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diff --git a/old/63544-0.txt b/old/63544-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b1f2706..0000000 --- a/old/63544-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12443 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Saint, by Warwick Deeping - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Red Saint - -Author: Warwick Deeping - -Release Date: October 24, 2020 [EBook #63544] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED SAINT *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - - - - - - THE RED SAINT - - - TO - - CAPTAIN AND MRS. MERRILL - - I DEDICATE THIS BOOK - WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION - - - - - THE RED SAINT - - - By - WARWICK DEEPING - _Author of “Sorrell and Son,” etc._ - - [Illustration] - - CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD - London, Toronto, Melbourne and Sydney - - First Published _April_ 1909 - - - - - THE RED SAINT - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -When Denise of the Hermitage went down to draw water at the spring at -the edge of the beech wood, she saw the light of a fire flashing out -through the blue gloom of the April dusk. It was far away—that fire, -almost on the horizon, a knot of tawny colour seen between the dark -slopes of two high hills. Yet though it was so far away Denise could see -the long flames moving, sometimes shooting upwards, or bending and -sweeping towards the ground. - -Denise stood and watched these flames that waved and flickered yonder -through the dusk where the smoke spread out between the hills into a -kind of pearly haze. It was so still under the boughs of the great -beeches that the distant fire seemed strange and ghostly, burning -without a sound. The little pool where Denise had filled her pitcher was -not more silent, the pool fed by an invisible spring, and believed to be -miraculous and holy. - -Yet though those far flames were so silent, Denise could set a sound to -them, a crackling roar that would be very real to those who looked on -the thing as on a sacrifice. There would be many watchers on the hills -that night, sullen and silent folk to whom that blaze would speak like a -war cresset teased by the wind on some great lord’s tower. Peter of -Savoy’s riders, those hired “spears” from over the sea, Gascons, -Flemings, Bretons, were out to keep the King’s peace in the Rapes of -Pevensey and of Hastings. Denise knew that private war had been let -loose, for had she not heard from the priest of Goldspur, and from -Aymery the manor lord, that many of the lesser gentry and the Cinque -Port towns were calling for Earl Simon? The pot that had long been -simmering, had boiled over of a sudden. And those who had scalded toes -had only their own perversity to thank. - -In such a fashion began the Barons’ war in many a quiet corner of the -land. Lawyers might orate and scribble, but when men quarrelled over a -great issue, and the heart of a people was full of bitterness and -discontent, the rush was towards the primitive ordeal of the sword. -“God—and the King!”—“Earl Simon and the Charter!” These two rallying -cries cut off brother from brother, and father from son. There had been -years of verbiage, oath breaking, famine, peculation, and cynical -corruption in high places. The law was no law, the King’s oath a byword -in brothels and in taverns. The great Father—even the Pope—had had -both fists in the English money pots. Poitevins, Provençals, and -Italians had scrambled together. The country was sick of it. Men who -were in grim earnest hastened to get to blows. - -As Denise, half hermitess, half saint, went back through the beech wood, -the fire, like a great red brazier, still shone out on her, latticed by -the black boughs, or hidden for a moment behind a tree bole. And though -the wood was as still and solemn as a temple, it seemed full of a hushed -and listening dread, waiting for the wind that should come roaring -through the tops of the trees. Unrest was upon the hills, and in the -deeps of the valleys. Denise felt it as she might have felt the nearness -of thunder on a sultry night in June. - -But if no wind stirred in the wood that night, there were other sounds -more human and more passionate than the voice of the wind. Denise had -said her prayers in her cell when the dead leaves under the beech trees -whispered with the moving of many feet. Indistinct figures went in and -out among the tree boles, the muttering of voices mingling with the -rustle of the leaves. A full moon had risen, and begun to throw long -slants of light into the darkness of the wood, outlining the black -branches, and splashing the trunks of the trees with silver. In and out, -through the still moonlight and the shadows, came the moving figures -whose feet filled the whole wood with the shiver of dead leaves. - -They