RED EVE
by H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1911.
DEDICATION
Ditchingham,
May 27, 1911.
My dear Jehu:
For five long but not unhappy years, seated or journeying side by
side, we have striven as Royal Commissioners to find a means
whereby our coasts may be protected from "the outrageous flowing
surges of the sea" (I quote the jurists of centuries ago), the
idle swamps turned to fertility and the barren hills clothed with
forest; also, with small success, how "foreshore" may be best
defined!
What will result from all these labours I do not know, nor whether
grave geologists ever read romance save that which the pen of Time
inscribes upon the rocks. Still, in memory of our fellowship in
them I offer to you this story, written in their intervals, of Red
Eve, the dauntless, and of Murgh, Gateway of the Gods, whose
dreadful galley still sails from East to West and from West to
East, yes, and evermore shall sail.
Your friend and colleague,
H. Rider Haggard.
To Dr. Jehu, F.G.S.,
St. Andrews, N.B.
RED EVE
MURGH THE DEATH
They knew nothing of it in England or all the Western countries in
those days before Crecy was fought, when the third Edward sat upon the
throne. There was none to tell them of the doom that the East, whence
come light and life, death and the decrees of God, had loosed upon the
world. Not one in a multitude in Europe had ever even heard of those
vast lands of far Cathay peopled with hundreds of millions of cold-
faced yellow men, lands which had grown very old before our own
familiar states and empires were carved out of mountain, of forest,
and of savage-haunted plain. Yet if their eyes had been open so that
they could see, well might they have trembled. King, prince, priest,
merchant, captain, citizen and poor labouring hind, well might they
all have trembled when the East sent forth her gifts!
Look across the world beyond that curtain of thick darkness. Behold! A
vast city of fantastic houses half buried in winter snows and reddened
by the lurid sunset breaking through a saw-toothed canopy of cloud.
Everywhere upon the temple squares and open spaces great fires burning
a strange fuel--the bodies of thousands of mankind. Pestilence was
king of that city, a pestilence hitherto unknown. Innumerable hordes
had died and were dying, yet innumerable hordes remained. All the
patient East bore forth those still shapes that had been theirs to
love or hate, and, their task done, turned to the banks of the mighty
river and watched.
Down the broad street which ran between the fantastic houses advanced
a procession toward the brown, ice-flecked river. First marched a
company of priests clad in black robes, and carrying on poles lanterns
of black paper, lighted, although the sun still shone. Behind marched
another company of priests clad in white robes, and bearing white
lanterns, also lighted. But at these none looked, nor did they listen
to the dirges that they sang, for all eyes were fixed upon him who
filled the centre space and upon his two companions.
The first companion was a lovely woman, jewel-hung, wearing false
flowers in her streaming hair, and beneath her bared breasts a kirtle
of white silk. Life and love embodied in radiance and beauty, she
danced in front, looking about her with alluring eyes, and scattering
petals of dead roses from a basket which she bore. Different was the
second companion, who stalked behind; so thin, so sexless that none
could say if the shape were that of man or woman. Dry, streaming locks
of iron-grey, an ashen countenance, deep-set, hollow eyes, a beetling,
parchment-covered brow; lean shanks half hidden with a rotting rag,
claw-like hands which clutched miserably at the air. Such was its
awful fashion, that of new death in all its terrors.
Between them, touched of neither, went a man, naked save for a red
girdle and a long red cloak that was fastened round his throat and
hung down from his broad shoulders. There was nothing strange about
this man, unless it were perhaps the strength that seemed to flow from
him and the glance of his icy eyes. He was just a burly yellow man,
whose age none could tell, for the hood of the red cloak hid his hair;
one who seemed to be far removed from youth, and yet untouched by
time. He walked on steadily, intently, his face immovable, taking no
heed.
Only now and again he turned those long eyes of his upon one of the
multitude who watched him pass crouched upon their knees in solemn
silence, always upon one, whether it were man, woman, or child, with a
glance meant for that one and no other. And ever the one upon whom it
fell rose from the knee, made obeisance, and departed as though filled
with some inspired purpose.
