“What a beautiful place this is,” Lady Philippa said softly. She was standing with her husband near the great stone keep, looking out across a half-built wall at the hills and valleys of his wilderness domain. It was one of those mornings of early summer when the air is cool yet bright with sunshine, and the unfolding beauty of the world has something of heaven in it. Birds were singing everywhere, and the green of new leaves clothed the land in elvish loveliness. “Your England is very fair, Gualtier.”
“It is good that you find it so, love,” answered the knight. He had had misgivings a-plenty in bringing his gently-bred Provencal wife to this rough country. Often he had to be absent from dawn to moonrise, riding on some perilous expedition. He and his little force of men-at-arms and yeomen were doing police work on the Welsh border, and no one ever knew just when the turbulent chiefs of those mountains would attempt a raid.
Lady Philippa never complained. She ruled her household as he ruled his lands, wisely and well. She called her husband Gualtier instead of Walter, because he liked it, and sang to her lute the canzons and retronsas of her country, but she seemed to love his England as he did. She talked to the woodcutters' wives and the village women and farm people as if she had played in childhood about their doors. In fact the knight had a shrewd notion that if he had been a bachelor the taming of his half-British, half-Saxon peasantry would have been far less easy.
He had not wished to dominate and overawe the people, but to win them to true loyalty. He had known exactly what he wanted when he selected the place for his castle, and a man who knows his own mind can usually find men to do his work.
A castle in that place and time was a little town in itself, and it must be able to exist by itself when necessary, without markets or factories or outside help of any kind. Like most Normans the knight was a born builder, and had taken care to make his castle as proof against attack, and as scientifically built, as castle could be. Each landowner had to be his own architect. Certain general rules were followed, of course. The keep, the fosse, the inner and outer bailey, the general construction, were much the same in all fortresses of Normandy or Norman Britain. But no two sites were alike, and the work had to be planned not only according to the shape of the hill but with reference to the material to be had, the amount and quality of labor at hand, and the climate. This castle was on a hill not high originally, but made some fifty feet higher by heaping up earth and stone to bring the whole top somewhere near the level of the huge rock on which the keep was built. On that side the river flowed almost under the precipitous western face of the mount, so that a stone could be dropped from the battlements into the water. The young page, Roger, thought he could fish from his window if he could get a line long enough. The keep was still the living-place of the family, but the double line of stone wall encircling the mount was finished, and at exposed points small watch-towers were placed, known as the mill-tower, the armorer's tower, the smith's tower or the salt-tower, according to their use. If the castle should be attacked each one of these outworks would be the post of a small garrison and stubbornly defended, while the keep could be held almost indefinitely. The deep cellars would hold grain and salt meat enough for months, and there was a spring within the walls. Even the narrow windows were so shaped that an arrow aimed at one of them would almost certainly strike the cunningly-sloped side and rebound, instead of entering the building. The gate was of massive timbers held together by heavy iron hinges and studded with nails, and above it was a projecting stone gallery connecting the two gateway towers. This gallery was machicolated, or built with a series of openings in the floor, through which the defenders could shoot arrows upon the besiegers, or pour boiling pitch down upon them. This was a Saracen contrivance, and had been suggested and supervised by Sir Hugh l'Estrange, who had seen the like in Spain.
There was one place where all plans had gone wrong, and that was a part of the wall near the keep, almost under the windows of the well-chamber. It had been built three times, and always, before it was done, the stones would begin to slip and sink. Yesterday a section of wall had gone clean over into the river and carried a mason with it. Fortunately he could swim, and though nobody thought he would come out alive, he had scrambled up the bank very cold, somewhat bruised, and sputtering like a wet cat.
That brought the matter to a crisis. There were uneasy whispers of a curse on the mount, a tradition that no castle built there would ever be finished, an old custom of sacrificing some human being to be buried under the foundation of a castle for the pacifying of the ancient gods. And all of this uncanny terror was somehow connected with a hill some distance away toward the forest-clad mountains, where a low brown-tiled cottage crouched like a toad, under a poplar whose leaves were ever twinkling in the sun.