straggled along by twos and threes, some silent and morose, others -talking with the quick muttering intensity of men who have given and -taken blows. A darker core moved along the woodland path in the midst of -this scattered company. Men were carrying a litter of boughs piled upon -the trunks of two young ash trees. The moonlight played intermittently -upon the men about the litter, showing so many white faces, intent and -silent, and a body that lay upon the bed of boughs with a shield -covering its face. - -A breadth of clear sky in the thick of the wood showed them that they -were close on the glade where Denise of the Forest had her cell. The -place was sacred and full of mystery to the woodlanders of those parts, -and the scattered figures drew together under a tree where the path came -out of the wood into the glade. Only the litter of boughs and the men -with it went forward into the moonlight; the rest held aloof like dogs -left by their master at the door of a church. - -The men who carried the litter set it down outside the gate in the -wattle fence that shut in Denise’s garden. There was some whispering, -but the men’s voices were no longer harsh and angry. Grimbald, the -parish priest, sent them back into the wood to wait. Two men remained -beside the litter, one standing a little apart with a cloak wrapped -round him, and a hood drawn forward over his face. - -Grimbald, the priest from Goldspur village, opened the gate, and went up -the path paved with rough, flat stones that led to the cell. Denise had -heard the sound of voices, and the rustling of the dead leaves in the -wood. Grimbald’s voice warned her that they were friends. - -“Sancta Denise,” he said, crossing himself, “_ora pro nobis_.” - -The door opened, under the broad black eaves of the hermitage. Denise -stood there on the threshold, wearing a grey cloak that shone white in -the light of the moon. Her hair clouded past her shoulders to her knees. -It was miraculous hair, red as rust in the shade, but burning in the -sunlight with a sheen of gold. Denise herself was miraculous, and this -beech wood of hers was said to be full of many marvels. People who came -for holy water from her pool, or to be treated by her for sickness, -swore that they had seen a moving radiance, like a marsh fire, in the -wood, and heard the voices of angels and the murmur of their wings. -Denise was famed for her powers of healing. She knew all the precious -herbs, and the touch of her hands could bring a blessing. - -Grimbald told her the news. - -“It is Waleran de Monceaux’s lad,” he said. “Come and see, Sanctissima, -whether God will be merciful.” - -She bent forward and looked into Grimbald’s face. - -“There is war with us—then?” - -Grimbald spread his arms. - -“Peter of Savoy sent out his free-lances from Pevensey. They were too -strong for us. The lad was shot through the body when they drove us into -the woods.” - -“I saw a fire—about dusk.” - -“Waleran’s hall—and outhouses! That was the end of it.” - -He stood aside, and Denise went down the path, her bare feet making no -sound upon the stones. Aymery, lord of the manor of Goldspur, knelt in -the grass beside the litter holding the lad’s cold hands. Waleran still -stood aloof, his face hidden under his hood. No one spoke to him. They -left him alone, knowing his mood, and the manner of man that he was. - -Denise went on her knees beside the litter, her two hands putting back -the masses of her hair. Aymery lifted the shield from the lad’s face. -The sleeve of his hauberk brushed against Denise’s cloak. She glanced -round at him, and their eyes smiled faintly at one another. - -“We brought the boy to you. The arrow drove right through him. You can -feel the point under his tunic.” - -Denise laid a hand over the lad’s heart. There was not a flicker of -movement there, but she could feel the arrow’s head standing out a -hand’s breadth beyond the ribs. The lad must have died very quickly. - -“He is dead,” she said to the man at her side. - -Aymery was staring at the boy’s face. He turned, and glanced meaningly -at the figure that stood apart in silent isolation. - -“It is Waleran,” he said in a whisper, “he would not believe the worst.” - -Denise gave a little shudder of pity. Aymery turned, and met her eyes. - -“Pray for the boy, Denise. What is death, but a miracle! And an hour -ago——” - -She spread her hands helplessly. - -“Lord, death is beyond me; I am not blessed with so much power. Someone -must tell him.” - -“The pity of it!” - -And she echoed him. - -“The pity of it!” - -A compassionate humility made her bow her head over the rough litter, -for there was no place for the smaller remembrance of self in the -conscious awe of her own helplessness. Denise had healed sick people, -but she who could play the lady of healing, knew herself human in the -presence of death. - -“Tell him,” she