raptures. Ha, Iam a tyrannous dog. Did I drag you for dead out of Gambrevault to letyou break your heart over Richard of Lauretia! Lie quiet, sire; youhave no strength to gamble with as yet."

  The man on the heather reached out again for Modred's hand.

  "The rough dog should have been born a woman," he said to him.

  Modred laughed.

  "There is a great heart under that hairy chest of yours."

  The moist mutterings of the sea came up to them from the rocky shorebeneath. Clouds in white masses pressed athwart the arch of day.Modred, seated on a boulder beside the bed, eyed the prostrate figurethereon with a gaunt and tender pity. He was a stark man and strenuous,yet warm of heart for all his bull's strength and steely sinew. Youthlay at his feet, thin and impotent, a white willow wand quivering besidea black and knotty oak.

  Modred rose up and stood by the opening of the cave, his broad shoulderswell-nigh filling the entry as he looked out over the sea. Far over theamethystine waters, a hundred pearl-white sails glimmered beyond thecliffs of Gambrevault. The sun smote on gilded prow and blazonedbulwark, and upon a thousand streamers tonguing to the breeze.

  Modred stretched out his great arms and smiled, a grim shimmer of joyover his ruffian's face. Standing at the mouth of the cave, he began tospeak to the man couched in the inner gloom.

  "Yonder, beyond Gambrevault," he said, "I see a hundred sails treadingtowards us over the sea. They are the King's ships: God cherish them;their bulwarks gleam in the sun."

  Flavian twisted restlessly amid the heather.

  "A grand sight, old friend."

  Modred stood silent, fingering his chin. His voice broke forth againwith a bluff exultation that seemed to echo the roar of the waves.

  "St. Philip, that is well."

  "More ships?"

  "Nay, sire, they raise the royal banner on the keep of Gambrevault. Isee spears shine. Listen to the shouting. The King's men hold theheadland."

  This time the voice from the cave was less eager, and tinged with pain.

  "Modred, old friend, I lie here like a stone while the trumpets call tome."

  "Sire, say not so."

  "Ah, for an hour's youth again, one day in the sun, one moment under themoon."

  "Sire, I would change with you if God would grant it me."

  "Bless you, old friend; I would not grant it you if I were God."

  A trumpet cried to them from the cliff, sudden, shrill, and imperious.Modred, leaning against the rock with his hand over his eyes, startedfrom the cave, and began to climb the path. He muttered and swore intohis beard as he ascended, queer oaths, spasmodic and fantastic. Hisblack eyes were hazy for the moment. Contemptuous and fervid, hebrushed the tears away with a great brown hand.

  On the green downs above him rolling to the peerless sky, he saw armourgleam and banners blush. A fanfare of trumpets rolled over the sea. Itwas Richard the King.

  Modred bent at the royal stirrup, and kissed the jewelled hand. Abovehim a keen, steely-eyed visage looked out from beneath a gold-crownedbassinet. It was the face of a soldier and a tyrant, handsome, haughty,yet opulently gracious. The red lips curled under the black tusks ofthe long moustache. The big, clean-shaven jaw was a promontory ofmarble thrust forth imperiously over the world.

  "Well, man, what of our warden?"

  Modred crossed himself, pointed to the cliff, muttered a few words intothe King's ear.

  "So," came the terse response, "that was an evil fortune. So splendid ayouth, a bright beam of chivalry. Come, lead me to him."

  The royal statue of steel dismounted and stalked down with knights andheralds towards the cliff. Leaning upon Modred's shoulder, Richard ofthe Iron Hand trod the rough path leading to the little cave. He bowedhis golden crown at the entry, stooped like a suppliant, stood beforethe Lord Flavian's bed.

  The gloom troubled him for a moment. Anon, he saw the recumbent figureon the heather, the pile of harness, the brown loaf, and the meagrefire. He throned himself on the boulder beside the bed, and laid awhite hand on the sick man's shoulder.

  "Lie still," he said, as Flavian turned to rise; "to-day, my lord, wecan forego ceremony."

  Courtesy is the golden crown of power, forged from a poet's song, andthe wisdom of the gods. The royal favour donned its robe of red thatday, proffered its gracious signet to the lips of praise, held forth thesceptre of a radiant pity. Even the iron of truth becomes as silver onthe lips of kings. Justice herself flatters, when ranged in simplewhite before a royal throne.

  "My Lord of Gambrevault," quoth Richard of the Iron Hand, "be it knownto you that your stout walls have saved my kingdom. You held thebarbican of loyalty till true friends rallied to the country's citadel.Bravely have you sounded your clarions in the gate of fame. My lord, Igive to you the gratitude of a king."

  Flattery strutted in the cave, gathering her robes with jewelled hand,gorgeous as an Eastern queen. Concerning the fate of a certain rebelSaint, the royal pardon waxed patriarchal in laconic phrases.

  "Say no more, my lord; the boon is yours. Have I not a noble womanqueening it beside me on my throne, flinging the beams of her brighteyes through all my life? This quest shall be heralded to the host; Iwill offer gold for the damsel's capture. Take this ring from me, nopledge as betwixt Jews, but as a talisman of
good to come."

  So spoke the royal gratitude. When the King had gone, Modred returnedto carry his lord heavenwards to the meadows. He found him prone uponthe heather, covering his eyes with his thin hands as the westernsunlight streaked the gloom.

  "Sire," said Modred, kneeling down beside the bed.

  The effigy on the heather stirred itself and reached out a hand intoModred's bosom.

  "Man, man, I am in great darkness of soul. Who shall comfort me!"

  Modred bent to him, laid a great palm on the white forehead.

  "Courage, sire, courage."

  "Ah, the pity of it, to lie here like a log when swords ring and perilthreatens her."

  "Sire, we shall win her back again."

  "My God, only to touch her hands once more, to feel the warmth of herpure bosom, and the thrill of her rich hair."

  "We shall win her, sire. Doubt it not."

  "All life is a doubt."

  "Before God, I swear it!"

  "Modred!"

  "Before God, I swear it!"

  He sprang up, thrust out his arms till the sinews cracked, filled hisgreat chest with the breath of the sea. Suddenly he stopped, strained ata rock lying at the cave's mouth, lifted it, and hurled it from him, sawit smite foam from the water beneath.

  "Fate, take my gauge," he cried, with a fierce glorying in his strength;"come, sire, put your hands about my neck. I will bear you to yourcastle of Gambrevault."