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162 pages

English

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The novel tells the story of two brothers, Frank and Geoffrey Derwent, who are separated as children when their father dies and their mother remarries. Frank is sent to live with his wealthy uncle in England, while Geoffrey remains in South Africa with his mother and stepfather. Years later, Frank returns to South Africa and is reunited with Geoffrey, who has become a successful diamond prospector. Together, the brothers embark on a dangerous journey to find a legendary diamond known as the "Star of the South". Along the way, they must confront their own past and the betrayal that separated them as children. "The Brethren" is a thrilling and engaging novel that showcases Haggard's storytelling prowess and his ability to weave together complex plots and memorable characters. It is a must-read for fans of adventure and historical fiction.

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Publié par	Interactive Media
Date de parution	06 mars 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787366022
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0005€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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H. Rider Haggard
The Brethren
Published by Sovereign
This edition first published in 2023
Copyright © 2023 Sovereign
All Rights Reserve
ISBN: 9781787366022
Contents
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER I.
By The Waters of Death Creek
From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf, his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips, notwithstanding his father’s Norman blood.
At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the slow grace which marked her every movement.
“Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?” she asked in her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent, seemed quite different to that of any other woman.
“I think so, Rosamund,” he answered. “It would serve to pass the time, and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we rode so far to seek, the time-is somewhat long.”
“Shame on you, Wulf,” she said, smiling. “Look upon yonder sea and sky, at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple-”
“I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your back and at Godwin’s left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father’s effigy upon his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword, the same cold, silent face staring at the sky.”
“Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes-that is, if the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire,” interrupted his brother.
Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his blue eyes.
“No, I think not,” he answered; “the deeds you may do, and greater, but surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk’s cowl at the last-unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two-for I have been wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth-a maid’s thoughts are her own-but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and should be skimmed.”
Rosamund sighed. “I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of strange learning-”
“And women are men’s slaves!” interrupted Wulf. “Still, it is natural that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins, and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess”-and he bowed the knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his earnest reverence-“say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?”
She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen.
Presently she answered him with another question.
“And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D’Arcy and a Christian maid?”
“The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill either, and for the second-why, faiths can be changed.”
Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time.
“Wulf, Wulf,” he said sternly, “keep watch upon your tongue, for there are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth-”
“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.
“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”
“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately, perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said, “You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty and wisdom.”
“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad, the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother-who, indeed, in such a case would do right to slay me.”
“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so very hard to choose between death and duty?”
“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than life.”
“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or-love?”
“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though those within it watched us.”
“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”
“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”
“Fish,” said Wulf; “we are at peace in Essex.” Although Rosamund did not look convinced, he went on: “Now for Godwin’s thoughts- what were they?”
“Brother, if you would know, of the East also-the East and its wars.”
“Which have brought us no great luck,” answered Wulf, “seeing that our sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his heart, which lies at Stangate yonder.”
“How better could he die,” asked Godwin, “than fighting for the Cross of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!”
“Aye, he died well-he died well,” said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and his hand creeping to his sword hilt. “But, brother, there is peace at Jerusalem, as in Essex.”
“Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter-he whom we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months gone-told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin, sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red upon the holy sands of Palestine?”
Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.
“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!”-and he looked at Rosamund, who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes-“go when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.” And suddenly his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a field-“A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!” Then he sheathed his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!”
Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said:
“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that will part us. But”-and her voice broke somewhat-“such is the woman’s lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not why”-and she shivered a little-“it comes into my heart that Heaven often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the sunlight. I am afraid-of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first, my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”
“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously. “What is there for you to fear in a nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”
“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple, but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.
“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without count.”
Then they turned and entered the old church-one of the first that ever was in B