Two years later in the same month of the year Jehan rode east out of Ivo's new castle of Belvoir to visit the manor of which, by the grace of God and the King and the favour of the Count of Dives, he was now the lord.By the Dove's side he had been north to Durham and west to the Welsh marches, rather on falcon's than on dove's errands, for Ivo held that the crooning of peace notes came best after hard blows.But at his worst he was hawk and not crow, and malice did not follow his steps.The men he beat had a rude respect for one who was just and patient in victory, and whose laughter did not spare himself.Like master like man; and Jehan was presently so sealed of Ivo's brotherhood that in the tales of the time the two names were rarely separate.The jealous, swift to deprecate good fortune, spared the Outborn, for it was observed that he stood aside while others scrambled for gain.Also, though no man knew his birth, he bore himself with the pride of a king.
When Ivo's raw stone towers faded in the blue distance, the road led from shaggy uplands into a forested plain, with knolls at intervals which gave the traveller a prospect of sullen levels up to the fringe of the fens and the line of the sea.Six men-at-arms jolted at his back on little country-red horses, for Jehan did his tasks with few helpers; and they rode well in the rear, for he loved to be alone.The weather was all October gleams and glooms, now the sunshine of April, now the purple depths of a thunderstorm.There was no rain in the air, but an infinity of mist, which moved in fantastic shapes, rolling close about the cavalcade, so that the very road edge was obscured, now dissolving into clear light, now opening up corridors at the end of which some landmark appeared at an immeasurable distance.In that fantastic afternoon the solid earth seemed to be dissolving, and Jehan's thoughts as he journeyed ranged like the mists.
He told himself that he had discovered his country.He, the Outborn, had come home; the landless had found his settlement.He loved every acre of this strange England--its changing skies, the soft pastures in the valleys, the copses that clung like moss to the hills, the wide moorland that lay quiet as a grave from mountain to mountain.But this day something new had been joined to his affection.The air that met him from the east had that in it which stirred some antique memory.There was brine in it from the unruly eastern sea, and the sourness of marsh water, and the sweetness of marsh herbage.As the forest thinned into scrub again it came stronger and fresher, and he found himself sniffing it like a hungry man at the approach of food."If my manor of Highstead is like this," he told himself, "I think I will lay my bones there."At a turn of the road where two grassy tracks forked, he passed a graven stone now chipped and moss-grown, set on noble eminence among reddening thorns.It was an altar to the old gods of the land, there had been another such in the forest of his childhood.The priest had told him it was the shrine of the Lord Apollo and forbade him on the pain of a mighty cursing to do reverence to it.Nevertheless he had been wont to doff his cap when he passed it, for he respected a god that lived in the woods instead of a clammy church.Now the sight of the ancient thing seemed an omen.It linked up the past and the present.He waved a greeting to it."Hail, old friend,"he said."Bid your master be with me, whoever he be, for I go to find a home."One of his fellows rode up to his side."We are within a mile of Highstead," he told him."Better go warily, for the King's law runs limpingly in the fanlands.I counsel that a picket be sent forward to report if the way be clear.Every churl that we passed on the road will have sent news of our coming.""So much the better," said Jehan."Man, I come not as a thief in the night.
This is a daylight business.If I am to live my days here I must make a fair conquest."The man fell back sullenly, and there were anxious faces in the retinue jogging twenty yards behind.But no care sat on Jehan's brow.He plucked sprays of autumn berries and tossed and caught them, he sang gently to himself and spoke his thoughts to his horse.Harm could not come to him when air and scene woke in his heart such strange familiarity.
A last turn of the road showed Highstead before him, two furlongs distant.
The thatched roof of the hall rose out of a cluster of shingled huts on a mound defended by moat and palisade.No smoke came from the dwelling, and no man was visible, but not for nothing was Jehan named the Hunter.He was aware that every tuft of reed and scrog of wood concealed a spear or a bowman.So he set his head stiff and laughed, and hummed a bar of a song which the ferry-men used to sing on Seine side."A man does not fight to win his home," he told his horse, "but only to defend it when he has won it.If God so wills I shall be welcomed with open gates: otherwise there will be burying ere nightfall."In this fashion he rode steadfastly toward the silent burg.Now he was within a stone's throw of it, and no spear had been launched; now he was before the massive oaken gate.Suddenly it swung open and a man came out.
He was a short, square fellow who limped, and, half hidden by his long hair, a great scar showed white on his forehead.
"In whose name?" he asked in the English tongue.
"In the name of our lord the King and the Earl Ivo.""That is no passport," said the man.
"In my own name, then,--in the name of Jehan the Hunter."The man took two steps forward and laid a hand on the off stirrup.Jehan leaped to the ground and kissed him on both cheeks.
"We have met before, friend," he said, and he took between his palms the joined hands of his new liege.
"Two years back on the night of Hastings," said the man."But for that meeting, my lord, you had tasted twenty arrows betwixt Highstead and the forest."Part 3
"I go to visit my neighbours," said Jehan next morning.