Down to the quay went the black priests, the white priests, and the
red-cloaked man, preceded by rose life, followed by ashen death.
Through the funeral fires they wended, and the lurid sunset shone upon
them all.
To the pillars of this quay was fastened a strange, high-pooped ship
with crimson sails set upon her masts. The white priests and the black
priests formed lines upon either side of the broad gangway of that
ship and bowed as the red-cloaked man walked over it between them
quite alone, for now she with the dead roses and she of the ashen
countenance had fallen back. As the sun sank, standing on the lofty
stern, he cried aloud:
"Here the work is done. Now I, the Eating Fire, I the Messenger, get
me to the West. Among you for a while I cease to burn; yet remember
me, for I shall come again."
As he spoke the ropes of the ship were loosened, the wind caught her
crimson sails, and she departed into the night, one blood-red spot
against its blackness.
The multitude watched until they could see her no longer. Then they
flamed up with mingled joy and rage. They laughed madly. They cursed
him who had departed.
"We live, we live, we live!" they cried. "Murgh is gone! Murgh is
gone! Kill his priests! Make sacrifice of his Shadows. Murgh is gone
bearing the curse of the East into the bosom of the West. Look, it
follows him!" and they pointed to a cloud of smoke or vapour, in which
terrible shapes seemed to move dimly, that trailed after the
departing, red-sailed ship.
The black priests and the white priests heard. Without struggle,
without complaint, as though they were but taking part in some set
ceremony, they kneeled down in lines upon the snow. Naked from the
waist up, executioners with great swords appeared. They advanced upon
the kneeling lines without haste, without wrath, and, letting fall the
heavy swords upon the patient, outstretched necks, did their grim
office till all were dead. Then they turned to find her of the flowers
who had danced before, and her of the tattered weeds who had followed
after, purposing to cast them to the funeral flames. But these were
gone, though none had seen them go. Only out of the gathering darkness
from some temple or pagoda-top a voice spoke like a moaning wind.
"Fools," wailed the voice, "still with you is Murgh, the second Thing
created; Murgh, who was made to be man's minister. Murgh the Messenger
shall reappear from beyond the setting sun. Ye cannot kill, ye cannot
spare. Those priests you seemed to slay he had summoned to be his
officers afar. Fools! Ye do but serve as serves Murgh, Gateway of the
Gods. Life and death are not in your hands or in his. They are in the
hands of the Master of Murgh, Helper of man, of that Lord whom no eye
hath seen, but whose behests all who are born obey--yes, even the
mighty Murgh, Looser of burdens, whom in your foolishness ye fear."
So spoke this voice out of the darkness, and that night the sword of
the great pestilence was lifted from the Eastern land, and there the
funeral fires flared no more.
CHAPTER I
THE TRYSTING-PLACE
On the very day when Murgh the Messenger sailed forth into that
uttermost sea, a young man and a maiden met together at the Blythburgh
marshes, near to Dunwich, on the eastern coast of England. In this,
the month of February of the year 1346, hard and bitter frost held
Suffolk in its grip. The muddy stream of Blyth, it is true, was frozen
only in places, since the tide, flowing up from the Southwold harbour,
where it runs into the sea between that ancient town and the hamlet of
Walberswick, had broken up the ice. But all else was set hard and
fast, and now toward sunset the cold was bitter.
Stark and naked stood the tall, dry reeds. The blackbirds and
starlings perched upon the willows seemed swollen into feathery balls,
the fur started on the backs of hares, and a four-horse wain could
travel in safety over swamps where at any other time a schoolboy dared
not set his foot.
On such an eve, with snow threatening, the great marsh was utterly
desolate, and this was why these two had chosen it for their meeting
place.