“Gualtier,” queried Lady Philippa, her eye following his, “what is it about old Mother Izan? The maids have been telling all sorts of foolish tales about her enchantments. What has she been doing?”
The knight laughed, but not very mirthfully. “Nothing whatever, in my opinion. But I may as well tell you—they say that she has overlooked the mount so that we shall never be able to finish this corner of the wall. It is vexatious, because I meant that nook for your garden. It is the only place that is sheltered from the wind and at the same time has sunshine and a good outlook. But the wall has thrice been all but finished, and each time the stones have begun to sink and topple. This time Howel the mason was nearly killed. Of course, a feeble bent old woman who can hardly hobble ten rods cannot have undermined a wall at this distance. That is absurd. But the panic the men have got into is not. That wall will have to be finished—somehow.”
Lady Philippa looked at the tumbled masses of stone. “It would be a charming place for roses,” she mused, and looked again at the cottage, where beside the door a gleam of water caught the light. “That is the spring they call the Fairies' Well.”
“Yes; it is one of the oldest wells in this part of England. The water is pure as the sunlight, and never fails. Hugh thinks it may be one of the places the heathen priests held sacred. It is not so very long since the people worshiped pagan gods.”
The lady traced a pattern in the dust with the point of her slender shoe. “I think,” she said, “that I will take the children and ride over to see Mother Izan.”
The knight made no objection, for the country was quiet, and he could see the party from the castle mount as they set forth, Lady Philippa on her black Arabian jennet, Eleanor and Roger on their forest ponies.
The children had had their own discussion about that wall the day before, and returned to it as they rode along the trail that led to Mother Izan's cottage. It was a longer way than it seemed from the height, for a marsh full of tall reeds almost encircled the hill on which the Fairies' Well was, and the trail kept to the high moorland above.
“I do wonder what is the matter with the wall,” mused Eleanor. “Do you suppose it can be bewitched, Roger?”
“Maybe,” Roger admitted. “But if Mother Izan can't keep her cow out of the bog I don't see how she could pull down a stone wall. It's like the story of Dinas Emrys father told me,” he added with relish. “King Vortigern was building a castle on Snowdon, and every night whatever they had built in the daytime fell down. After awhile they sent for old Merlin to see what the matter was. And it was two great serpents in a pool away down under the foundation. One was white and one was red, and they fought all the time. First the white one had the best of it, but the red one beat him at last, and chased him out of the pool. Merlin told them that the red serpent meant the British and the white serpent the Saxons, and the British would drive the Saxons out. But they haven't done it yet.”
This was deliciously horrible. “You don't suppose there are snakes under our castle, do you, Roger?”
“Of course not,” said Roger, pulling in his lively pony. “That was nothing but a tale. I wish I could bore a hole into the cliff, and see.”
“Collet says Mother Izan is a witch,” said Eleanor, abandoning the subject of snakes. “She hated it, when mother used some of her herb drinks last year.”
“I like Mother Izan,” said Roger sturdily. “She cured my leg once, when a stone fell on it—long before you came, when I was a little fellow.” Roger was not quite ten. “She knows more about plants and animals than anybody. Ruric let her doctor his dog, the big one he calls Cuchullin.”
“Collet doesn't like Ruric either,” said Eleanor.
“She doesn't like anybody here really, except mother and me. I never mind very much about what she says. There's Mother Izan in the doorway,—and oh, what has she got hanging up in the big tree?”
The old woman was a queer bent creature with greenish eyes like a cat's, and white unruly hair that would not stay under her coif. In fact she looked not unlike a gaunt, grim old puss who had all her life fought what crossed her path, from snakes to staghounds. She was so old that the village people could not remember when she had been young, and her grandsons were elderly men.
A wicker basket hung from the lowest branch of the poplar tree. In it, cradled in close fine-woven osiers with a lining of rabbitskin, lay a solemn black-eyed baby, looking almost as old as the old woman herself.
“It's like a changeling,” thought Eleanor, looking with fascinated eyes at the weird little being. Lady Philippa smiled, and laid her hand softly on the furry black head. “This is an unusual sight in your cottage,” she said. “Whence came it, Goody?”
