Voices from the Dust: Being Romances of Old London and of That Which Never Dies

Jeffery Farnol

Description

A Collection of intriguing Short Stories of London and romance including:
The London Stone
The Sanctuary - Westminster Abbey
The River Thames
London Bridge
The White Tower
St. Bartholemews
Smithfield
Tothill (Tuttle) Fields
White Friars
The Banqueting Hall at Whitehall
Plague
Hyde Park
The Pilgrims

Sujets

• amour
• Historical
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 16 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773237275
• Langue: English

Extrait

Voices from the Dust: Being Romances of Old London and of That Which Never Dies
by Jeffery Farnol

Firstpublished in 1932
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrievalsystem, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quotebrief passages in a review.
“To-day, my Lord, I go back to my cows”
Voices From the Dust
Being Romances of Old London
and of
that
which Never Dies
The GOOD lives on eternally
Only the baser thing can die



by JEFFERY FARNOL







WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
H. R. MILLAR

No. 1 THE LONDON STONE
I
Few are there of all the hurrying thousandspassing daily who ever trouble to glance at thisStone of London Town in its dark and dustycorner, this relic of long-forgotten peoples andillimitable years, whose origin is lost in the dustof speeding centuries. Whence came it? Whatwas it? Who shall say? The fetish, mayhap, ofpaleolithic man: a stone of sacrifice: a paganaltar? But we know it, lastly, as the measuring-stonefor a Roman province.
To-day it lies, dim and grim, behind its rustingiron bars, waiting, as it has always done, forthe end of Time,—history concrete for such aspossess the eye of imagination, and whichhaving no tongue may yet speak to such few asmay hear.
As thus:
It is a day of early summer, and the genial sunsparkles on bright mail and crested helmet, ittwinkles on broad spearhead and gleams uponspade and mattock where men labour upon aroad that, piercing thicket, swamp, and dense-tangledforest, shall join this hard-won provinceof Britain with the glory of imperial Rome.
And these soldier-labourers, being alsoRomans, do not scamp the business, for seenow!
They drive two parallel furrows the proposedwidth of the road: they scoop out the earth between,they pack and ram this excavation withfine earth,—and this is the pavimentum . Uponthis they now lay small squared stones preciselyarranged and mortared,—and this is the statumen .Upon this again they spread lime, chalk,and broken tiles pounded hard,—and this is the nucleus . Lastly and with extreme care they setlarge flat stones cut square or polygon-shaped,—andthis is the summa crusta .
What wonder that such roads have been enduringmarvels ever since?
Now, as these Roman legionaries bend to theirtravail or march upon their wards, come twomen, young officers by their mien and look, for,though their bright armour is very plain, theirhelmets bear lofty crests.
“Barbarians, I tell thee, Metellus,” cried theyounger with a gesture of youthful scorn. “Yetmust we go ever on watch and ward, day andnight—Why? Why?”
“Thou’rt new to Britain, Honorius, but shaltsee for thyself anon!” answered Metellus, smilinggrimly. “When hast fronted the wild rushof their war-chariots, seen their murderousscythe-blades dripping blood, ’twill suffice thee,Honorius, thou’lt know!”
“Nay, I’ve heard o’ them, man.”
“And shalt doubtless see, anon.”
“A barbarian rabblement!” snorted the youngHonorius.
“Yet Britons!” nodded his comrade, “and Ine’er saw Briton yet that loved not fight. Ay,barbarians are they . . . and yet——” Metellusglanced away to the distant, thick-woodedheights, and the dreamy eyes beneath his glitteringhelmet seemed suddenly at odds with hishawk-nose and grim mouth.
“Thou hast lived among them, Metellus, Ihear.”
“Three months among the Regni, to exchangehostages. I have their speech and——” Metellusstiffened suddenly, his eye grew keen as fromthe camp away down the road a trumpet blaredinstant hoarse alarm.
“What is it?” cried Honorius, clapping handto sword.
“Battle!” answered Metellus, and turned toorder his company, where now, in place of spadeand mattock, shield and pilum glittered andswayed. For, suddenly, from those woodedheights came a vague stir, a hum that swelled toclamour, to wild and fierce uproar: and forth ofthose gloomy woods leapt horses and chariotssweeping down with ever-increasing speed, hoofsthundering, and wheels rumbling—rattlingwheels whose creaking hubs bore long, curvedblades flashing evilly. So down roared thesechariots of death, driven by men who laughedand shouted amain, brandishing spears, axes, orlong bronze swords.
But upon the road all was silent where theseveteran ranks of Rome, shoulder to shoulder,back to back, shields before and spears advanced,stood grim and silent to stem the wild fury ofthat thunderous onset.