To look on they were a goodly pair--the girl, who was clothed in the
red she always wore, tall, dark, well shaped, with large black eyes
and a determined face, one who would make a very stately woman; the
man broad shouldered, with grey eyes that were quick and almost
fierce, long limbed, hard, agile, and healthy, one who had never known
sickness, who looked as though the world were his own to master. He
was young, but three-and-twenty that day, and his simple dress, a
tunic of thick wool fastened round him with a leathern belt, to which
hung a short sword, showed that his degree was modest.
The girl, although she seemed his elder, in fact was only in her
twentieth year. Yet from her who had been reared in the hard school of
that cruel age childhood had long departed, leaving her a ripened
woman before her time.
This pair stood looking at each other.
"Well, Cousin Eve Clavering," said the man, in his clear voice, "why
did your message bid me meet you in this cold place?"
"Because I had a word to say to you, Cousin Hugh de Cressi," she
answered boldly; "and the marsh being so cold and so lonesome I
thought it suited to my purpose. Does Grey Dick watch yonder?"
"Ay, behind those willows, arrow on string, and God help him on whom
Dick draws! But what was that word, Eve?"
"One easy to understand," she replied, looking him in the eyes--
"Farewell!"
He shivered as though with the cold, and his face changed.
"An ill birthday greeting, yet I feared it," he muttered huskily, "but
why more now than at any other time?"
"Would you know, Hugh? Well, the story is short, so I'll let it out.
Our great-grandmother, the heiress of the de Cheneys, married twice,
did she not, and from the first husband came the de Cressis, and from
the second the Claverings. But in this way or in that we Claverings
got the lands, or most of them, and you de Cressis, the nobler stock,
took to merchandise. Now since those days you have grown rich with
your fishing fleets, your wool mart, and your ferry dues at
Walberswick and Southwold. We, too, are rich in manors and land,
counting our acres by the thousand, but yet poor, lacking your gold,
though yonder manor"--and she pointed to some towers which rose far
away above the trees upon the high land--"has many mouths to feed.
Also the sea has robbed us at Dunwich, where I was born, taking our
great house and sundry streets that paid us rent, and your market of
Southwold has starved out ours at Blythburgh."
"Well, what has all this to do with you and me, Eve?"
"Much, Hugh, as you should know who have been bred to trade," and she
glanced at his merchant's dress. "Between de Cressi and Clavering
there has been rivalry and feud for three long generations. When we
were children it abated for a while, since your father lent money to
mine, and that is why they suffered us to grow up side by side. But
then they quarrelled about the ferry that we had set in pawn, and your
father asked his gold back again, and, not getting it, took the ferry,
which I have always held a foolish and strife-breeding deed, since
from that day forward the war was open. Therefore, Hugh, if we meet at
all it must be in these frozen reeds or behind the cover of a thicket,
like a village slut and her man."
"I know that well enough, Eve, who have spoken with you but twice in
nine months." And he devoured her beautiful face with hungry eyes.
"But of that word, 'Farewell'----"
"Of that ill word, this, Hugh: I have a new suitor up yonder, a fine
French suitor, a very great lord indeed, whose wealth, I am told, none
can number. From his mother he has the Valley of the Waveney up to
Bungay town--ay, and beyond--and from his father, a whole county in
Normandy. Five French knights ride behind his banner, and with them
ten squires and I know not how many men-at-arms. There is feasting
yonder at the manor, I can tell you. Ere his train leaves us our
winter provender will be done, and we'll have to drink small beer till
the wine ships come from France in spring."
"And what is this lord's name?"
"God's truth, he has several," she answered. "Sir Edmund Acour in
England, and in France the high and puissant Count of Noyon, and in
Italy, near to the city of Venice--for there, too, he has possessions
which came to him through his grandmother--the Seigneur of Cattrina."
"And having so much, does he want you, too, as I have heard, Eve? And
if so, why?"
"So he swears," she answered slowly; "and as for the reason, why, I
suppose you must seek it in my face, which by ill-fortune has pleased
his lordship since first he saw it a month ago. At the least he has
asked me in marriage of my father, who jumped at him like a winter
pike, and so I'm betrothed."
"And do you want him, Eve?"