said, “it is almost shame to me that you should have -brought the boy here.” - -Aymery covered the lad’s face again with the shield. - -“Pray for Waleran,” he said. - -“For the living rather than the dead.” - -Aymery rose and joined Grimbald the priest, who was standing by the -gate. Denise still knelt beside the litter, holding the dead boy’s -hands. And if compassion could have given him life, compassion for that -silent man who stood aloof, life might have flowed miraculously from -Denise’s body, and spread like fire into the limbs of the dead. - -Grimbald left Aymery, and crossed the grass to where Waleran stood, -Waleran that sturdy man with the fierce red shock of hair. Waleran had -been the first mesne lord in those parts to bristle his mane against -Count Peter of Savoy. This hardihood had lost him his only child, and -made a bonfire of his home, though he would not believe at first that -the boy was dead. - -Aymery of Goldspur turned again to Denise. He could see that she was -praying, and his eyes, that were frosty with the cold anger of a strong -man helpless in the face of death, flashed suddenly as he saw the -moonlight touching Denise’s hair. - -Grimbald had Waleran by the shoulders. They heard a short, sharp oath -scatter the priest’s whisperings as a puff of wind scatters a handful of -feathers. - -“Dead!” - -There was the sound of heavy breathing. - -“Let me alone! Am I a fool of a girl?” - -“Patience, brother.” - -“Patience be cursed! What is the use of an idiot saint if an arrow -between the ribs is too much for her?” - -Denise let the boy’s hands fall; Aymery saw her bow her head, and heard -her whisper words that he could not catch. Then Waleran came forward, -swinging his arms as though to keep off Grimbald who towered beside him -like a great ship. Waleran stopped at the foot of the litter, and stood -staring at the shield that covered the dead boy’s face. Some impulse -drove him to his knees, and he began to feel for the arrow, breathing -heavily through set teeth. - -Denise’s nearness seemed to come between him and the savage tenderness -of a dog for its dead whelp. Her humility and her compassion were not -tuned to the cry of nature. - -“Get up,” he said. “This is my affair.” - -He leant forward, and pushed her back with a rough thrust of the open -hand. Aymery caught Denise, and drew her aside. - -“Forgive——” - -His arms lingered about her like the arms of a lover. - -“Lord, I understand.” - -“That arrow has stricken two hearts.” - -Her eyes looked into Aymery’s as he let her go. - -“God have pity,” she said. - -Waleran had broken off the head of the arrow. He held it up in the -moonlight, and his hood fell back from his face. The three who watched -him saw his face contorted with laughter, though no sound came from the -open mouth. - -He ran the arrow’s head through his cloak, as a woman pins her tunic -with a splinter of bone. - -“Here is a keepsake,” he said. “Lord, but I shall cherish it! They have -lit a candle for the boy, yonder. Some day I shall hang a bell on a -rope, and ring him a passing.” - -He scrambled up, swaggering, and shaking his shoulders. It was his way -of carrying the burden that the night had laid on him. He shouted to the -men, roughly, and they came out from the shadows of the trees. - -When they had lifted the litter, Waleran jerked himself on to it, and -putting the shield aside, sat fingering his boy’s face. - -“A puff of wind, and the candle is out,” he said. - -The litter swayed under his weight. - -“Spill me, you fools, and I shall have something to say to you. Off with -you. To-morrow we must put this poor pigeon under the grass.” - -The men moved away, and Grimbald would have followed them, but Waleran -ordered him back. - -“Have I nothing better to do than to cut my own throat!” he said. -“Shifts and cassocks are no good for me. The puppy is mine, by God! Let -no one meddle between him and me.” - -Grimbald followed them no farther, and heard the swish of their feet die -away through the dead leaves into the darkness. - -In an hour from their first coming the beech wood was silent and empty, -and Denise’s cell lay with its dark thatch like an islet in the midst of -a quiet mere. Not a ripple of sound played over the surface of the -night. Aymery and Grimbald had gone to warn their own people that death -was abroad on the White Horse. And Denise, sitting on her bed, wakeful, -and filled with a great pity for Waleran and the lad, felt that the -stealthy glamour of the moonlight was cold and unreal. If her compassion -followed Waleran, a feeling more deep and more mysterious followed -Aymery under the boughs of the beeches. Yet this feeling of Denise’s was -as miraculous as the moonlight which she thought so cold and mute. - -The two men made their way through the wood by a broad green ride, and -stood listening where the heathland began for any sound that