The Dragon of Wantley: His Tale

CHAPTER V.

In which the Hero makes his First Appearance and is Locked Up immediately

With the respect that was due to holy men, Sir Godfrey removed his helmet, and stood waiting in a decent attitude of attention to the hymn, although he did not understand a single word of it. The long deliberate Latin words rolled out very grand to his ear, and, to tell you the truth, it is just as well his scholarship was faulty, for this is the English of those same words:

But so devoutly did the monks dwell upon the syllables, so earnestly were the arms of each one folded against his breast, that you would never have suspected any unclerical sentiments were being expressed. The proximity of so many petticoats and kirtles caused considerable restlessness to Hubert; but he felt the burning eye of the Grand Marshal fixed upon him, and sang away with all his might.

Sir Godfrey began to grow impatient.

“Hem!” he said, moving his foot slightly.

This proceeding, however, was without result. The pious chant continued to resound, and the monks paid not the least attention to their visitors, but stood up together in a double line, vociferating Latin with as much zest as ever.

“Mort d’aieul!” growled Sir Godfrey, shifting his other foot, and not so gingerly this second time.

By chance the singing stopped upon the same instant, so that the Baron’s remark and the noise his foot had made sounded all over the room. This disconcerted him; for he felt his standing with the Church to be weak, and he rolled his eyes from one side to the other, watching for any effect his disturbance might have made. But, with the breeding of a true man of the world, the Grand Marshal merely observed, “Benedicite, my son!”

“Good-morning, Father,” returned Sir Godfrey.

“And what would you with me?” pursued the so-called Father Anselm. “Speak, my son.”

“Well, the fact is – ” the Baron began, marching forward; but he encountered the eye of the Abbot, where shone a cold surprise at this over-familiar fashion of speech; so he checked himself, and, in as restrained a voice as he could command, told his story. How his daughter had determined to meet the Dragon, and so save Wantley; how nothing that a parent could say had influenced her intentions in the least; and now he placed the entire matter in the hands of the Church.

“Which would have been more becoming if you had done it at the first,” said Father Anselm, reprovingly. Then he turned to Miss Elaine, who all this while had been looking out of the window with the utmost indifference.

“How is this, my daughter?” he said gravely, in his deep voice.

“Oh, the dear blessed man!” whispered Mistletoe, admiringly, to herself.

“It is as you hear, Father,” said Miss Elaine, keeping her eyes away.

“And why do you think that such a peril upon your part would do away with this Dragon?”

“Says not the legend so?” she replied.

“And what may the legend be, my daughter?”

With some surprise that so well informed a person as Father Anselm should be ignorant of this prominent topic of the day, Sir Godfrey here broke in and narrated the legend to him with many vigourous comments.

“Ah, yes,” said the Father, smiling gently when the story was done; “I do now remember that some such child’s tale was in the mouths of the common folk once; but methought the nonsense was dead long since.”

“The nonsense, Father!” exclaimed Elaine.

“Of a surety, my child. Dost suppose that Holy Church were so unjust as to visit the sins of thy knightly relatives upon the head of any weak woman, who is not in the order of creation designed for personal conflict with men, let alone dragons?”

“Bravo, Dragon!” thought Hubert, as he listened to this wily talk of his chief.

But the words “weak woman” had touched the pride of Miss Elaine. “I know nothing of weak women,” she said, very stately; “but I do know that I am strong enough to meet this Dragon, and, moreover, firmly intend to do so this very night.”

“Peace, my daughter,” said the monk; “and listen to the voice of thy mother the Church speaking through the humblest of her servants. This legend of thine holds not a single grain of truth. ’Tis a conceit of the common herd, set afoot by some ingenious fellow who may have thought he was doing a great thing in devising such fantastic mixture. True it is that the Monster is a visitation to punish the impiety of certain members of thy family. True it is that he will not depart till a member of that family perform a certain act. But it is to be a male descendant.”

Now Sir Godfrey’s boy Roland was being instructed in knightly arts and conduct away from home.