"Ay, I want him as far as the sun is from the moon or the world from
either. I want him in heaven or beneath the earth, or anywhere away
from me."
At these words a light shone in Hugh's keen grey eyes.
"I'm glad of that, Eve, for I've been told much of this fine fellow--
amongst other things that he is a traitor come here to spy on England.
But should I be a match for him, man to man, Eve?" he asked after a
little pause.
She looked him up and down; then answered:
"I think so, though he is no weakling; but not for him and the five
knights and the ten squires, and my noble father, and my brother, and
the rest. Oh, Hugh, Hugh!" she added bitterly, "cannot you understand
that you are but a merchant's lad, though your blood be as noble as
any in this realm--a merchant's lad, the last of five brothers? Why
were you not born the first of them if you wished for Eve Clavering,
for then your red gold might have bought me."
"Ask that of those who begot me," said Hugh. "Come now, what's in your
mind? You're not one to be sold like a heifer at a faring and go
whimpering to the altar, and I am not one to see you led there while I
stand upon my feet. We are made of a clay too stiff for a French
lord's fingers, Eve, though it is true that they may drag you whither
you would not walk."
"No," she answered, "I think I shall take some marrying against my
wish. Moreover, I am Dunwich born."
"What of that, Eve?"
"Go ask your godsire and my friend, Sir Andrew Arnold, the old priest.
In the library of the Temple there he showed me an ancient roll, a
copy of the charter granted by John and other kings of England to the
citizens of Dunwich."
"What said this writing, Eve?"
"It said, among other things, that no man or maid of Dunwich can be
forced to marry against their will, even in the lifetime of their
parents."
"But will it hold to-day?"
"Ay, I think so. I think that is why the holy Sir Andrew showed it to
me, knowing something of our case, for he is my confessor when I can
get to him."
"Then, sweet, you are safe!" exclaimed Hugh, with a sigh of relief.
"Ay, so safe that to-morrow Father Nicholas, the French chaplain in
his train, has been warned to wed me to my lord Acour--that is, if I'm
there to wed."
"And if this Acour is here, I'll seek him out to-night and challenge
him, Eve," and Hugh laid hand upon his sword.
"Doubtless," she replied sarcastically, "Sir Edmund Acour, Count of
Noyon, Seigneur of Cattrina, will find it honour to accept the
challenge of Hugh de Cressi, the merchant's youngest son. Oh, Hugh,
Hugh! are your wits frozen like this winter marsh? Not thus can you
save me."
The young man thought a while, staring at the ground and biting his
lips. Then he looked up suddenly and said:
"How much do you love me, Eve?"
With a slow smile, she opened her arms, and next moment they were
kissing each other as heartily as ever man and maid have kissed since
the world began, so heartily, indeed, that when at length she pushed
him from her, her lovely face was as red as the cloak she wore.
"You know well that I love you, to my sorrow and undoing," she said,
in a broken voice. "From childhood it has been so between us, and till
the grave takes one or both it will be so, and for my part beyond it,
if the priests speak true. For, whatever may be your case, I am not
one to change my fancy. When I give, I give all, though it be of
little worth. In truth, Hugh, if I could I would marry you to-night,
though you are naught but a merchant's son, or even----" And she
paused, wiping her eyes with the back of her slim, strong hand.
"I thank you," he answered, trembling with joy. "So it is with me. For
you and no other woman I live and die; and though I am so humble I'll
be worthy of you yet. If God keeps me in breath you shall not blush
for your man, Eve. Well, I am not great at words, so let us come to
deeds. Will you away with me now? I think that Father Arnold would
find you lodging for the night and an altar to be wed at, and
to-morrow our ship sails for Flanders and for France."
"Yes, but would your father give us passage in it, Hugh?"
"Why not? It could not deepen the feud between our Houses, which
already has no bottom, and if he refused, we would take one, for the
captain is my friend. And I have some little store set by; it came to
me from my mother."
"You ask much," she said; "all a woman has, my life, perchance, as
well. Yet there it is; I'll go because I'm a fool, Hugh; and, as it
chances, you are more to me than aught, and I hate this fine French
lord. I tell you I sicken at his glance and shiver when he touches me.