might steal -out of the vast silence of the night. Grimbald’s great head, with its -gaunt, eagle face, the colour of smoked oak, had the full moon behind it -for a halo. Aymery of Goldspur stood a little below him on the hillside, -leaning on his sword. His thoughts were back among the trees about -Denise’s glade, those towering trees whose boughs seemed hung with the -stars. - -Below them stretched wastes of whin and heather, hills black with -forests, valleys full of moonlit mist. They could see the sea shining in -the distance, a whole land beneath them, ghostly, strange, and still. - -“It is all quiet yonder.” - -Grimbald’s head was like the head of a hawk, alert and very watchful. - -“They have done enough for one night,” he said. - -“To make us keep troth with the King!” - -Both were silent for a moment. Grimbald spoke the thought that was -uppermost in Aymery’s mind. - -“It is no longer safe for the girl alone, yonder,” he said. - -Aymery, that man with the iron mouth and the square chin, and eyes the -colour of the winter sea, spread his shoulders as an archer spreads them -before drawing a six-foot bow. - -“I will see to it,” he said quietly. “Nothing must happen to Denise.” - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -The little red spider of a man who pattered along beside Gaillard’s -horse, looked up from time to time into the Gascon’s face, and thought -what a great pageant life must be to a soldier who had such a body and -so much pay. For the little red spider was a cripple, and nothing more -glorious than a spy, a thing that crawled like a harvest bug, and might -have been squashed without ceremony under the Gascon’s fist. As for -Gaillard he was a very great man, cock and captain of Count Peter’s -chickens, those most meek birds who scratched up obstinate worms, and -kept their lord’s land clean of grubs. - -They were marching back to Pevensey, bows and spears, along the flat -road over the marshes, with the downs in the west a dull green against -the April sky. Waleran de Monceaux had been chastened in proper fashion, -a chastening that might calm the turbulent tempers of his neighbours. Of -what use were such castles as Pevensey, Lewes, Arundel, and Bramber, to -the King at such a crisis, if the great lords did not put pettifogging -law aside and coerce as much of the country as they could cover with -their swords? Men were tired of words and of charters. “Let us come to -grips,” said they, “and not quarrel over parchment and seals.” And the -great lords were wise in their necessity, kept—each in his castle—a -dragon at his service, a dragon that could be sent out to scorch up -those who had the temerity to threaten the King. - -The little red spider thought Messire Gaillard a fine fellow. He had -such limbs on him, such a voice, such a cheerful way of bullying -everyone. The Gascon might have been made of brown wire, he was so -restless, so sinewy, so alert; a rust-coloured man with red and uneasy -eyes, a harsh skin blotched with freckles, hair that curled like a -negro’s, and a big mouth insolent under the aggressive tusks of its -moustache. A vain man, too, as his dress and his harness showed, a man -who put oil on his hair, wore many rings, and had a quick eye for a -woman. He was just the lusty, headstrong animal, a born fighter, and a -bully by instinct, inflammable, self-sufficient, a babbler, and a singer -of love songs. - -The waters of the bay were covered with purple shadows, and the -marshlands brilliant as green samite when Gaillard’s men came to the -western gate of the castle, and rode two by two with drooped spears into -the great outer bailey closed in by the old Roman walls. Gaillard came -last, with the spy pattering beside his horse. The men went to their -quarters, rough pent houses that had been built for them along the -northern wall, for there was not room enough in Peter of Savoy’s new -castle within a castle for all those hired men from over the sea. - -Pevensey would have astonished any rough Northumbrian baron, or the -fiery Marcher Lords who fought the Welsh. For Peter of Savoy was a -southerner, a compeer of the King’s in his love of colour and of music. -To dig a moat and build white towers was not enough for him, and the -spirit of Provence had emptied itself within the Roman wall. A great -part of the space had become a garden, shut in with thickets of -cypresses and bays. The roses of Provence bloomed there in June. Winding -alley ways went in and out, short swarded, and overhung by rose trees. -There were vines on trellises, and banks of fragrant herbs. In the thick -of a knoll of cypresses Count Peter kept two leopards in a cage, -yellow-eyed beasts which glided silently to and fro. - -Gaillard, skirting the cypresses of the pleasaunce, had his eyes on the -window of the great tower where Peter of Savoy loved to sit playing -chess with Dan