“Tis none of mine,” old Izan grumbled, “'tis the brat of a scatter-brained woman—Kate, wife to Howel the mason. She came screeching at me saying the babe was a changeling I had left in place of her child of two years, and I should care for it. I have no mind for the tending of babes at my time of life, but I could not let the creature starve. Natheless 'tis but ill fed, for my cow was lost in the marsh, and none will let me have milk for it. Kate she's dead of a fever, and Howel will have naught of the young one, so I have made shift as I could, with bread soaked in herb drink.”
Lady Philippa was twisting a vine-garland into a leafy canopy to keep the sun from the baby's eyes. “'Tis a pretty baby,” she said, “though so small. The cow that was lost in the marsh—how did that happen?”
The old woman's eyes blazed with hatred. “My lady, the lads of the village drove her there, and the poor hunted beast floundered into a quagmire. I cursed them well for it, but that does not bring back the good cow. And Howel will do nothing for me because the child is so weazened and so small.”
The lady frowned. “It is all wrong,” she said, “the lads' cruelty and the cursing of them and the blame of the woman who thought you had witched her child. Sir Walter shall send you a goat that you can tether within sight of the cottage. In my country the folk often feed their babes on goat's milk, and I would like well to taste goat's milk cheese again. Is Howel at work now?”
“He was, my lady, but since he fell into the water he swears that he will work no more on the wall.”
Lady Philippa spoke but with winsome frankness,—“The men say, good mother, that the wall is witch-ridden because it has fallen thrice. They are afraid, that is why they do not reason. Surely in God's world we should be safe from such evil, if we serve Him. Perhaps if the baby grows fat and merry, Howel will be kinder. Has it been christened yet?”
“Nay—what have we to do with such gear? But my lady—heard ye never the old rhyme—
“'Overlook the Fairies' Well— None did that since Adam fell; Overlook the Fairies' Hill— Then Old Nick shall have his fill.'”
“That has naught to do with our castle,” said the lady wonderingly. “Look—the keep is no higher than your roof-tree. My lord chose not the site for its loftiness but for the sure foundation.”
“Aye,” chuckled the old woman, “you say well, 'tis a good foundation. All but that corner. Tell your lord to raise no towers on that corner.”
“I am sorry the wall has given so much trouble,” Lady Philippa said regretfully, “for that is the only place for my garden—my roses and violets and herbs. My lord will try once more to finish it. If I might have but that piece of garden it would be like a bit of my old home, and that is a dear treasure, Mother Izan, in a foreign land.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke, and Eleanor pressed close to her mother's side and held her hand. She had never heard a word before about her mother's longing for Provence.
As the three rode away old Izan stood for a long time, shading her eyes and gazing after them. Next morning a village boy in charge of Roger came up the path to her door, leading two bleating bewildered goats, which were securely fastened to a stake to graze at will.
“I came myself,” said Roger loftily, “because I meant to make sure that it was all right. I haven't forgotten the time you cured my leg, Mother Izan, and neither has father. Have those blue-tit eggs hatched yet?”
The old woman's brown withered face crinkled in a smile. “Trust you, Master Roger!” she muttered. “Come still.”
She hobbled around to the rear of the cottage and paused to draw aside a branch. Roger cautiously peered through the leaves, and a hiss like that of an angry snake sounded within.
“If I didn't know it was a bird I should think there was a snake or a cross cat in there,” said Roger, after he had had a look at the small but spirited bird-mother. “What ever makes her do that, Mother Izan?”
Old Izan put out a gnarled hand to feed the titmouse a few live insects. “Same as an old woman don't mind folk saying she's a witch so they let her alone, mayhap,” she said. “You'd not reach your hand in there if 'twas an adder's nest, I reckon.”
“I'm teaching Eleanor all the birds' names,” went on Roger, quite at his ease, munching a bit of flag-root. “They don't have the same names here that they do in Normandy, you know. Old Jehan—the gardener that used to know Eleanor's grandfather—taught me all their names when I was there. The nuthatch is Pic Macon, and the mum-ruffin is Pendolin, and the robin is Marie-Godrie. I'm going to show Eleanor the nest next time we come, if you don't mind.”