“Who told you that?” inquired the Baron, as the thought of his precious wine-cellar came into his head.

“On last Christmas Eve I had a vision,” replied Father Anselm. “Thy grandfather, the brave youth who by journeying to the Holy War averted this curse until thine own conduct caused it to descend upon us, appeared to me in shining armour. ‘Anselm,’ he said, and raised his right arm, ‘the Dragon is a grievous burden on the people. I can see that from where I am. Now, Anselm, when the fitting hour shall come, and my great-grandson’s years be mature enough to have made a man of him, let him go to the next Holy War that is proclaimed, and on the very night of his departure the curse will be removed and our family forgiven. More than this, Anselm, if any male descendant from me direct shall at any time attend a Crusade when it is declared, the country will be free forever.’ So saying, he dissolved out of my sight in a silver gleaming mist.” Here Father Anselm paused, and from under his hood watched with a trifle of anxiety the effect of his speech.

There was a short silence, and then Sir Godfrey said, “Am I to understand this thing hangs on the event of another Crusade?”

The Abbot bowed.

“Meanwhile, till that event happen, the Dragon can rage unchecked?”

The Abbot bowed again.

“Will there be another Crusade along pretty soon?” Sir Godfrey pursued.

“These things lie not in human knowledge,” replied Father Anselm. He little dreamed what news the morrow’s sun would see.

“Oh, my sheep!” groaned many a poor farmer.

“Oh, my Burgundy!” groaned Sir Godfrey.

“In that case,” exclaimed Elaine, her cheeks pink with excitement, “I shall try the virtue of the legend, at any rate.”

“Most impious, my daughter, most impious will such conduct be in the sight of Mother Church,” said Father Anselm.

“Hear me, all people!” shouted Sir Godfrey, foreseeing that before the next Crusade came every drop of wine in his cellar would be swallowed by the Dragon; “hear me proclaim and solemnly promise: legend true or legend false, my daughter shall not face this risk. But if her heart go with it, her hand shall be given to that man who by night or light brings me this Dragon, alive or dead!”

“A useless promise, Sir Godfrey!” said Father Anselm, shrugging his shoulders. “We dare not discredit the word of thy respected grandsire.”

“My respected grandsire be – ”

“What?” said the Abbot.

“Became a credit to his family,” said the Baron, quite mildly; “and I slight no word of his. But he did not contradict this legend in the vision, I think.”

“No, he did not, papa,” Miss Elaine put in. “He only mentioned another way of getting rid of this horrible Dragon. Now, papa, whatever you may say about – about my heart and hand,” she continued firmly, “I am going to meet the Monster alone myself, to-night.”

“That you shall not,” said Sir Godfrey.

“A hundred times no!” said a new voice from the crowd. “I will meet him myself!”

All turned and saw a knight pushing his way through the people.

“Who are you?” inquired the Baron.

The stranger bowed haughtily; and Elaine watched him remove his helmet, and reveal underneath it the countenance of a young man who turned to her, and —

Why, what’s this, Elaine? Why does everything seem to swim and grow misty as his eye meets yours? And why does he look at you so, and deeply flush to the very rim of his curly hair? And as his glance grows steadier and more intent upon your eyes that keep stealing over at him, can you imagine why his hand trembles on the hilt of his sword? Don’t you remember what the legend said?

“Who are you?” the Baron repeated, impatiently.

“I am Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers,” answered the young man.

“And what,” asked Father Anselm, with a certain irony in his voice, “does Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers, so far away from his papa in this inclement weather?”

The knight surveyed the monk for a moment, and then said, “As thou art not my particular Father Confessor, stick to those matters which concern thee.”

This reply did not please any man present, for it seemed to savour of disrespect. But Elaine lost no chance of watching the youth, who now stood alone in the middle of the hall. Sir Francis detected this, and smiled with a sly smile.

“Will some person inquire of this polite young man,” he said, “what he wishes with us?”

“Show me where this Dragon of Wantley comes,” said Geoffrey, “for I intend to slay him to-night.”

