Little Lost Lambs From the Colliery Read online

  To Saskia van de Kruisweg

  for providing all of the scans

  that made this possible.

  Home from Bethlehem

  Where Love Comes First

  At Alexander’s Palace

  Behind the Veil

  The Watcher

  The Hour of the Ghosts

  The Wizard’s Eye

  Money Changer

  The Devil’s Current

  Near Baghdad

  Tiger, Tiger

  The Empress’ Yankee

  Bolshaya, Room Three

  Detour to Persepolis

  Over the Hill to Cathay

  The Stolen Countess

  Collier's Magazine artwork

  Acknowledgements

  Home from Bethlehem

  IN THE early hours of that morning Rob made his way into the forest. The bitter cold of the night left the snow hard underfoot, and over his head the wind rattled the bare branches. Rob kept to the paths, ever watching out for men and listening for dogs. He was seven years old and he had no fear of anything except the Boar’s men. And the forest belonged to the Boar.

  When he came to a clump of firs the boy gathered sticks, breaking them into even lengths and laying them in a pile. When he saw bare patches of ground he searched for acorns and black chestnut burs, putting what he found into the sack that swung from his belt. He shiv­ered as he ran on, because his leather jacket was too big for,him and did not keep out the bite of the wind. He wanted to hurry out of the forest with his firewood and nuts. For tonight would be Christmas Eve.

  His blue eyes gleamed in his chilled face as he thought over what he would do that evening. First Ellen would fin­ish the cake, after she had ground up the acorn piths and chestnuts; then she would roast the half of the goose the bowman had promised to bring in. At the sunset hour they would carry two candles, Ellen and he, to the stone church where they would light the can­dles, and Father Jehan would hold Christ's Mass with singing and music. . . . Perhaps he would see mummers at the inn yard, or even a dancing bear.

  Excited by the thought, the boy tossed his tousled head, trying to whistle the way the bowman did. And then he turned swiftly, crouching in his tracks. Within bowshot of him three men were walking swiftly along another path. They wore steel caps and leather jacks—the one in the rear, looking, straight into Rob's eyes, carried a bow ready strung.

  THE boy knew they were three of the Boar’s men, so he scurried to a pile of brush and flung himself down behind it. As he did so he heard the arrow crash through the branches above him, and he peered out to see what they were doing, before starting to run.

  To his surprise they hastened on, past him. They were going toward the high­way that ran through the forest, and the boy's heart throbbed painfully. He was afraid of them—even the bowman gave them a wide berth—and he wanted to run. More than once he had watched them halt a wayfaring merchant and strip wallet and gear from the man.

  When they had vanished, Rob fol­lowed beside the trail, running from thicket to thicket. When he saw the clear lane of the road, no wider than a spear, he climbed to the top of a ridge where he could lie and watch unseen.

  Below him the three Boar's men had their heads together, standing in the middle of the road which ran through a gully at this place. They were looking toward the turn of the road, and Rob knew that they had seen something com­ing up, from their watch post in the upper branches of a lone tree. After a moment one of them drew his short sword and laid it on the trodden snow, then stretched himself out upon it, as it sore hurt. The second fellow, who had only a stout cudgel, knelt beside him, while the third leaned on a long pole-ax. So they covered the narrow road.

  As they did so, around the turn came a rider. A stranger,Rob thought—a soli­tary man in a faded gray mantle and a squirrel-skin hunting cap. Behind his fine, long-limbed charger plodded a loaded pack-horse. The three rogues in the road looked up as if seeing him for the first time, and the one with the cudgel rose to his feet.

  “Look ’ee, my lord,” he begged, “here is a poor wight wi’ a brok­en knee.”

  Coming to the pros­trate man, the stranger, reined in. He glanced idly about the gully, and bent forward to scrutinize the fellow in the snow. The fellow with the cudgel edged forward, and raised his stick slowly behind the stranger.