To the surprise of everybody old Izan rode up the castle mount one day on a borrowed donkey. “Howel he loaned it to me,” she explained dryly. “Seems like he has less fear of witches since little Gwillym began to fat up. I have secret things to speak of to my lord, Master Roger. Will 'ee take him word?”
In private, with only Sir Walter and Lady Philippa to hear, the old woman told her secret.
“'Tis the Fairies' Well that drags down your wall,” said she. “My grandfather told me the tale, and he had it from his father. The outlet is a hidden stream that runs underground to the river, and not the stream in the marsh as folk think. The underground channel goes under a corner of your mount. When the snows melt and the waters are strong in mountain and in valley, then rises the water in this channel, deep under the mount, and heaves at the rocks above it and throws down your wall. That is all the witchcraft of it. So long as 'twas your stones and battlements that fell I cared no whit, but when my lady told me that she would have her garden there I could not bear to think of the peril for her and the younkets. I am no witch, my lord, unless it be Satan that gives us to know more than others. But I have hated the Normans who came here to steal our land, and have helped my people to harass them in years gone by. All but you and Sir Hugh l'Estrange, they have despoiled and plagued the folk. But build no wall above the stream, for 'twill fall—'twill fall—'twill fall. The waters will pull it down.”
The knight sat thinking, his hands on the arms of his tall carved chair. “I am not so sure,” he said. “Maybe we can lift the curse on the mount and make the wall secure. You shall dwell in peace by your well so long as you may live, and your children after you, if you will show me where this channel goes and keep the secret. Tis in my mind that it is best to keep it secret still.”
The old woman looked up with bright inquiring eyes.
“See you,” the knight went on, “if we dig a channel to let the waters run to the river by a shorter swifter way there will be no more trouble. I think that we will make an excuse of draining the marsh. Then if we can, when the underground way is no more the channel of the stream, we will wall it in to make a secret passage from the castle in time of need. You have kept the secret so long that I may trust it with you—and there will be no more talk of the powers of evil taking toll of my people.”
Sir Walter rose and went his way, and in due time consulted with his head mason about the canal to the river. But Lady Philippa came and took both old Izan's work-hard hands in hers, and thanked her, with tears in her eyes. Thereafter no more masonry fell above the hidden waters, and the cottage by the Fairies' Well was left in peace.
LULLABY OF THE PICT MOTHER
Hush thee, my baby O! never thee cry, Cradled in wicker, safe nested so high. Never gray wolf nor green dragon come near,— Tree-folk in summer have nothing to fear. Hee-o, wee-o, hear the wild bees hummin', See the blackcock by the burnie drummin',— Wattle-weaving sit we snug and couthie,— Hee-o, wee-o, birdling in our boothie! Hush thee, my baby O! dark is the night— Cuddle by kiln-ring where fire burns bright. Trampling our turf-roof wild cattle we hear— Cave-folk in winter have nothing to fear. Kling-klang, ding-dong, hear the hammers clinking— Stone pots, iron kettles, copper cups for drinkin'! Elf-shots for bowmen plough a mighty furrow— Hee-o, wee-o, foxling in our burrow! Hush thee, my baby! The Beltane's aglow, Making the deasil the wiseacres go. Brewing our heather-wine, dancing in round— Earth-folk are we, by her spells are we bound. Hee-o, wee-o, hear the pipes a-croonin', Like the dragon's beetle-wings a-droonin', Dyeea guard us from the Sword-man's quellin',— Hee-o, wee-o, bairnie in our dwellin'! Hush thee, my baby O! hear the dogs bark, Herdin' the lammies home out o' the dark. Cradled and christened frae goblin's despite, House-folk we hear the kirk bells through the night. Hee-o, wee-o! hear the cricket chirrin', Hear auld Bawthrens by the ingle purrin',— Christ us keep while daddie's gone a-huntin'! Hee-o, wee-o, bonnie Babie Buntin'! The winds and the waters our Father shall praise, The birds, beasts and fishes shall tell o' His ways. O come all ye people, and praise ye our King!
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg