William H. Babcock - Cian of the Chariots - Chapter I: Cian to the Rescue lyrics

CHAPTER I. CIAN TO THE RESCUE. Thou Guider of the chariot of Arthur. – GILDER. RED through the fringe of the river of mist, it shone to the eye of Cian, Arthur's fighting man, Briton of Britons, prince and poet of the north. The sunset was on him. He had halted a little over the round of the hill, where the ancient Ermine way came southward out of the woods. He marvelled at the unwholesome ruddiness in that dying light, the parti-colored streaking of distemper, the ruinous upjutting of wall and house-top bathed in the dimming vapor. Only in one spot a white tower, delicately strong, lifted itself high above the reek. He knew it for the work of a people whom he did not love, a race that had but lately melted from the land, with its magic of beauty and of power. And still the vapor shroud flowed on above the liv-[Page 10] ing stream, and the town enfeebled and hidden, until it spread over the eastern marshes like an inland sea. The soul of London seemed melting by him, and away. He called to mind the young strength and glory of Camelot, the ripe splendor of far Caerleon. Words of forecast came to him, as they came full often and strangely. He said aloud, "A city in its winding-sheet; a dying city." A strong figure was that of Cian Gwenclan; every way memorable. Cian of the chariots, men oftenest called him; Cian of the golden mail, from the flexile body-garment, – a filmy corselet hiding the good bronze or steel, – which burned even now in the low sunbeams. Over the heart a single spray of mistletoe was wrought in silver. It had a magical look and name. This repute often befriended him. His chariot stood near, – for almost alone among northern princes he fought and journeyed in the light rushing war-vehicle of elder Britain, – the brown horse turning from the light, the carven boar's head grinning on the front of it, the helmet and weapons glowing within where he had flung them down. His eyes were deep, dark, and bright in that western glow, his face dark and vivid also, – a warrior-minstrel face of action and many musings. The hair fell to his shoulders in ma**es, fine, glossy black, gently waving. He wore the long mustache also of his time. He had the bearing and stature befitting [Page 11] an equestrian of Arthur's court, a veteran of rough campaigns. There came a patter of hoofs behind; and Llywarch of Argoed, in the saddle, drew up at his side. Llywarch had the fuller outline, a trifle the lesser height. His raised visor showed a younger-looking countenance, winning and flushed. The heart shone out of it. There were mischief and waywardness in the hazel eyes, but also uprightness and clear wisdom at need. Like his friend Cian and many others of their rank, in that romantic day, he touched the harp-strings, and put words of melody to them; although not yet had suffering and loss wrung from him that enduring poetry which later ages a**ociate with his name. "Not the cheerfullest of places," quoth he, with a glance at the city. "Yet after all it is no more than water in the air. And you – hatching prophecy and destruction, I warrant? You look it." Cian regained his seat, and replied: "I have been waiting for a man who has time to follow stray footmarks in the woods, when the emperor sends him." Llywarch grew sober. "It was an archer who made that footprint," said he, "a lively fellow who can hit his mark from a swaying bough. See here," and he put his finger to an arrow-dent in his casque. "By the time I was right in the saddle again my grinning marksman was gone. I followed as far as [Page 12] a brookside, but that was all of him. I began to fear that he would let fly at me out of the water." "A Saxon?" "Not a doubt of that." "So near the great city? When the stag weakens, the wolves gather. Listen." They looked at each other, as the cry of a wolf indeed came lugubriously from the depth of the wood. As they rode on, it opened again, with purpose in it; then another and another, a succession of racing voices. They were descending a tongue of the highlands which tapered very gradually into the marsh by the northern wall. On their left a depression deepened and widened into a ravine, where mist-films were drifting, and water murmured. Beyond it, farther down, they could discern the outline of some large low building. Lights were coming out in it. Beyond, ma**es which might be villa ruins half showed themselves. But everything grew momently thicker to the sight, and, indeed, could scarcely be seen with certainty at all, unless it stood on high ground in the very eye of the west. They had neither met nor pa**ed any wayfarer. The road was all their own. No sound came to them but of the wolves, the low-complaining runnel, and the uneasy soul of London, murmuring. It was a region where great wealth had been and should be [Page 13] again, but not the remotest wilderness could be more lonesome and desolate. "Are they after us, I wonder?" queried Llywarch, with a smile; for armed and mailed men had no need to concern themselves at that season. It was comical to be wolf-hunted, with an emperor's despatches, into one of the great cities of the world. "Hardly," answered Cian. "It seems rather like the purposeless demon-hunting of old tales and winter nights. Listen. See." He pointed down obliquely to where that sinister