  Rob's blood burned in his veins and he could not keep silent. “'Ware ye, sir!” he cried shrilly.

  But as he cried out two things happened. Dropping the rein, the stranger thrust out his left arm, catching the rogue with the cudgel under the chin—sending him staggering back. And the stranger's right arm plunged beneath his loose mantle, coming forth with a long sword bared. The sword whirled and struck to the right, and it splintered the shaft of the pole-ax that—unnoticed by the boy—had been swinging down upon him.

  Catching up his rein, the stranger wheeled his horse to the right, striking with the flat of his blade the iron cap of the wight, who stood amazed, the broken shaft in his hand. Then the stranger looked to the left, but the chap with the cudgel was showing his heels down the road, and the one who had shammed in­jury was leaping for safety like a rab­bit. And in a moment the third got up, holding his head and stumbling into the forest, leaving his bow where it had fallen.

  The stranger was fairly under Rob, his gray eyes questing into the thicket. “Come out, whelp,” he said grimly. “Show thyself.”

  Rob had lain hidden from fear of the fleeing Boar’s henchmen, but now a great excitement seized him, and he slipped down the bank to the horse­man’s stirrup.

  “Art thou the cub of the pack?” the man laughed. “Well, I give thee thanks for thy warning—though late it came.”

  THE boy lifted his head angrily. “Can you not see, my lord, that I am no cut-purse churl? Nay, they hunt me with arrows when I am i’ the forest.” He laid his hand eagerly on the worn saddle. “What a good blow it was you gave them! Are you not—my lord father?”

  The stranger had a scar down one cheek, so that when he smiled, as he did now, his lips twisted curiously. “Now that is not easy to say,” he re­sponded, “unless you will even tell me your mother’s name.”

  “My lady mother,” said Rob gravely, “lieth i’ her grave these three years. But my lord father is Errart of Dion.”

  To Rob, afire with excitement, it seemed that he never would speak. “What manner of cub art thou,” he muttered, “not to know thy own sire?”

  “I know him not, for good reason,” the boy maintained stoutly. “Five years ago my father went with the crusade beyond the sea, to set free the tomb of Seigneur Jesus from the infidels. Yea, he went with the host of our good King, and we have had no word of him. Are you not—my father?”

  The gray eyes of the stranger dwelt upon the lad, noting his erect bearing and his misfit jacket.

  “Speak!” cried Rob, stamping his foot. “This is the road to Dion—are you not lord of Dion?”

  “I know not.”

  Rob drew back, staring. “Know you not your name—is it mocking me you are?”

  Bending down, the stranger lifted him bodily to the saddle horn; then, tak­ing off his fur cap, he raised the boy’s hand to his head, and bade him feel the scarred bone above his temple. “A sword dealt me that beyond the sea,” he said, “and now a mist of magic lieth upon my thoughts. I have no home, and I know not what road to take. Sure it is that I fought in the war at Jerusalem, where so many good men lost life. Sure it is that we have come home like sparrows scattered in a storm, one by one, stripped and bare. Now," he smiled his twisted' smile, “this is verily a strange meeting, between a son who knoweth not his sire, and a man who knoweth not his mind.”

  Avoiding the intent
eyes of the boy, he pondered. “What is thy name, cub? Robert—of Dion? Show me the way to Dion, and we may there find the truth.”

  “Nay,” said Rob promptly, “the Boar is now in Dion castle.”

  “And who might he be, this Boar?”

  “He weareth the head of a boar upon his own, yea, with tusks.”

  Quietly the stranger plied the boy with questions, until he understood that this Boar was the leader of strong bands of henchmen who patrolled the roads, laying tribute upon merchants and pilgrims, and at times seizing peo­ple for ransom. No mercy was shown to those who did not pay. The Boar said that the money went to pay for guarding the roads and taverns from robbers. But the countryside evidently went in fear of the Boar for good rea­son.

  Rob took little heed. Clasping his hands proudly on the saddle horn, he peered at the packhorse which carried leather sacks and two covered shields and even a spare sword. For years the boy had watched the road, to see if his father would not ride back to Dion. Now this mindless man had come, and had driven off the Boar's men like rats—and Rob wished that everyone could see him, riding in this glory upon a real war horse. But the road was empty, and the short lane that led to the boy's home—a hut with a thatched roof under the pines.

  THE stranger looked about him. “And what is this hovel?”

  “Know you not Ellen?”

  A girl was standing in the door, a girl in a coarse dress, with heavy-tresses gleaming upon her slender shoulders. Too thin her cheeks, the stranger thought, too dark her eyes—and yet she should have been beautiful. She might be sixteen years.

  “This girl is your sister?” he asked.

  “Aye,” cried Rob, his tongue tripping with eagerness. “You do remember! Ellen, is—is not this one my lord fa­ther?”

  Coming out to them, the girl helped Rob down from the saddle, and the stranger dismounted. “Nay, Rob,” she said gently. “Not this one.”

  “But, look how tall he is, and his mind is gone from him, so belike he knoweth us not.”

  “Surely,” a smile touched her lips, “I would know my father, who was older than this lord—much older, and dark like myself.” Then to the man she added, “I ask pardon, Seigneur, for this whim of my brother, and I bid you wel­come. Rob, take the led horse to the shed.”

  When he had vanished around the hut, the girl spoke to the stranger, low-voiced. “Two years ago, my lord, Sir Errart of Dion, my father, died in battle before Jerusalem, beyond the sea. But Rob knoweth not. I have kept it from him, for he hath set his heart upon hav­ing his father come home again. Nor do they know it for certain in the vil­lage, although they have heard tales.”

  This girl, the stranger thought, was half wasted with hunger, and yet the lad looked sturdy. She had not stinted him food. In her eyes and lips lay the sign of hurt, yet her voice was clear and she had greeted him, a wayfarer, as if a great house stood behind her. Instead, here was a peasant’s hutch without serving women, or a man to defend her.

  THE stranger could not take his eyes from her face. For years he had not talked with a girl of his own race. He knew the long ache of hunger and the empty hours of prison; he knew the dull bite of wounds and the fever that fol­lowed. On his body he bore the scars of defeat. Now he had said farewell to the war, and he sought but one thing ... everything else was a mist of magic. One thing he knew: the very elves of this forest must have woven an invisible thread that bound him to this solitary girl.

  “Why are you so fair?” he whispered. “I had not thought a girl could be so fair.”

  Her dark eyes met his without flinching. “Well do I know that I am grown a forest girl, with a rough skin:”

  “Then you have but a poor mirror.”

  “It is a pond,” she laughed, “and when I look into it I see the great clouds passing.”

  “Why, then, are you not at Dion—you, the maid of Dion?”

  She told him what all the country­side knew. How after Sir Errart had gone forth with the men-at-arms upon the crusade, her mother had died and she at thirteen years of age had been left with the steward to care for the lands and cattle. Sir Trigault had come by with a following of jackmen and had stopped as a guest at the castle. At first he had craved hospitality, then, when more of his men came up, he had told her bluntly that he would abide as protector of the place. Yet he had quar­reled with the few retainers of Sir Er­rart and had slain the steward, and Dion had been his. In these troubled times other lords did not bother about the fate of a crusader's castle and chil­dren, and the good King was dead be­yond the sea.

  “SO,” the stranger mused, “this Trigault is your Boar, with tusks? I warrant he sought then to wed you, so that Dion should be his in right and law!”

  Flushing, the girl tossed her head. “So did he not, for he broke down the door and came in to me at night, and I struck him with a dagger that I had, so that he went away to stanch his bleed­ing, and Rob and I ran to Father Jehan, who gave us this hut.”

  “And Sir Boar, did he not follow?”

  “Nay, perhaps he fears the curse of Father Jehan, or the arrows of the hunters.”