“Indeed, sir,” fluttered Elaine, stepping towards him a little, “I hope – that is, I beg you’ll do no such dangerous thing as that for my sake.”

“For your sake?” Father Anselm broke in. “For your sake? And why so? What should Elaine, daughter of Sir Godfrey Disseisin, care for the carcase of Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers?”

But Elaine, finding nothing to answer, turned rosy pink instead.

“That rules you out!” exclaimed the Father, in triumph. “Your legend demands a maid who never has cared for any man.”

“Pooh!” said Geoffrey, “leave it to me.”

“Seize him!” shouted Sir Godfrey in a rage. “He had ruled out my daughter.” Consistency had never been one of the Baron’s strong points.

“Seize him!” said Father Anselm. “He outrages Mother Church.”

The vassals closed up behind young Geoffrey, who was pinioned in a second. He struggled with them till the veins stood out in his forehead in blue knots; but, after all, one young man of twenty is not much among a band of stout yeomen; and they all fell in a heap on the floor, pulling and tugging at Geoffrey, who had blacked several eyes, and done in a general way as much damage as he possibly could under the circumstances.

But Elaine noticed one singular occurrence. Not a monk had moved to seize the young man, except one, who rushed forward, and was stopped, as though struck to stone, by Father Anselm’s saying to him in a terrible undertone, “Hubert!”

Simply that word, spoken quickly; but not before this Hubert had brushed against her so that she was aware that there was something very hard and metallic underneath his gray gown. She betrayed no sign of knowledge or surprise on her face, however, but affected to be absorbed wholly in the fortunes of young Geoffrey, whom she saw collared and summarily put into a cage-like prison whose front was thick iron bars, and whose depth was in the vast outer wall of the Monastery, with a little window at the rear, covered with snow. The spring-lock of the gate shut upon him.

“And now,” said Father Anselm, as the Monastery bell sounded once more, “if our guests will follow us, the mid-day meal awaits us below. We will deal with this hot-head later,” he added, pointing to the prisoner.

So they slowly went out, leaving Geoffrey alone with his thoughts.

CHAPTER VI.

In which Miss Elaine loses her Heart, and finds Something of the Greatest Importance

Down stairs the Grace was said, and the company was soon seated and ready for their mid-day meal.

“Our fare,” said Father Anselm pleasantly to Sir Godfrey, who sat on his right, “is plain, but substantial.”

“Oh – ah, very likely,” replied the Baron, as he received a wooden basin of black-bean broth.

“Our drink is – ”

The Baron lifted his eye hopefully.

“ – remarkably pure water,” Father Anselm continued. “Clement!” he called to the monk whose turn it was that day to hand the dishes, “Clement, a goblet of our well-water for Sir Godfrey Disseisin. One of the large goblets, Clement. We are indeed favoured, Baron, in having such a pure spring in the midst of our home.”

“Oh – ah!” observed the Baron again, and politely nerved himself for a swallow. But his thoughts were far away in his own cellar over at Wantley, contemplating the casks whose precious gallons the Dragon had consumed. Could it be the strength of his imagination, or else why was it that through the chilling, unwelcome liquid he was now drinking he seemed to detect a lurking flavour of the very wine those casks had contained, his favourite Malvoisie?

Father Anselm noticed the same taste in his own cup, and did not set it down to imagination, but afterwards sentenced Brother Clement to bread and water during three days, for carelessness in not washing the Monastery table-service more thoroughly.

“This simple food keeps you in beautiful health, Father,” said Mistletoe, ogling the swarthy face of the Abbot with an affection that he duly noted.

“My daughter,” he replied, gravely, “bodily infirmity is the reward of the glutton. I am well, thank you.”