Barnabo his chaplain, or listening to a woman singing to -the lute. The lutanist sang to others as well as to Count Peter. -Gaillard the Gascon knew the twitter of her strings, better perhaps, -than Peter of Savoy himself. - - “Give me a red rose, my desire, - And a kiss on the mouth for an _Ave_.” - -The words were those of Etoile of the Lute, and Gaillard hummed them -under the shade of the cypresses as he rode towards the inner gate. But -some hand threw a clod of turf at him that morning, and threw it so -cleverly that the thing hit Gaillard on the ear, and spattered his blue -surcoat over with soil. - -The Gascon turned sharply in the saddle, and saw a white hand showing -between two cypress trees, and a wrist that betrayed the golden threads -embroidering a woman’s sleeve. - -A voice laughed at him. - - “Throw me a clod of turf, my desire, - Give me a blow on the ear for a greeting!” - -The arm put the boughs aside, and a face appeared, wreathed by the -cypress sprays, a woman’s face, white, mischievous, and alluring. Her -black hair was bound up in a golden net. She showed her teeth at -Gaillard, and put out the tip of a red tongue. - -“Can I throw straight, dear lord?” - -He turned his horse, glanced at the window in the tower, and then -laughed back at her, opening his mouth wide like the beak of a hungry -bird. - -“Better at a man’s heart, than at his head, dear lady.” - -“A Gascon has more head than heart, my friend.” - -“And a long sword, and a longer tongue!” - -She tilted her chin, two black eyes laughing above a short, impudent -nose, and a hard, red mouth. - -“Go and have your gossip with good Peter. Barnabo has beaten him twice -at chess, and he was ready to throw the board at me. The leopards are -better tempered.” - -Gaillard snapped his fingers. - -“I will be a leopard,” he said. “Wait till I have washed the dust off. -Peter always plays until he wins.” - -The white face disappeared behind the cypress boughs, and Gaillard rode -on to his quarters, ready to wash the dust of the road away with wine -and water, and thinking of Etoile, Count Peter’s lutanist and lady. She -was a Gascon also from the land of the Garonne. Etoile and Gaillard were -excellent friends, especially when the Savoyard was playing chess. - -There were peacocks strutting in the garden, sunning their gorgeous -tails, when Gaillard fresh from the bath and the hands of his man, went -out to Etoile among the cypresses. At the window above Peter of Savoy -had his head over the chess-board. The game was such a passion with him, -that his people left him in the throes of it, not even Etoile being -allowed to touch her lute. The Savoyard, chin on the palm of his left -hand, with Barnabo opposite him, had not so much as noticed Gaillard’s -return. The men had ridden to their quarters, but Peter’s long fingers -loitered over the board, and his ears might have been stuffed with wool. -Barnabo, who had won two games, had enough worldly wisdom behind his -smooth, Italian face to know that the time had come to put his lord in a -happier temper. Barnabo always rose from the board a loser. It was part -of his policy to pique the great man by defeating him at first, that he -might delight him the more with the inevitable revenge. - -“You are too subtle for me, sire,” he would confess. “I can begin by -winning, that is easy. When I have beaten you, you laugh, and turn to -show me what a child I am.” - -The chess-players were so intent above, that Gaillard and the lute girl -Etoile, had the half hour safely to themselves. They were blood -cousins—these two Gascons, and yet nearer of kin in the intimate -ambition that had sent them hunting in a strange land. How the Lady of -the Peacocks had persuaded Peter of Savoy into loving her would be a -tale fit for a French song. She could do very much as she pleased with -him so long as he was not hanging his dyed beard over the chess-board. -As for her and Gaillard, they understood one another. The man was driven -at times to be rash and impetuous. Etoile was strange and fierce enough -at a crisis to keep Gaillard’s galloping passion from breaking its own -neck. - -These two Gascons had a common enemy, Barnabo the Italian, who was as -clever as Etoile, and far more clever than Gaillard. The chaplain was a -smooth man, a man who smiled when he was snubbed, and put the insult -carefully into the counting-house of his memory. There was sometimes a -glitter in his eyes, like the gleam of a knife hidden in a sleeve. He -hated Etoile, and Etoile the woman, knew why he hated her. Barnabo would -have had her for an accomplice, the Queen on the chess-board to play -against Count Peter. Etoile had struck Barnabo across the face, and the -chess-board and the lute had been at feud with one another. Peter of -Savoy knew nothing of all this. Both Barnabo and Etoile were too wise to -throw soot at one another, unless