CHAPTER I.
Many years ago there lived in an ancient castle in England a proud Baron, who had one child, Ginevra, a little girl named for her mother, who died the night her baby was born.
The servants used to say the Baroness had led a wretched life; that her lord was harsh and stern at home, as he was fierce and cruel in war; but this I do not truly know. He dearly loved his little daughter, and hours at a time would carry her in his arms and walk up and down the hall before the blazing fires in winter. It was a fair sight to see the Baron with the baby, in her long white dress, lying on his shoulder, her light hair against his rough beard, or to see him dandle her in his hand, hard almost as the steel gloves he wore to battle, as if she were no more than a feather’s weight.
The castle was gloomy and strong, with towers guarded by sentinels, and was enclosed by a high wall of stone, beyond which was a deep moat filled with water, that could be crossed by only one drawbridge.
Once, when there was war in the land, the King called on all good men for help; and the Baron, ready for battle, gathered his people in the courtyard to hear his last orders. He held up his sword, dinted by many a blow in bloody fight, showed the cross on its hilt, and spoke in a loud voice:
“Swear by this blessed sign, whatever befall, you will defend Lady Ginevra to the death!”
And every man lifted his right hand, knelt where he stood, and swore by the Holy Cross he would defend the Lady Ginevra to the death. He then mounted his coal-black steed, took the baby from her nurse, and lifted her in sight of all the crowd. She clapped her hands and laughed to see the flashing armor and flags embroidered with red roses, and the air rung with the shout: “Long live the Lady Ginevra!”
A fortune-teller had said Ginevra was doomed to sorrow; and this made the Baron watch her with anxious care. There was one soldier whose only duty was to guard his young mistress. Said the Baron to him: “Keep her always in sight, Ban. While thou wearest that scar on thy brow, I will remember thou hast saved my life. Some day thou mayest save hers. She is the last of my name and house, and if evil come upon her, my heart will break. Thou art my truest follower, Ban. Whatever else fail, never lose sight of Lady Ginevra.”
“I will die ere a hair of her head suffer,” said the old retainer, stoutly. “A soldier’s scars are his honors, and I will be proud to wear one for my Lady’s sake.”
So Ban, with spear and sword, was always in sight of his young mistress; and at night he lay in the corridor, outside her chamber door, his spear against the wall, so that no one could go out or in without waking him.
The Baron fought well for king and country, and at Christmas rode home on his coal-black steed. Then there was a mighty feast in the great hall, and, for two days and nights, whoever chose could eat and drink of the best.
The ladies’ hall was wreathed with evergreens; red berries of holly shone bright on the old oak wall, and from the center of the ceiling hung a heavy branch of mistletoe; and every one who passed under it was sure to be caught and kissed. Plates were laid for a hundred guests, and there were oxen roasted whole, and huge pies of venison; and all night long was heard the sound of harp and horn, and tread of dancers, dancing in tune. Oh! it was a rousing Christmas, and little Ginevra was the soul and life of it all!
There were few books in those days, and instead of reading, she was taught to embroider with silks, to play on the lute, and to sing. She was so gentle and gracious, even the bees, the birds, and the swans on the lake, knew her, and everything that knew her loved her. So watched, and so beloved, fifteen years Ginevra grew,—
“Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.”
And the fame of her beauty spread far and wide.
A tranquil life she lived, rarely going beyond the castle, yet loved by many who had children of their own, but who freely spoke of Ginevra as best and dearest where all were near and dear.
“Why, my darling,” said the Baron, “why does everybody love my child?”
“I do not know,” she answered, with a thoughtful, puzzled look. “Perhaps,” she added shyly, “it is because I love everybody.”
“That much nearer heaven than I,” said the father, gazing into the picture-like face, with the mild look which never came into his own except for her. “The angels in heaven can do no more.”
Her fresh, light rooms, the only cheerful ones in the dismal stone pile, opened out on a broad balcony, filled with plants; fluttering leaves, speckled shadows, sweet-smelling flowers, through which the sun at setting poured his last, last rays, as lingering through the late twilight to kiss her pure forehead once more. The blessed sunlight! You might think some of its brightness was tangled in the golden head which glanced among the flowers, and that their sweetness had passed into her soul.
It was the Baron’s study to smooth from her path every care and trial, and to temper every wind that blew past her. The walls round the courtyard below the balcony were so high it was sheltered from the coldest blasts, so that birds sang in the bare, leafless thickets of shrubbery as though it were always spring; and all the year round it was a delightful playground.
In summer, with her little maid, Geta, she used to play hide and seek in the alleys of the rose garden, where the roses were all red—the Baron would not have a white one among them—and as the quick color came and went in her face, he would say:
“My child, the roses are ever at war in thy cheek.”
“Yes, father; but thou sayest the red always wins.”
“So it does, dear heart, and so it shall. No white leaf for us! The red rose forever! When I miss it from thy face the sweetness of my life is gone; and thou must wear one for me ever in thy hair.”
Near the castle wall was a dark forest, of which awful tales were told; how it was full of robber caves, and dens, and dim paths leading into snares and pitfalls, and among roaring wild beasts that were forever seeking what they might devour.
