Part 5

“I never take bribes,” she said, “nor, as a rule, do I tolerate those who offer them; but if you will tell me the truth, I will do my best to bring the King and my mistress together.”

So the old man told her all.

When the lady returned to the palace, she took the fragments of the wreath and put them carefully together. The petals she collected and sewed into their right places with fine silk; it was so deftly done that no one could suspect them of having been broken.

The next day there was to be a banquet at the palace, and before the time came for the Princess to get ready, the lady took one of her maids aside. “While you are fastening the pins of Her Royal Highness’s veil,” said she, “and before you put on her crown, you must scream as though you had pricked your finger. Do as I tell you and ask no questions, for I myself will be present and keep her wrath from you.”

So when the Princess sat before her mirror, the maid brought her veil and began to fasten it, while the lady stood by with the wreath concealed in her wide sleeve. All at once the girl shrieked aloud: “Oh! oh! I have torn my finger with a pin!”

“You unmannerly jade!” cried the lady, “will you make all this to-do while Her Highness is dressing? Off with you, and I will fasten the crown myself.”

And she thrust her from the room and took her place.

Suddenly the Princess looked up into the glass, and saw, instead of her crown, the wreath of half-opened flowers with their golden centres glowing through her hair. She put up her hand to tear the thing from her head; but just as she was going to do so, her lips trembled, and she leaned, sobbing, against the table, her face buried in her hands.

* * * * *

Great was the joy in the palace that night. The Princess sat at her father’s side with a strange look in her eyes, but her speech was gentle and her voice soft. The lady-in-waiting watched her, smiling. She had given the true history of the wreath, and she wondered what would happen.

* * * * *

Before dawn next morning the Princess rose. Without a word to anyone, she ordered her horse to be brought, and, riding by the quietest streets, left the city while the world was yet asleep. She took with her a heavy purse full of gold, which she hid in the trappings of the saddle, and her spaniel, Giroflé, which she carried on her knee. A mantle was thrown over her head, that her face should not be seen, and under it she still wore the wreath of flowers. Her way took her past the old man’s lodging, and there she stopped.

“Come out!” she cried. “Here are some gold pieces. Go to the stable, take the best mule you can find, and follow me. I have vowed to wear the wreath from the Tree of Pride until I can mend the heart that its evil magic has broken. I have determined to seek out the King and ask his forgiveness for all I have done.”

The old man desired nothing better. In a few minutes he came from the stable, leading a fine strong mule, and, as soon as he was mounted, they set off, and passed through the city gate while the sun was still rising through the mist.

Now, the little dog, Giroflé, was not in the best of tempers, for he resented his position very much. He had spent a pampered youth in the royal palace, and was now entering on a worldly and selfish middle age. His mistress had always made a great deal of him, and she now took him with her, because she feared his arrogant manners would earn him scant consideration in her absence. She knew that he thought himself a great deal better than her chief lady-in-waiting, and, in the days before her own pride blinded her to everything else, she had often rebuked him sharply. He sat curled up under her cloak, putting his nose out now and then, and sniffing to show his contempt for everything they passed.

“I suppose,” said he to the Princess’s horse, “that when one travels in outlandish places one is justified in addressing those whom one would not be called upon to notice at home. I shall, therefore, speak to you. Be good enough to inform me where we are going.”

Never having been inside the palace, the horse had not met Giroflé before, though he had often heard tell of him. His honest heart burned at the little creature’s insolence, but he answered civilly, not wishing to annoy the Princess.

“I have been told nothing, either,” said he.

“No one supposed you had,” replied Giroflé, “but one imagines that a beast of burden should know his way about the country.”

“Hold your peace, sirrah!” exclaimed the Princess. “I allow no one to speak to Amulet like that. It would be well for you if you were but half as useful and brave as he is.”

“I prefer to be ornamental myself,” said the little dog, impudently.

“You may change your mind when I set you down to run,” replied she, slapping him.

They travelled steadily day by day, sleeping at night in such country inns as lay in their road. These were not very grand places, but the Princess cared for no discomfort, thinking only how she might get forward on her way. The old man rode a few paces behind, sometimes carrying Giroflé. The little dog was light, but what he lacked in weight he made up in noise, for he barked ceaselessly, and nothing but threats of making him walk could keep his tongue still.

At last, one evening, as it grew late, they came to the borders of a forest which stretched, like a dark sea, across the horizon. A red streak from the departed sun glared angrily over the tree-tops, and they hurried on towards a miserable little house where they hoped to get a lodging. When they reached it, they found it to be an inn, but so mean and tumble-down was it that its walls seemed hardly able to hold together. A rough-looking man was leaning out of an upper window.

“Can we lodge here?” asked the Princess as she stopped before the door. “There are only myself, my servant, and my little dog.”