hurrying chorus came up again from the slant of the farther side. Fancy and eye-straining gave them vision of dim, long, swollen figures, making forward ravenously. The lights of the villa were seen in sudden motion, and voices called with anxious inquiry and dismay. The horses meanwhile made wild haste down the road, the mere presence of the wolves being more than any whip or spur. Then from over the gulf came the scream of a child and a woman's call for aid, in evident extremity of need. They shouted back, and plunged down together, uncertain of obstacles, forcing the horses on as into the shock of battle. As they went they could hear before them exclamations of horror and repulsion, the child's broken wailing, and the ring of metal on stone; but no more call to them, for the woman knew they were coming. [Page 14] Only as Cian sped up alone over the crest, a glad cry broke from her. He saw the sweep of a great weapon, and heard a brutish howl. Then his right wheel struck and shattered, the chariot spun round, pitching over, and he barely saved himself by a forward leap. That landed him among the already scattering pack, and his sword cut into them right and left, as he made his way to her. He had not, for long, the picture before him there which abode in memory always. Where some white goddess had toppled over in the ruin of the villa garden, on the tall pedestal the lady towered above her crouching sister, the over-heavy battle-axe shearing every way in her hands, a divine maid, the very genius of armed and wrathful protection. Instantly her enemies were gone. The mist of the deep hollow received them. With long breaths, she dropped her weapon behind her, and leaned back on the helve of it, unhurt, her brow smoothing itself, and a smile growing in her face, but weariness growing also. "I cannot tell you how I thank you," she said, with labor, as he came near, holding out hands of aid. "Go, Sylvia," she added faintly. Pretty Sylvia was still in the bewilderment of terror; but she glanced upward at her tall sister in new concern and surprise, – for how could weakness be there? Then she gave herself, nestling and shudder-[Page 15] ing, to the arms of the stranger. When he had set her down beside him, she remained watchful and silent, except for a word of persuasion, – "Aurelia! Aurelia!" – as he reached up his hands again. "I must be a Saxon this time, and rob the pedestal," said he rea**uringly. She waved his hand aside with a smile, then laid her own on his shoulder to descend." I would rather not be pulled down and broken. That is the Saxon way," said she. But she lingered, swaying. He watched her, fearing a fall, and ready; yet answered," I do not carry my animosity so far. Though I have little love for Roman gods, old or new." "Then I will be Hecate no longer," she said, laughing weakly, and let herself down with a half spring. It was her utmost endeavor. As her feet touched the ground, she bent, and would have quite fallen, but for his arm thrown around her. She had no choice but to rest against him a moment. "The goddess of feebleness, if there ever was one!" she murmured ruefully. I am Cian Gwenclan," he said. "Rest easy. Breath and vigor will come again." Small wonder if he were not very eager for that revival, her face being very near his shoulder, her [Page 16] form close against his own. Her imperial womanliness, unwillingly appealing, carried his whole nature by storm. In all his stirring life, Cian had never felt so almost fiercely happy. "Cian of the Chariots? Prince Cian of the golden mail, whom we have heard about?" she said after an interval; then she straightened herself, remembering that this knowledge had first come by touch. But she added frankly, "Before you spoke I knew you. My name you have heard. My father is Constantine the merchant, grandson of Constans, who was Cæsar, as you know. And to-night – but that does not matter. Our home is just above, the only one left near. But for you, the wolves would have torn us." There was an involuntary movement toward him, but she felt the little one pulling distressfully at her tunic. "What makes him smile so?" demanded Sylvia. "I don't like him to smile that way." She did not mean Cian, though some such odd notion at first came into his mind. Her gaze was on a dark wolf-form which lay twitching, too low for them to see plainly. Cian took up the axe, and ended it at a blow. "That was hardly needed," he said. "You should be a warrior maiden of olden time, such as the legends tell." [Page 17] "It was the weapon," she said. "I picked up that ma**ive thing, as I hurried out after our truant." "Ma**ive – yes! And I have borne arms up the hills by the Duglas, and in the deep sands of the Glem." By this time lights and voices were wandering anxiously. She called back to them. Cian added his voice, "Ho, Llywarch!" as they with Sylvia began moving away. For answer the horse of the prince of Argoed came and stood riderless before them. Cian gave a quick cry; then called vehemently, "Llywarch! Llywarch! Llywarch!" In the confusion of voices now centring on them he could not find that of his friend; but a sound of savage worrying came up out of the hollow. He wavered for a moment. "Go!" said she, and he began rushing down the slope. At a little distance the answer of Llywarch halted him; and as Cian turned aside, the two were together. "The