The sentinel on the bridge said he would rather fight the infidel all day than venture into the forest after sundown. Close to its edge, in the shade of giant oaks, was a fountain of marble, with water playing night and day, cold as ice, clear as glass. And here, one summer afternoon, Ginevra strayed with Geta. Her feet scarcely bent the daisies in her path; the breeze tossed her flossy locks, where the red rose shone like a jewel; and, as old Ban stalked behind her, like a tall black shadow, he thought he had never seen his Lady so lovely.
When they reached the fountain, Geta tried to tune the lute, but could not play till Ginevra brought the silver strings together; and, as she touched its chords, a fierce stag-hound sprang out of the forest so suddenly, she dropped the lute and screamed for fear.
Quick as lightning, Ban was before her, and in another moment would have split the dog’s skull, but a voice shouted:
“Stay! Stay! He will not harm any one!”
Ban stood still, but lowered not his lance. Presently, a youth, mounted on a milk-white steed, rode up, called the hound to his feet, gave his horse’s bridle to a page, who followed on a red roan, and then he knelt before Ginevra and quieted her fears.
I do not know how it came to pass, but these four were soon talking as if they had been friends all their days, and there was nothing in the wide world but their own innocent young hearts. They tried their fortune by dropping bay-leaves in the water. Then they sat on mossy roots, and Ginevra sang of the lady who was heartbroken and drowned herself in the fountain for her own true love; and how her spirit rises and floats in the air above it, like a mist at evening.
“Thy song is too sad, Lady,” said the youth. “Let me have the lute.”
With a free hand, he struck the strings, and sang of King Arthur and his bold knights, and of the daring deeds they did, whose like England has never seen since his time; no, nor never will, till Arthur comes again. Then he turned his eyes—steel-blue eyes, flashing like a sword-blade—toward Ginevra, and sang of love in such strain she thought the fountain stopped its splashing and the trees bent their heads to listen. When the last echo of his voice died away, Ban spoke out, and said:
“My Lady, an’ it please you, my lord, the Baron has forbidden us to stay outside the wall after nightfall.”
“But, Ban, he knows thou art between me and danger. Still, the forest’s shades grow dark, and I see thou art right. The sun is nearly set.”
Then the youth whispered something in her ear, and Ginevra, blushing brightly, said:
“Never, never!”
“Give me a favor to wear—the rose from thy hair, sweet lady. I, too, belong to the house and banner of the red.”
She loosed it from her shining tresses; he kissed the flower, put it in his bosom, and said:
“I would not give one of the least of these leaves for the King’s crown.”
Lightly he sprung to the saddle, without so much as touching his horse’s neck, lifted his plumed cap, and, followed by the page, on the red roan, dashed away into the forest. Ginevra and Geta watched them disappear among the black shadows, and then turned and sighed, they knew not why.
The Baron met them outside the castle gate.
“Where hast thou been, my child?” he asked.
“By Edith’s fountain, father.”
“And didst thou drop thy rose in it?”
“No; I gave it to a youth who begged it,” she answered, blushing.
“Ha! And thou hast brought back two,” he said, “and they are both for me, my summer child.”
And he kissed her on each cheek.
The color ran up to her forehead, and as she stood in the rosy sunset, with downcast eyes, in the bloom and glow of youth so beautiful, the old Baron’s heart yearned toward his daughter. He gathered her in his arms, and said:
“I will carry thee home, little one. Thou art my Rose of the World; for there is none on earth like thee. As we go, thou shalt tell me of this youth. Did he ride a milk-white steed?”
“Yes; a high, proud one; not a single black hair on him; its mane swam the wind, and its trappings were of scarlet and gold.”
“A goodly youth, with spurs; was he not?”
“Yes; his hair was black as the wing of the night raven. He had a noble air, and oh! an eye that takes your breath!”
“And his page, Ginevra?”
“A comely little page, but nothing like his master.”
Here Geta made as if she would speak; her mistress went on:
“But nothing like his master, who carried a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a silver bugle-horn.”
“It is young Lord Lovel!” He was silent a moment. “How old art thou, my daughter?”
“Sixteen, come Christmas.”
Then the Baron fell into a muse, and walked on, carrying her all the way.
After supper he sat beside her in the hall, playing idly with her hand, that was soft as the down on the dove’s breast; and at last he said:
“Sweet child, tell me, dost thou know aught of love—young love, I mean, not father’s love?”
“I have sung it in song, and heard it in story,” she answered timidly.
“Listen, then. Lord Lovel is thy betrothed. Thou wert promised to him in the cradle; but we fathers have kept the secret, and let true love find its own, as it is certain to do, and has done to-day. On thy sixteenth birthday we will have the betrothal feast. Now go to sleep and dreams that maidens often have ere they reach thy age.”
Ginevra’s chamber was a lofty room, with curtained bed so high it could be reached only by steps. Geta slept in a cot beside her. They usually fell asleep at dark, and awoke at daybreak, but that night there was no slumber in their eyelids, and the tall clock on the stairs struck midnight ere they ceased to talk of the winsome young lord, and his gallant little page, Alfred.
Turning on the stone floor in the corridor outside, Ban heard the murmur of voices under the door, and the shrewd soldier smiled in the dark, and winked his one eye, as he said to himself:
“That arrow was double-headed. It’s all over with my Lady and that forward little Geta.”