The man nodded, and came to take Amulet and the mule to the stable. She dismounted and went in, carrying Giroflé under her arm.

“Heavens! what a place!” he exclaimed, as he peeped from under her cloak. “Surely we are never going to spend the night here!”

“The forest is in front,” said she, “and we cannot find our way through it at this time of night. We have no choice but to stay where we are and be thankful that we have a roof over our heads. Listen! do you hear the wind? There will be a storm before morning.”

As she spoke a kind of moan ran through the air and the trees began to toss to and fro. A great splash of rain fell against the window. Giroflé said no more, but when food was brought and the Princess sat down to sup, he remained in a corner of the room, his face to the wall, and an expression on it impossible to describe.

“Come here, Giroflé, and have some food,” said the Princess, as she sat at the table.

“I am glad you call it food,” said he; “for my part, I should have called it garbage.”

The landlord, who was serving, looked at him angrily.

“I suppose you have never seen a spaniel of good family before, fellow?” snapped Giroflé, as he met his eye.

“Giroflé, behave yourself!” cried the Princess.

The landlord left the room, muttering.

So there Giroflé sat till his mistress had retired to bed; then he came out and went to warm himself by the hearth, for, the corner being cold, his exclusive demeanour had chilled him. Soon the landlord returned to take away the dishes.

“Oh, you are there, are you, little viper?” said he.

At this Giroflé turned upon him with such a torrent of impertinence as the man had never heard before. He had sharpened his tongue for years upon every member of the royal household, including the King himself, and the landlord, who soon found he was no match for him, grew almost frantic.

He rushed upon the little dog, trying to reach him with his foot and a soup-ladle which he held; but Giroflé tore about round the table and behind such furniture as there was, only darting out now and then to get a good snap at his heels. The Princess, who was not yet undressed, came downstairs to see what was the matter; for what between the landlord’s roars, Giroflé’s barks, the overturning of chairs and the wind and rain outside, the noise was really frightful.

“What is all this?” she cried, standing in the doorway.

“I’ll soon show you!” bawled the landlord. “I’ll show you that an honest man is not to be insulted for nothing! Out with you—you and your vile, ill-conditioned cur! Princess indeed! He says you are a Princess—but, Princess or not, out you go! Not another moment do you stop under this roof!”

Just then he managed to reach Giroflé with the ladle, and the little dog sprang out, yelping, into the passage.

“Come, off with you!” cried the landlord. And, before the Princess had time to say a word, he had opened the door and thrust her out into the night. It was fortunate for her that she had hidden the bag of gold in her girdle, for he slammed the door behind them, and they could hear the key turn and the bolts shoot into their places.

By this time Giroflé was whining. She took him by the scuff of the neck and shook him. “If I did what was right, I should leave you to perish in the nearest ditch,” said she.

But, all the same, he was so small that she had not the heart to let him die, so she took him up, and ran to the stable, where the old man had laid himself down for the night beside Amulet and his mule. Giroflé whined and snarled all the time.

There was nothing for it but to start off again; they could not even remain in the stable, for the landlord was shouting from the window to a couple of men to turn them out. All they could do was to mount and ride towards the forest, where at least the branches would give them some shelter from the pouring rain.

When they entered it, the darkness was such that they could scarcely see their way. There were no stars to guide them, so, after stumbling about for some time, they began to search for a place in which they could be sheltered from the wind. By the light of the little lantern that the old man carried with him, they saw a bank covered with distorted tree-roots, some of which had been torn from the ground in a gale. They spread leaves and bracken in a hollow underneath one of these, and the Princess lay down to rest, with her cloak drawn about her, and Giroflé, who was by this time much subdued, curled himself at her feet. The old man and his mule disposed themselves a little way off, and Amulet stood in as snug a spot as he could find. The noise of the swishing branches overhead sounded like the waves of the sea.

But at last the wanderers fell asleep, and the storm had abated and the moon come out when the Princess heard Amulet plunging and stamping, and sat up, rubbing her eyes. By the light of the crescent showing through a gap in the trees, she saw a host of dark creatures surrounding them on all sides. She could not imagine what they were. Their great wings were outlined sharply against the moonlight, and, though their faces were hidden, she was aware of their bright eyes fixed upon her. One figure in their midst came towards them holding a tall spear; a crown of pale green flickering flame was on his head. Giroflé jumped up barking and then fled to his mistress’s skirts, his tail between his legs. In a moment the tall figure strode after him and pierced him to the heart with his spear. As he bent over his victim, the Princess could see that he had the face of a bat.

Then, at a signal from him, the whole host came about them; they were seized, and Amulet, who had tried to attack the Bat-King with his teeth, was taken also; for, gallop and stamp as he might, the fluttering wings closed him round on every side, so that there was no escape. The mule fled at once.