  “Seigneur!” Rob came hurrying up to him with a fresh notion. “Even if you are not, belike, my father, will you not abide with us?”

  The tall wayfarer looked down at the boy thoughtfully, and Ellen spoke quickly:

  “My lord—”

  “Black Michael they call me. And I no longer have any man for friend.” Ellen considered him in surprise. This mindless man had riddles about him, for he was light of hair and brown of face, and not at all dark. He spoke harshly, and still his gray eyes seemed not harsh. He did not act as if he had lost his mind. She knew him to be a knight, even if the gold had worn from his spurs, for he had the voice and man­ner of one accustomed to command. Standing there with the fine war horse, he made the hut seem poor, as it was.

  Black Michael brushed his hand across his forehead. “For five long years,” he said softly, “I have had no merry Yuletide and there is a longing in me for the spiced wine, and the song and the merry heart of it.”

  “Good!” Rob leaped up eagerly. “El­len will make the cake, and we have two candles.”

  A bleak look came upon the man’s face. “This is a sorry hutch. I will find a better place.”

  He need not have said that, she knew. While Rob stared in dismay, she hid the swift hurt of his words. “There is a tavern in Dion village a short ride on.”

  “Nay,” Michael checked her words, and paced the ground impatiently. “I shall try the castle, where Sir Trigault must have a jolly hall. But I will leave the packhorse in your shed.”

  “Sir Michael,” she said bitterly, “we thank you for yielding the led horse to our poor hospitality.”

  “More than that, Ellen,” he said thoughtfully, “if I come not back again, horse and pack are yours. You will find therein a mirror and a rare fine dress of velvet.”

  Again she bowed to him. “I thank you, my lord, for the alms that I would burn before I touch.”

  “Be not so sure.”

  For an instant his hand stroked her bent head, and when she cried out an­grily she saw that he was walking away hastily with the war horse toward the shed, with Rob following. For a mo­ment she stared after him, and then ran into the hut.

  He had spoken harshly to her, and yet her heart beat fiercely in her breast.

  “Saw you it?” The boy came running in. “Ellen! He put on fine mail—yea, he took the great shield from its cover, and it was our shield. I saw the lion of Dion.”

  The girl took him on her knee and pressed his head against her throat. “Rob, there be many devices of lions, and thou art a child.” And as he wrig­gled rebelliously, she tightened her grip. “Hearken, Rob, ’tis wrong to hide it from thee longer. Thy father died in the war. They told me years ago but I wished not to tell thee, because—he will never come home.”

  THAT noon a throng gathered at the great tavern of Dion village to drink their holiday cup, and to gossip and to look at the s
tranger. For his horse stood saddled by the door, with the gray mantle thrown over him, and Black Michael sat in the high seat by the fire, drinking a bowl of hot spiced wine.

  Word had got about that this strange lord had bested three of the Boar’s men on the road, yet he said naught of it—in fact, he said no word at all—and he drank as comfortably as in his own hall.

  Moreover, at his knee stood Sir Errart’s shield with the Dion lion, and upon the breast of his faded surcoat a ragged crusader’s cross was still to be seen.

  A little after noon a sallow youth came to the tavern, with a burly ax-man striding behind' him. The youth called for no wine, but stood between Black Michael and the fire while the ax-man loitered near. The company of men upon the benches craned their necks to watch and the tavern-keeper hung about anxiously, for the youth was a swordsman and lieutenant of the Boar. He stared at the shield, until Black Michael turned it toward him so that he could see the better.

  “Know you this?” he asked.

  “I know well,” the sallow man sneered; “it is the shield of Errart of Dion, who is carrion in the ground.” Black Michael had noticed that this newcomer had a silver boar’s head on the clasp of his belt.

  “Nay,” he said equably, “it is mine.”

  “And who art thou to bear it?” Black Michael smiled his wry smile. “And have you not heard,” he asked, “how at times the dead walk the earth, bearing their scars home?”