Why, if he came too near I should murder him and be hanged. I'll go,
though God alone knows the end of it."
"Our purpose being honest, the end will be good, Eve, though perhaps
before all is done we may often think it evil. And now let's away,
though I wish that you were dressed in another colour."
"Red Eve they name me, and red is my badge, because it suits my dark
face best. Cavil not at my robe, Hugh, for it is the only dowry you
will get with Eve Clavering. How shall we go? By the Walberswick
ferry? You have no horses."
"Nay, but I have a skiff hidden in the reeds five miles furlongs off.
We must keep to the heath above Walberswick, for there they might know
your red cloak even after dark, and I would not have you seen till we
are safe with Sir Arnold in the Preceptory. Mother of Heaven! what is
that?"
"A peewit, no more," she answered indifferently.
"Nay, it is my man Dick, calling like a peewit. That is his sign when
trouble is afoot. Ah, here he comes."
As he spoke a tall, gaunt man appeared, advancing towards them. His
gait was a shambling trot that seemed slow, although, in truth, he was
covering the ground with extraordinary swiftness. Moreover, he moved
so silently that even on the frost-held soil his step could not be
heard, and so carefully that not a reed stirred as he threaded in and
out among their clumps like an otter, his head crouched down and his
long bow pointed before him as though it were a spear. Half a minute
more, and he was before them--a very strange man to see. His years
were not so many, thirty perhaps, and yet his face looked quite old
because of its lack of colouring, its thinness, and the hard lines
that marked where the muscles ran down to the tight, straight mouth
and up to the big forehead, over which hung hair so light that at a
little distance he seemed ashen-grey. Only in this cold, rocky face,
set very far apart, were two pale-blue eyes, which just now, when he
chose to lift their lids that generally kept near together, as though
he were half asleep, were full of fire and quick cunning.
Reaching the pair, this strange fellow dropped to his knee and raised
his cap to Eve, the great lady of the Claverings--Red Eve, as they
called her through that country-side. Then he spoke, in a low, husky
voice:
"They're coming, master! You and your mistress must to earth unless
you mean to face them in the open," and the pale eyes glittered as he
tapped his great black bow.
"Who are coming, Dick? Be plain, man!"
"Sir John Clavering, my lady's father; young John, my lady's brother;
the fine French lord who wears a white swan for a crest; three of the
nights, his companions; and six--no seven--men-at-arms. Also from the
other side of the grieve, Thomas of Kessland, and with him his marsh
men and verderers."
"And what are they coming for?" he asked again. "Have they hounds, and
hawk on wrist?"
"Nay, but they have swords and knife on thigh," and he let his pale
eyes fall on Eve.
"Oh, have done!" she broke in. "They come to take me, and I'll not be
taken! They come to kill you, and I'll not see you slain and live. I
had words with my father this morning about the Frenchman and, I fear,
let out the truth. He told me then that ere the Dunwich roses bloomed
again she who loved you would have naught but bones to kiss. Dick, you
know the fen; where can we hide till nightfall?"
"Follow me," said the man, "and keep low!"
Plunging into the dense brake of reeds, through which he glided like a
polecat, Dick led them over ground whereon, save in times of hard
frost, no man could tread, heading toward the river bank. For two
hundred paces or more they went thus, till, quite near to the lip of
the stream, they came to a patch of reeds higher and thicker than the
rest, in the centre of which was a little mound hid in a tangle of
scrub and rushes. Once, perhaps a hundred or a thousand years before,
some old marsh dweller had lived upon this mound, or been buried in
it. At any rate, on its southern side, hidden by reeds and a withered
willow, was a cavity of which the mouth could not be seen that might
have been a chamber for the living or the dead.
Thrusting aside the growths that masked it, Dick bade them enter and
lie still.
"None will find us here," he said as he lifted up the reeds behind
them, "unless they chance to have hounds, which I did not see. Hist!
be still; they come!"