child – the woman?" Llywarch demanded. "Safe, – but I feared" – "What, that the messenger of Arthur had gone to the wolves? No, man, I am all here – and rather more of me by weight than formerly. For I have been headlong into the mire, I promise you." "But what is that?" indicating the noise below. [Page 18] "I cannot say. Let us see." Guided by ear, they came presently on a clump of dark bodies in turmoil, working away mercilessly at something on the ground. Cian had drawn back his sword, when lantern-light shone on it and its living target. Several voices called on him to forbear. "They are our brave house-guards," Aurelia explained, as she joined them. "Off, Dorwach! Here, Juno!" They were beyond mistaking now. The body of the great mastiff was too thick and furry for any of his wild kin; and though the hound, his companion, was leaner and smoother, no wolf ever came thus gambolling about a mistress. Little Sylvia screamed, for there was blood all over their jaws, and the lamplight made it vivid, while their antics brought it very near. "One of the wounded enemy," said Llywarch, bending over something which they had left. "Served as Caowl, the woodlander, would serve a Saxon. I have no liking for that inhuman way." "The dogs have done well," said one of the attendants, in surly protest. "Well for dogs with wolves," replied Aurelia. " Not so well for men with men. You see," she added, turning to the gentlemen, "our people have no wish to be the thralls of sea-robbers." Llywarch was examining the dead wolf closely. [Page 19] "A strong blow," said he. " I marvel the beast got so far. Shoulder bitten through from in front – blade-bitten. Chest laid half open. A strong blow – yet not a man's blow," he added, raising himself inquiringly. "I remember the frightful creature," said Aurelia, quivering a little. "He was the worst of them." "This is the lady whose father we were bidden to have speech with," said Cian, and presented his friend in due form. "Also," remarked Llywarch, "the lady who saved herself while two fighting men of Arthur's camp were making a poor pretence of coming to her aid." He drew his face down ruefully. "I was not stuck in a bog," observed Cian. For indeed all the upper part of Prince Llywarch was eloquent beyond expounding, the helmet, especially, being two or three of itself in ma**, notwithstanding a continual dislodgement. The domestics began laughing. Even Aurelia half joined. "Come," said she, "we who caused your distress at least will relieve it. Surely you will go no farther now." Llywarch shook his head. "Our first charge is to deliver, somewhat within the gates," he said. "To our grief, we may not tarry – unless there be other noble damsels by the way who keep tryst with wild animals in the dark." [Page 20] "You will find none," she said; "all is waste between here and the walls." "And you linger on with the wolves?" "We linger. But they rarely come ravening like this. It is held an evil sign." "Of the Saxon?" "So say our people; and there has been dreadful work eastward. However, by day all is yet safe here from man and beast. This is a rare place for play, and garden flowers run wild. No doubt Sylvia slipped off on some such quest, and lingered until the twilight surprised her. Was it not so, Sylvia?" The child began to whimper at the remembrance. "Let us go home; do let us go home," was her imploring cry. "Patience, darling. Yet I, too, think that would be well. Gentlemen, I urge no one from duty; but since you have errands with my father, we may perhaps hope to see you soon again." "But is he not at the city?" "Yes; and it is as well. Though if spared the wolf-howling and worrying" – "He enjoys other fraternal sounds. There they are again." From distant London angry calls came confusedly. "Yes," she replied with a sigh; "farewell, until you return – with my gratitude." [Page 21] "Ours, much rather," said Cian and Llywarch in a breath. As they spoke she turned away with her men. From the other side the princes' horses were brought. There was a saddle on Cian's already. It was bridled also. They regained the road easily, and pressed on again. "A surpa**ing woman!" commented Llywarch, after silence. "Imperial," a**ented Cian. "Hence our errand, it may be." The words had an ill taste evidently. "Cian," said Llywarch with seriousness, "it is hardly for us to judge. But the emperor will not, I deem, look outside of the house of Caradoc. He can very ill spare the right arm of his realm and host; but he knows if there were one man here such as she, London would count for Britain." "There is her father." "He is the last you should praise. Rome has gone. You cannot turn the stream backward. That is what Constantine seeks to do. Nevertheless, he may have a trial." But there was more against Constantine than his worship of old. He had thriven vastly in trade, whatever his claim by birth, beginning with hidden stores put by in the great exodus with the legions, to be found by those who knew. He could marshal wealth and the wealth-bringers mightily and with [Page 22] sk**; and very proud he was of some resemblance in feature to that great Julius who crossed the Rubicon into empire. But the dread of loss came easily to him; and he had the trader's instinct to conciliate and bargain, rather than the iron hand of the soldier, holding its purpose with firm grip unto the end.