When they were all safely secured, the Bat-King went on before them and his people followed, leading their prisoners into the heart of the forest.

And there we must leave them, for we must return to the King, and hear what happened to him after his parting with the old man.

* * * * *

When he reached home, the King threw himself into his old pursuits as if nothing had happened; but his heart was so sore that they gave him little joy, and, instead of spending his spare hours in hunting with his lords and gentlemen, he only longed to be alone. When he had leisure he would ride off by himself for days at a time, searching for new scenes and new thoughts. He would go out across the borders of his kingdom, by towers and rivers and high castles, sometimes wandering through towns and sometimes passing nights alone in the waste places of the hills.

One evening he came to the foot of a chain of rocky mountains, and stopped, looking up at the crags which towered above his head. Their shapes were so weird that he wondered whether their spires and pinnacles had been carved out by human hands, or whether an earthquake had cast them up in the likeness of men’s work. A track wound up and disappeared among them, and he turned his horse’s steps into it.

He had reached a considerable height when he came suddenly to a chasm so deep that he could not see its bottom. The rock on either side was worn smooth, as though with the passing of many feet, and the opening was narrow enough for a man to stride across without difficulty. The horse stopped, and the rein being loose on his neck, snuffed delicately at the strange gash that divided his path; then he picked his way over it, snorting and cocking his ears. They were scarcely ten yards on the farther side when there was a loud cracking noise, and, looking back, the King saw that the chasm had split wider asunder and now yawned behind him like the mouth of a pit. The horse dashed forward, and had gone some distance before his rider could check him. When at last they stood still, they had come to a smooth face of high rock, with a wide ledge at its foot, over which the track went.

Crowning its summit, some feet above their heads, ran a battlemented wall, and on it sat a woman who looked down at the King while she supported herself with one white arm. Whirling vapour floated behind her, through which appeared the outline of a fantastic castle whose towers seemed to climb to heaven. Her hair was bound about with cords of silver and livid purple poppies. Their petals were dropping down and falling in the King’s path. A dull dark blue garment was wound round her which left only her bare arms free and trailed over the wall below her feet, mixing with her heavy plaits and the silver tassels at the ends of them.

She smiled, bending forward till she looked as though she must fall from her high place; she was like some great unearthly gull poised upon a wave’s crest.

“Soon it will be too dark to travel among these precipices,” she cried. “Come up, O King, before the light falls. The way winds up to my gates.”

And, indeed, the path took a turn at the end of the ledge, and, twisting like a ribbon, vanished in the vapour.

There was no going back, for the chasm was behind him, and the light, as she said, was failing; so he rode upwards till he came to a gate whose top was lost in the clouds. It opened, disclosing a castle, and inside it the lady was coming to meet him, her draperies trailing behind her and the silver tassels on her plaits making a tinkling sound as they swept the stones. A noiseless person came from a doorway and led away his horse.

She was very beautiful. Her pale face and scarlet lips and her heavy-lidded eyes made him think of things he had seen in dreams, and a faint misgiving touched him as he followed her. Before the castle was a terrace, on the wall of which he had seen her sitting above him as he entered. He passed through stone galleries, over whose sides he thought he could see wild faces staring; the misgiving deepened with every step.

She went before him to a chamber hung with curtains, and when she had left him, another silent servant brought him fresh clothes and began to unbuckle his spurs. When he had put off his belt and sword, the servant took them from him and turned to the door.

“Give me my sword,” said the King; “I never part with that.”

He stretched out his hand to take it, but as he did so his companion vanished on the spot where he had stood. Then he saw that the walls were hung with images of demons, and that snakes’ heads peered from the corners. He looked out of the window, to see nothing but whirling vapours. When a messenger came to tell him that the lady awaited him to sup with her, he followed gloomily, for he knew he was in the stronghold of an Enchantress.

She was sitting at a table, on which a feast was spread, and she made him as welcome as though he had been some long-expected guest. Her voice was mellow as the voice of pigeons cooing in the woods, but it seemed to him that a gleam of cruelty lurked in her eyes. After dark, a chill fell in the air, and they drew close to a fire of logs which glowed at one end of the hall. A silent-footed company of musicians came, playing on instruments the like of which he had never seen, and one in their midst began to sing:

“Boughs of the pine, and stars between, In woods where shadows fill the air— Oh, who may rest that once hath been A shadow there?

“Sounds of the night, and tears between, The grey owl hooting, dimly heard: Can footsteps reach these lands unseen, Or wings of bird?

“Days of the years, and worlds between— Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn; The heart may break for lands unseen, For woods wherein its life has been, But not return!”

