Gates of Empire

The clank of the sour sentinels on the turrets, the gusty uproar
of the spring winds, were not heard by those who reveled in the cellar
of Godfrey de Courtenay's castle; and the noise these revelers made
was bottled up deafeningly within the massive walls.

A sputtering candle lighted those rugged walls, damp and
uninviting, flanked with wattled casks and hogsheads over which
stretched a veil of dusty cobwebs. From one barrel the head had been
knocked out, and leathern drinking-jacks were immersed again and again
in the foamy tide, in hands that grew increasingly unsteady.

Agnes, one of the serving wenches, had stolen the massive iron key
to the cellar from the girdle of the steward; and rendered daring by
the absence of their master, a small but far from select group were
making merry with characteristic heedlessness of the morrow.

Agnes, seated on the knee of the varlet Peter, beat erratic time
with a jack to a ribald song both were bawling in different tunes and
keys. The ale slopped over the rim of the wobbling jack and down
Peter's collar, a circumstance he was beyond noticing.

The other wench, fat Marge, rolled on her bench and slapped her
ample thighs in uproarious appreciation of a spicy tale just told by
Giles Hobson. This individual might have been the lord of the castle
from his manner, instead of a vagabond rapscallion tossed by every
wind of adversity. Tilted back on a barrel, booted feet propped on
another, he loosened the belt that girdled his capacious belly in its
worn leather jerkin, and plunged his muzzle once more into the
frothing ale.

"Giles, by Saint Withold his beard," quoth Marge, "madder rogue
never wore steel. The very ravens that pick your bones on the gibbet
tree will burst their sides a-laughing. I hail ye--prince of all bawdy
liars!"

She flourished a huge pewter pot and drained it as stoutly as any
man in the realm.

At this moment another reveler, returning from an errand, came
into the scene. The door at the head of the stairs admitted a wobbly
figure in close-fitting velvet. Through the briefly opened door
sounded noises of the night--slap of hangings somewhere in the house,
sucking and flapping in the wind that whipped through the crevices; a
faint disgruntled hail from a watchman on a tower. A gust of wind
whooped down the stair and set the candle to dancing.

Guillaume, the page, shoved the door shut and made his way with
groggy care down the rude stone steps. He was not so drunk as the
others, simply because, what of his extreme youth, he lacked their
capacity for fermented liquor.

"What's the time, boy?" demanded Peter.

"Long past midnight," the page answered, groping unsteadily for
the open cask. "The whole castle is asleep, save for the watchmen. But
I heard a clatter of hoofs through the wind and rain; methinks 'tis
Sir Godfrey returning."

"Let him return and be damned!" shouted Giles, slapping Marge's
fat haunch resoundingly. "He may be lord of the keep, but at present
we are keepers of the cellar! More ale! Agnes, you little slut,
another song!"

"Nay, more tales!" clamored Marge. "Our mistress's brother, Sir
Guiscard de Chastillon, has told grand tales of Holy Land and the
infidels, but by Saint Dunstan, Giles' lies outshine the knight's
truths!"

"Slander not a--hic!--holy man as has been on pilgrimage and
Crusade," hiccuped Peter. "Sir Guiscard has seen Jerusalem and
foughten beside the King of Palestine--how many years?"

"Ten year come May Day, since he sailed to Holy Land," said Agnes.
"Lady Eleanor had not seen him in all that time, till he rode up to
the gate yesterday morn. Her husband, Sir Godfrey, never has seen
him."

"And wouldn't know him?" mused Giles; "nor Sir Guiscard him?"

He blinked, raking a broad hand through his sandy mop. He was
drunker than even he realized. The world spun like a top and his head
seemed to be dancing dizzily on his shoulders. Out of the fumes of ale
and a vagrant spirit, a madcap idea was born.

A roar of laughter burst gustily from Giles' lips. He reeled
upright, spilling his jack in Marge's lap and bringing a burst of rare
profanity from her. He smote a barrelhead with his open hand,
strangling with mirth.