But even if he was somewhat downcast about the success of his search, he had also a curious feeling of gladness as he rose in his stirrups to Midnight’s fast and steady, forward-swinging trot. He was glad that Barbara had not been made Queen this morning. He was glad that she was still unmarried. Then instantly remembering the King’s grief, he was ashamed of such thoughts. Nevertheless, that odd spark of happy thrill would come tingling back through his blood once in a while, till at length he gritted his teeth as he urged his horse into a better speed. He told himself that now, if ever, he must be on guard against his own feelings. And if he could not entirely rid his heart of such disloyal ideas, he must force them to help him towards a higher unselfishness in the service of his King and friend.
He had intended not to break the first stage of his journey till he had gained a point some twenty miles at least from the capital. Then he would begin his circling search. At that distance fewer people would know him by sight. In and around the castle it would be already noted that Sir Giles Waggonwright had set out upon a journey. But so long as he was careful, no one need learn for the present what errand it was that took him forth.
By nightfall he had reached a village. Here he made his first halt. It was at the crossing of several roads, one of them quite an important highway for traffic, such as it was in those times. This place, Giles felt, would be a good one from which to start his work. In questioning the country folk he could not of course speak of the Countess Barbara by name, nor even ask directly if they had seen a young woman of her description. He had to get information in a roundabout sort of way by chatting with the villagers on all sorts of general country gossip, hoping that some word would be let fall that would start him on the right track.
Remembering that the girl, on their trips into the country with the King and Luke, had always been kind to the poor and unfortunate, he kept an eye open for any beggars whom he could engage in conversation. Also her liking for horses and dogs led him to visit all the stables he passed. Asking after good horses to hire gave him an excuse to speak with grooms and ostlers who might have seen her. He took Midnight into every blacksmith’s shop he saw to have her hoofs looked at, or to get her bit and trappings shined up. At some places he didn’t do any talking at all himself, but just stood around listening to the exchange of gossip among the common people. In those times most news was carried by word of mouth. And now and then, knowing that the appearance of a knight might make the yokels too respectful and untalkative, he would pretend to fall asleep from weariness in taverns or on public benches. He hoped he might more easily so catch something helpful to his search.
But his stay in the first village brought him nothing, and the following morning, early, he moved on to the westward.
He knew the country well, every inch of it. The need to hurry now urged and worried him. And he planned this second day to visit at least five villages, not very far apart, that lay along the bank of one of the more important rivers flowing down from the mountains to the sea. This ought to bring him half of the way round his circle about the capital. Surely, he thought, somewhere on that distance, a trace or clue might lead him to the missing girl. So, touching the mare’s flank lightly with his riding whip, he set out hopefully.
Hopefully? (His horse came to a sudden standstill without command.) Again Giles had that queer sense of being somehow almost glad that he had not yet succeeded, that his beloved Barbara was still unmarried and uncrowned. It was whispering now like some doughty little demon, away down in the heart of him—him, the great King’s Finder who had never failed upon a quest! . . .
A cock crowed harshly from a farm nearby.
Then, impatient, Midnight shook her handsome head and pawed the gravel.
Sir Giles Waggonwright rode on.
8 Wonder world
The sea glimmered in a rosy twilight. It was the evening of the second day of search. Far off, at the edge of the quiet ocean, the sails of little ships, like bits of black cardboard, moved very slowly along the skyline. Drawn up on the beach nearer at hand were more boats, with fishermen spreading out their nets and coiling ropes. Around them white gulls soared, faintly squealing. A solitary man stood on the cliffs above, looking down at it all. From his dress he would have been taken for a pilgrim. For he wore a long cloak of coarse cloth; had sandals on his feet; carried a staff cut from the hedges; and showed all the appearance of those who travel hard journeys afoot to visit shrines and far-off places of worship. Not even a friend, unless he looked closely under the wide hat shading the man’s face, would have known that it was Giles.
There was a worried weariness in his eyes. The five villages he had come through since daybreak had given him nothing of hope, not a trace of her whom he sought, not a hint of which direction to turn his search in. Thinking that he might draw less attention to himself and be better able to ask questions, he had changed from his ordinary clothes to those of a poor wanderer begging his way. And so he had come at length to the sea. Now he was asking himself as he gazed down upon it, could Barbara have gone beyond, over the wide waters into foreign lands? This small fishing port below was the nearest harbour to the capital. He had questioned the seamen on the sands. But they could tell him nothing. Nevertheless, without their knowledge she might have been carried away on any of the vessels sailing down the river at night. Supposing she had, what chance was left for him of overtaking her?
If only he had not been in such a hurry with his rash promises! ‘In two or three days,’ he had told the King. What a mad boast! Here was the last of the second day fading from his sight, and he had nothing to show for his work but a great weariness of body and puzzlement of mind.
Standing up there alone at the cliff’s edge he breathed the live sea-air deep into his tired body. Another day gone. In spite of the thousand questions that turned and jumbled in his mind, he could not help being thrilled by the glory of such an evening. He felt at once weakly small and humbly great. From here his eyes could sweep the world: grey sea below; darkening land behind; the sky a great violet ceiling overhead with rags of pink-edged clouds; the single spark of a lone star, steady glowing, where the sun had sunk . . . Barbara! Where was she now? What was she thinking of? Why had she gone?
Could not some wizard, some magic wish-giver, come to his aid, wave a wand to lift her out of this silent world and place her at his side, here on the cliff-top? Night putting her arms around the sea. No helping wizard. Just the earth going to bed the same as it had done for a million years, prosy, practical and prompt. Were no more wonders worked since sprites and fairies left the haunts of Man? Yet it was magic, too, this—so Geoffrey would have said—the sun sinking in the sea at dusk and rising on the land at dawn. And so it looked in truth. Gorgeous colours, violet, rose and silver-grey, moving, changing, mingling aswirl. The day of Mystery, wonder stuff and witchcraft, of elves and goblins, jinns and mermaids, fading into quiet dark like the peaceful, sleepy ending of enchanted dreams.
Was it the Twilight of Magic? Perhaps. But only today’s. Magic could never die while the sun had the power to rise again and Man had the wish to seek.
Giles pulled his rough cloak more closely about his shoulders. If tomorrow’s work should bring no more than today’s, he asked himself, what then? He would have failed. A great finder he, failing his master in his worst need!