Meanwhile, Elaine did not eat much. Her thoughts were busy, and hurrying over recent events. Perhaps you think she lost her heart in the last Chapter, and cannot lose it in this one unless it is given back to her. But I do not agree with you; and I am certain that, if you suggested such a notion to her, she would become quite angry, and tell you not to talk such foolish nonsense. People are so absurd about hearts, and all that sort of thing! No: I do not really think she has lost her heart yet; but as she sits at table these are the things she is feeling:

1. Not at all hungry.

2. Not at all thirsty.

3. What a hateful person that Father Anselm is!

4. Poor, poor young man!

5. Not that she thinks of him in that way, of course. The idea! Horrid Father Anselm!

6. Any girl at all – no, not girl, anybody at all – who had human justice would feel exactly as she did about the whole matter.

7. He was very good-looking, too.

8. Did he have – yes, they were blue. Very, very dark blue.

9. And a moustache? Well, yes.

Here she laughed, but no one noticed her idling with her spoon. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she pretended to be absorbed with the black-bean broth, though, as a matter of fact, she did not see it in the least.

10. Why had he come there at all?

11. It was a perfect shame, treating him so.

12. Perhaps they were not blue, after all. But, oh! what a beautiful sparkle was in them!

After this, she hated Father Anselm worse than ever. And the more she hated him, the more some very restless delicious something made her draw long breaths. She positively must go up-stairs and see what He was doing and what He really looked like. This curiosity seized hold of her and set her thinking of some way to slip away unseen. The chance came through all present becoming deeply absorbed in what Sir Godfrey was saying to Father Anselm.

“Such a low, coarse, untaught brute as a dragon,” he explained, “cannot possibly distinguish good wine from bad.”

“Of a surety, no!” responded the monk.

“You agree with me upon that point?” said the Baron.

“Most certainly. Proceed.”

“Well, I’m going to see that he gets nothing but the cider and small beer after this.”

“But how will you prevent him, if he visit your cellar again?” Father Anselm inquired.

“I shall change all the labels, in the first place,” the Baron answered.

“Ha! vastly well conceived,” said Father Anselm. “You will label your Burgundy as if it were beer.”

“And next,” continued Sir Godfrey, “I shall shift the present positions of the hogsheads. That I shall do to-day, after relabelling. In the northern corner of the first wine vault I shall – ”

Just as he reached this point, it was quite wonderful how strict an attention every monk paid to his words. They leaned forward, forgetting their dinner, and listened with all their might.

One of them, who had evidently received an education, took notes underneath the table. Thus it was that Elaine escaped observation when she left the refectory.

As she came up-stairs into the hall where Geoffrey was caged, she stepped lightly and kept where she could not be seen by him. All was quiet when she entered; but suddenly she heard the iron bars of the cage begin to rattle and shake, and at the same time Geoffrey’s voice broke out in rage.

“I’ll twist you loose,” he said, “you – (rattle, shake) – you – (kick, bang) – ” And here the shocking young man used words so violent and wicked that Elaine put her hands tight over her ears. “Why, he is just as dreadful as papa, just exactly!” she exclaimed to herself. “Whoever would have thought that that angelic face – but I suppose they are all like that sometimes.” And she took her hands away again.

“Yes, I will twist you loose,” he was growling hoarsely, while the kicks and wrenches grew fiercer than ever, “or twist myself stark, staring blind – and – ”

“Oh, sir!” she said, running out in front of the cage.

He stopped at once, and stood looking at her. His breast-plate and gauntlets were down on the floor, so his muscles might have more easy play in dealing with the bars. Elaine noticed that the youth’s shirt was of very costly Eastern silk.

“I was thinking of getting out,” he said at length, still standing and looking at her.

“I thought I might – that is – you might – ” began Miss Elaine, and stopped. Upon which another silence followed.

“Lady, who sent you here?” he inquired.

“Oh, they don’t know!” she replied, hastily; and then, seeing how bright his face became, and hearing her own words, she looked down, and the crimson went over her cheeks as he watched her.

“Oh, if I could get out!” he said, desperately. “Lady, what is your name, if I might be so bold.”

“My name, sir, is Elaine. Perhaps there is a key somewhere,” she said.

“And I am called Geoffrey,” he said, in reply.

“I think we might find a key,” Elaine repeated.