The King sat listening, his head leaning upon his hand, and when he looked up, the Enchantress’s eyes were fixed on him with the cruel look he could not fathom. He sprang up and begged leave to retire; he was weary, he said, for he had ridden a long distance. At the door of the hall he asked her to tell her servants to return his sword. “We have never been parted yet,” said he.

She broke into a laugh. “To-morrow,” she said, waving him away. And when he would have spoken again, he found himself alone.

He rose very early next day and left the castle without meeting anyone; the gates were open, and he went all round the walls, hoping to come across some path which would take him out of the hills and lead him to the plains below. He was now sure that he was a prisoner. He remembered with a shudder how the rock on either side of the chasm was worn by the feet that had passed over it; and, having found only precipices on the north side of the castle, he determined to follow the track by which he had come, and see if some path, no matter how dangerous, might be found by which he could escape.

Coming down towards the chasm, he could hardly believe his eyes, for the sides had closed together, and it was no wider than when he had first seen it. He ran forward, but as he reached the brink it opened with the cracking noise he had heard before, and he found himself standing on the edge, looking into a gulf of mist. He turned back, disheartened; and as he crossed the ledge under the wall, he looked up to see the Enchantress, perched upon her height, watching him and smiling.

Day after day he lived on, a free prisoner. Each evening when he left her he asked for his sword, and each evening her laugh was the only answer he got. He did not know that the Enchantress had sat countless years upon the ramparts of her castle, waiting, like a spider, for her prey; that all her life had been spent in entrapping and imprisoning men. Some she had slain, some she had kept in dungeons, and some had dashed themselves down into the ravines or perished among them in their efforts to escape.

But she had no intention of killing the King or of casting him into a dungeon; of all those she had entrapped, he was the one she liked best, and every day she fell more deeply in love with him. She would stand by him on the highest tower of the castle, showing him all the wonders of the landscape and telling him tales which almost made him forget his captivity; she gave him rich gifts, and plied him with such wines and delicacies as, King though he was, he had never tasted. Each morning a servant brought him new clothes and jewels to choose from, but it only made him long more fervently for his russet leather and his sword. Each evening she would send for her musicians and sit by him till far into the night, listening to the unearthly melodies they played. But he cared neither for her nor for them.

His thought was always of escape, but, to throw her off her guard, he behaved as though life was growing endurable. He kissed her hand night and morning, he sought her company, he did all that he could to flatter her; but in reality he hated her false smile and soft voice, and only the hope of releasing himself made him able to play his part.

On the first night of every week the Enchantress would disappear, going out in a car drawn by great owls, and not returning till dawn. He longed to go with her, because he was weary for a change of scene, and because he thought it possible that he might find some chance of escape. So one evening, seeing that she was about to depart, he sighed heavily.

“Lady,” he said, “if you knew how long these evenings seem to me when you are away, you would never have the heart to go.”

“Are not all my dancing-girls and musicians here to while away the time?” replied she, looking very softly at him.

“What do I care for them?” said he. “Is there one who has a voice like yours, or a face to be compared with yours? No, no. If I have to part with you, my only wish is to be alone.”

The Enchantress was delighted.

“I must go, nevertheless,” she said. “For a long time past I have spent the first night of every week in a visit to the Bat-King, who rules over an enchanted forest some leagues from here. If I were to disappoint him, he would never forgive me. I have to go after dark and return before sunrise, as he can only see at night, and spends his days sleeping among the trees.”

The King made as though he were jealous.

“And who is this Bat-King that he should rob me of you?” he cried in an angry voice.

“Well, well,” said the Enchantress, laughing, “there is only one thing for it—you must come too. For I cannot vex the Bat-King by my absence, and you can delight yourself with my company while we go and come.”

Then, as though she guessed his thoughts, she continued: “If I did not know you loved me, I would tell you that you need not hope to escape from me in the forest. The Bat-King has millions of subjects, and he has only to sign to them to put you to death should you attempt it.”

They went out, and on the ramparts her chariot waited her. The King could not tell what it was made of, but it looked like one of those clouds that cross the setting sun before a stormy night; six enormous owls were harnessed to it and stood ready for a flight, their yellow eyes fixed on space. A servant handed a long scourge of plaited twigs to the Enchantress. When she and the King had seated themselves, the car rose into the air, and they were soon rushing across the sky.

Away they went, leaving the earth far under them; they flew over towns twinkling with lights and rivers which lay in the darkness like shining snakes. Sometimes a heavy bird of prey would pass on its way beneath them, and sometimes the cry of a nightjar would come up from below. At last they came upon a dark mass covering many miles, which the Enchantress told him was the forest of the Bat-King. A curious twilight shone through the branches, caused by the presence of many glow-worms. The owls lit upon an open patch among the trees, and she got out of the car, telling the King to remain beside her as he valued his life. The owls crouched near, ruffling as they settled.