The Lady of Blossholme. H. Rider Haggard
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and pointed. Following the line of his outstretched hand, in the clear moonlight Sir John saw a man, who sat, still as any statue, upon a horse on the very point of King’s Grave. He appeared to be covered with a long cloak, but above it his helmet glittered like silver. Next moment a fringe of black cloud hid the face of the moon, and when it passed away the man and horse were gone.
“What did that fellow there?” asked Sir John.
“Fellow?” answered Jeffrey in a shaken voice, “I saw none. That was the Ghost of the Grave. My grandfather met him ere he came to his end in the forest, none know how, for the wolves, of which there were plenty in his day, picked his bones clean, and so have many others for hundreds of years; always just before their doom. He is an ill fowl, that Ghost of the Grave, and those who clap eyes on him do wisely to turn their horses’ heads homewards, as I would to-night if I had my way, master.”
“What use, Jeffrey? If the sight of him means death, death will come. Moreover, I believe nothing of the tale. Your ghost was some forest reeve or herdsman.”
“A forest reeve or herdsman who wanders about in a steel helm on a fine horse in snow-time when there are no trees to cut or cattle to mind! Well, have it as you will, master; only God save me from such reeves and herdmen, for I think they hail from hell.”
“Then he was a spy watching whither we go,” answered Sir John angrily.
“If so, who sent him? The Abbot of Blossholme? In that case I would sooner meet the devil, for this means mischief. I say that we had better ride back to Shefton.”
“Then do so, Jeffrey, if you are scared, and I will go on alone, who, being on an honest business, fear not Satan or an abbot, either.”
“Nay, master. Many a year ago, when we were younger, I stood by you on Flodden Field when Sir Edward, Christopher Harflete’s father, was killed at our side, and those red-bearded Scotch bare-breeks pressed us hard, yet I never itched to turn my back, even after that great fellow with an axe got you down, and we thought that all was lost. Then shall I do so now?—though it is true that I fear yon goblin more than all the Highlanders beyond the Tweed. Ride on; man can die but once, and for my part I care not when it comes, who have little to lose in an ill world.”
So without more words they started forward, peering about them as they went. Soon the forest thickened, and the track they followed wound its way round great trunks of primeval oaks, or the edges of bog-holes, or through brakes of thorns. Hard enough it was to find it at times, since the snow made it one with the bordering ground, and the gloom of the oaks was great. But Jeffrey was a woodman born, and from his childhood had known the shape of every tree in that waste, so that they held safely to their road. Well would it have been for them if they had not!
They came to a place where three other tracks crossed that which they rode upon, and here Jeffrey Stokes, who was ahead, held up his hand.
“What is it?” asked Sir John.
“It is the marks of ten or a dozen shod horses passed within two hours, since the last snow fell. And who be they, I wonder?”
“Doubtless travellers like ourselves. Ride on, man; that farm is not a mile ahead.”
Then Jeffrey broke out.
“Master, I like it not,” he said. “Battle-horses have gone by here, not chapmen’s or farmers’ nags, and I think I know their breed. I say that we had best turn about if we would not walk into some snare.”
“Turn you, then,” grumbled Sir John indifferently. “I am cold and weary, and seek my rest.”
“Pray God that you may not find it when you are colder,” muttered Jeffrey, spurring his horse.
They went on through the dead winter silence, that was broken only by the hoots of a flitting owl hungry for the food that it could not find, and the swish of the feet of a galloping fox as it looped past them through the snow. Presently they came to an open place ringed in by forest, so wet that only marsh-trees would grow there. To their right lay a little ice-covered mere, with sere, brown reeds standing here and there upon its face, and at the end of it a group of stark pollarded willows, whereof the tops had been cut for poles by those who dwelt in the forest farm near by. Sir John looked at the place and shivered a little—perhaps because the frost bit him. Or was it that he remembered his daughter’s dream, which told of such a spot? At any rate, he set his teeth, and his right hand sought the hilt of his sword. His weary horse sniffed the air and neighed, and the neigh was answered from close at hand.
“Thank the saints! we are nearer to that farm than I thought,” said Sir John.
As he spoke the words a number of men appeared galloping down on them from out of the shelter of a thorn-brake, and the moonlight shone on the bared weapons in their hands.
“Thieves!” shouted Sir John. “At them now, Jeffrey, and win through to the farm.”
The man hesitated, for he saw that their foes were many and no common robbers, but his master drew his sword and spurred his beast, so he must do likewise. In twenty seconds they were among them, and some one commanded them to yield. Sir John rushed at the fellow, and, rising in his stirrups, cut him down. He fell all of a heap and lay still in the snow, which grew crimson about him. One came at Jeffrey, who turned his horse so that the blow missed, then took his weight upon the point of his sword, so that this man, too, fell down and lay in the snow, moving feebly.
The rest, thinking this greeting too warm for them, swung round and vanished again among the thorns.
“Now ride for it,” said Jeffrey.
“I cannot,” answered Sir John. “One of those knaves has hurt my mare,” and he pointed to blood that ran from a great gash in the beast’s foreleg, which it held up piteously.
“Take mine,” said Jeffrey; “I’ll dodge them afoot.”
“Never, man! To the willows; we will hold our own there;” and, springing from the wounded beast, which tried to hobble after them, but could not, for its sinews were cut, he ran to the shelter of the trees, followed by Jeffrey on his horse.
“Who are these rogues?” he asked.
“The Abbot’s men-at-arms,” answered Jeffrey. “I saw the face of him I spitted.”
Now Sir John’s jaw dropped.
“Then we are sped, friend, for they dare not let us go. Cicely dreams well.”
As he spoke an arrow whistled by them.
“Jeffrey,” he went on, “I have papers on me that should not be lost, for with them might go my girl’s heritage. Take them,” and he thrust a packet into his hand, “and this purse also. There’s plenty in it. Away—anywhere, and lie hid out of reach a while, or they’ll still your tongue. Then I charge you on your soul, come back with help and hang that knave Abbot—for your Lady’s sake, Jeffrey. She’ll reward you, and so will God above.”
The man thrust away purse and deeds in some deep pocket.
“How can I leave you to be butchered?” he muttered, grinding his teeth.
As the words left his lips he heard his master utter a gurgling sound, and saw that an arrow, shot from behind, had pierced him through the throat; saw, too, he who was skilled in war, that the wound was mortal. Then he hesitated no longer.
“Christ rest you!” he said. “I’ll do your bidding or die;” and, turning his horse, he drove the rowels into its sides, causing it to bound away like a deer.
For a moment the stricken Sir John watched him go. Then he ran out of his cover, shaking his sword above his head—ran into the open moonlight to draw the arrows. They came fast enough, but ere ever he fell, for that steel shirt of his was strong, Jeffrey, lying low on his horse’s neck, was safe away, and though the murderers followed hard they never caught him.
Nor, though they searched for days, could they find