She turned towards the other side of the room, and there hung a great bunch of brass keys dangling from the lock of a heavy door.

Ah, Hubert! thou art more careless than Brother Clement, I think, to have left those keys in such a place!

Quickly did Elaine cross to that closed door, and laid her hand upon the bunch. The door came open the next moment, and she gave a shriek to see the skin of a huge lizard-beast fall forward at her feet, and also many cups and flagons, that rolled over the floor, dotting it with little drops of wine.

Hearing Elaine shriek, and not able to see from his prison what had befallen her, Geoffrey shouted out in terror to know if she had come to any hurt.

“No,” she told him; and stood eyeing first the crocodile’s hide and then the cups, setting her lips together very firmly. “And they were not even dry,” she said after a while. For she began to guess a little of the truth.

“Not dry? Who?” inquired Geoffrey.

“Oh, Geoffrey!” she burst out in deep anger, and then stopped, bewildered. But his heart leaped to hear her call his name.

“Are there no keys?” he asked.

“Keys? Yes!” she cried, and, running with them back to the bars, began trying one after another in trembling haste till the lock clicked pleasantly, and out marched young Geoffrey.

Now what do you suppose this young man did when he found himself free once more, and standing close by the lovely young person to whom he owed his liberty? Did he place his heels together, and let his arms hang gracefully, and so bow with respect and a manner at once dignified and urbane, and say, “Miss Elaine, permit me to thank you for being so kind as to let me out of prison?” That is what he ought to have done, of course, if he had known how to conduct himself like a well-brought-up young man. But I am sorry to have to tell you that Geoffrey did nothing of the sort, but, instead of that, behaved in a most outrageous manner. He did not thank her at all. He did not say one single word to her. He simply put one arm round her waist and gave her a kiss!

“Geoffrey!” she murmured, “don’t!”

But Geoffrey did, with the most astonishing and complacent disobedience.

“Oh, Geoffrey!” she whispered, looking the other way, “how wrong of you! And of me!” she added a little more softly still, escaping from him suddenly, and facing about.

“I don’t see that,” said Geoffrey. “I love you, Elaine. Elaine, darling, I – ”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” answered she, stepping back as he came nearer.

This was simply frightful! And so sudden. To think of her – Elaine! – but she couldn’t think at all. Happy? Why, how wicked! How had she ever —

“No, you must not,” she repeated, and backed away still farther.

“But I will!” said this lover, quite loudly, and sprang so quickly to where she stood that she was in his arms again, and this time without the faintest chance of getting out of them until he should choose to free her.

It was no use to struggle now, and she was still, like some wild bird. But she knew that she was really his, and was glad of it. And she looked up at him and said, very softly, “Geoffrey, we are wasting time.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Geoffrey.

“But we are.”

“Say that you love me.”

“But haven’t I – ah, Geoffrey, please don’t begin again.”

“Say that you love me.”

She did.

Then, taking his hand, she led him to the door she had opened. He stared at the crocodile, at the wine-cups, and then he picked up a sheet of iron and a metal torch.

“I suppose it is their museum,” he said; “don’t you?”

“Their museum! Geoffrey, think a little.”

“They seem to keep very good wine,” he remarked, after smelling at the demijohn.

“Don’t you see? Can’t you understand?” she said.

“No, not a bit. What’s that thing, do you suppose?” he added, giving the crocodile a kick.

“Oh, me, but men are simple, men are simple!” said Elaine, in despair. “Geoffrey, listen! That wine is my father’s wine, from his own cellar. There is none like it in all England.”

“Then I don’t see why he gave it to a parcel of monks,” replied the young man.

Elaine clasped her hands in hopelessness, gave him a kiss, and became mistress of the situation.

“Now, Geoffrey,” she said, “I will tell you what you and I have really found out.” Then she quickly recalled all the recent events. How her father’s cellar had been broken into; how Mistletoe had been chained to a rock for a week and no dragon had come near her. She bade him remember how just now Father Anselm had opposed every plan for meeting the Dragon, and at last she pointed to the crocodile.