A still and breathless moment, and then uponthe road was raving pandemonium, dust andblood and death. For here are the chariots! Theirdrivers hurl javelins, they thrust with spear orsmite with sword, they leap upon their horses’backs, they step upon the pole that they maystrike and kill the better. The Roman front sways,totters, is riven asunder, and the blood-spatteredchariots are through and away. And now, downupon these broken ranks the British horsemencharge. But a trumpet shrills, the men of Romeclose up, stand firm, and British horse and ridergo down before the levelled spears or recoil beforethis iron discipline. So stood the Romans,silent, grim, and orderly as before; only now outstretchedupon the road were men who waileddismally or lay very mute and still, with litter ofchariots shattered or overturned, and dead ordying horses.
Then Metellus, knowing the attack was sped,wiped and sheathed his sword and looked aboutfor his young comrade Honorius, and presentlyespied him beneath a broken chariot, his youthfulbody hatefully mangled. Stooping, hetouched his pallid cheek. The dying youthopened dimming eyes and sighed.
“Metellus, thou wert . . . right. These Britonsare surely men. As for me . . . ah, well! . . . it is. . . for Rome. . . .”
Thus, then, they fought and laboured uponthe road, these men of Rome, in heat and cold,wetting it with their sweat, splashing it with theirblood, and dying now and then—but the roadwent on. For Rome’s mighty fist, having grasped,held fast awhile: before invincible pilum, shortsword, and rigid discipline the proud tribes,Regni, Silures, and Bibroci, gave back, slowly,sullenly, and vanished amid their impenetrablecountry of marsh and forest, beaten yet unconquered,and biding their time.
Thus, upon a summer’s eve, young Bran,son of Cadwallan, King of the Regni, tightenedthe strings of his bronze war-helm and, leaningupon his sword, peered down through quiveringleaves and above dense-tangled thickets to wherein the vale below broad and white and straightas arrow ran the great new road.
“Plague seize ’em!” he growled fiercely.“They should be in sight ere now. What shallkeep ’em, think ye?” And, from the denserwood behind, came a harsh yet jovial voice inanswer, the voice of Tryggan, his foster-father,old in war and accounted wise in counsel:
“Patience, fosterling! They were ordered forAnderida, we know, and, being Romans, comethey will.”
“Romans—ha, curse them!” muttered youngBran, lifting his knotted fist. “And in especialdo I curse Metellus the centurion!”
“Thy hate for him waxeth ever, Bran?”
“Hourly, since first he plagued my sight.Thrice have we met in battle, and yet he lives.And my cousin Fraya looks on him over-kindly—andhe a Roman!”
“Why, he is a comely youngling, Bran.”
“Yet a Roman! And therefore to be hated.So pray I the God o’ the Grove, yea, the Spirito’ the running water, I meet him in fight thisday! Think you my father shall be ready?”
“Yea, verily! Trust Cadwallan. Yonder helies across the valley with all his powers, yetnot so much as a blink of helm or spear! Andmoreover——Stay! What’s there? Now watch,eyes all—hearken!”
Leaves a-flutter in the gentle wind, a birdcarolling joyously against the blue, a stealthyrustling sound amid the underbrush hard by,where armed men crept . . . and then aboveall this, faint and far, a throb of rhythmicsound drawing nearer, louder, until it grew tothe rattle and thud of slung shield and spear,with the short, quick tramp of marching Romaninfantry. Young Bran smiled fiercely and,tossing back his long fair hair, glanced downat the eager faces of his crouching followersand drew his sword.
“Be ready, men of the Regni!” he muttered.“This hour shall your thirsty swords drinkdeep. Where I go, follow and kill!”
“No mercy, then, princeling?” murmuredgrey-headed Tryggan.
“Mercy?” snarled Bran. “Ha, meseemethyou also look too kindly on these accursedRomans! Kill, I charge ye, kill all! Yet stay!Spare only Metellus, for he is mine; him willI give to the priests for our Sacred Fire. So—passthe word! And watch for my signal.”
Far off upon the road there presently appeareda small company of soldiers, crestedhelmet and spearhead blinking redly in thesunset glow, a serried company, their files trimand orderly, their short, quick stride bringingthem rapidly nearer, until these many hiddeneyes might descry grim faces and sturdy limbsand one who marched before accoutred like hisfellows, except that his helmet bore a loftier crest.Nearer they swung, rank on rank, veterans allby their showing—lean, sinewy fellows with eyesbright as their armour.
“Come!” roared Bran and leaped, longsword aloft—and up from bracken andsheltering thicket sprang his fierce companyand followed hot-foot where he led.
From the road a trumpet sounded, shieldsflashed and spearheads glittered as the Romanswheeled to meet the charge.
Though surrounded and beset on all sidesthe Roman columns held fast; British long-swordswhirled and fell, but the serried Romanspears swayed and thrust, and the short, two-edgedswords bit deep, and thrice, for alltheir desperate courage, the Britons were flungback.
“Metellus!” roared Bran, raging amid thefray. “Ha, Metellus, I’m for you. Come!”
“So ho, Bran!” answered the hated voice ofMetellus, rising loud and clear above the din.“Come, then, and taste again of Roman steel.