the chance should come when one could -be safely blackened without so much as a pinch of slander falling upon -the other. - -It was of Barnabo they talked that morning, hidden by the cypresses, -Etoile standing by the leopards’ cage, the great beasts fawning against -the bars, and letting her stroke their heads. There seemed some sympathy -between her and the two sleek, sinuous cats. The voice and the eyes of -Etoile cast a spell upon them. They would purr and rub against the bars -when she came near. - -The Lady of the Peacocks told Gaillard a piece of news that made the -man’s eyes grow more hard and restless. - -“He had better not meddle,” he said; “or I will twist his neck.” - -Etoile snapped her fingers. - -“You are a great fool, my Gaillard, Barnabo is not so rough and clumsy. -I know the man.” - -“But the rat is nibbling at our cheese!” - -“What else can he do, the Savoyard cannot go to bed with him. A man is -at a disadvantage. He can only call names.” - -“Behind our backs, my desire!” - -“Over the chess-board, perhaps.” - -Gaillard put a hand through the bars, and scratched a leopard’s head. - -“It is a pity,” he said, “that we cannot shut Barnabo up with these two -innocents when they are hungry. They would play a pretty game with him, -a game of knucklebones, with nothing left afterwards but some rags, two -sandals, and a brain box.” - -Etoile laughed, and then looked shrewd. - -“There are other people who would eat up Dan Barnabo, people in the -woods—yonder. Every man has a foolish corner in his heart. If Barnabo -asks you how the country seems, tell him the folk are as frightened as -mice.” - -“Very lusty mice, my desire! Call them pole-cats.” - -“Pole-cats may serve as well as leopards. Be careful of that window in -the tower; Barnabo has quick eyes. Go up now and see how the game goes.” - -Peter of Savoy and the chaplain still had the chess-board between them -when Gaillard went up to the room in the tower. The window, widely -splayed, had painted medallions in its frames. A song book and a lute -lay on a red cushion, with a gaze-hound curled on the seat. - -The third game was nearly at an end, and Peter of Savoy was rubbing his -pointed beard, and chuckling inwardly as he hung over the board. Barnabo -brooded, his puzzled, hesitating hands flattering the strategy of his -lord and opponent. Gaillard sat down on the window seat to wait. Peter -of Savoy was to triumph. Therefore the world went well. - -A resigned sigh from Barnabo, the tap of a piece on the board, a -shuffling of Count Peter’s feet, and the end came. - -The great man sat back, laughed in his chaplain’s face, and turned a -sharp and self-satisfied profile to Gaillard. - -“So you are back, my Gascon. All our games have gone well, have they? -See—I am about to steal his lady.” - -Gaillard leant forward to watch. - -“Since he is a priest, sire, you are saving him from great temptation.” - -Peter of Savoy laughed, but for some reason Barnabo looked up at the -Gascon sharply. - -The game was lost and won, and Gaillard had told his news. Peter of -Savoy had picked up the lute, and was twanging the strings complacently. -Barnabo still pored over the chess-board as though to discover how and -where he had been beaten. He was a clever artist in the conception of -flattery, yet he was on the alert while Peter of Savoy and Gaillard -talked. - -“Quiet as lambs, to be sure. That will be good news for our friend here. -You smoked Waleran out like a fox out of a hole. Excellent Gascon! Fire -purifies, so thought the Greeks. There are the folk at Goldspur to be -seized—unless they come in with halters round their necks.” - -The great man hummed a passage from a favourite song. - -“Barnabo would not be persuaded,” he said, half-closing his eyes slyly. -“You must know, my Gaillard, that Barnabo is a man with a hot -conscience. He has learnt six words of English—what does that matter? -So many benefices to be served—in Latin; so many women to be shrived! -Even when the wolves are out—Barnabo will not neglect his duties!” - -The Italian was imperturbable and debonair. - -“I have a charm against all wolves,” he said, looking at Gaillard out of -the corner of his eyes. - -“Your sanctity, Father, to be sure. Most excellent St. Francis, the -hawks even perch on your shoulders. Barnabo will mount his mule and ride -out to comfort the sick, whatever I, his lord, may say.” - -Gaillard took the gaze-hound up into his lap. - -“He will have nothing to fear there, now. I will answer for that.” - -Barnabo’s eyes were studying Gaillard’s face. He smiled, and began to -gather up the chess-men. - -“After the sword come the Cross and the mass book,” he said. “You will -not quarrel with my conscience, sire, if I ride out to-morrow.” - -“Who—in Christendom—is worth the labour of a quarrel? Command your -friends, and tread upon your enemies. Go out, and heal the sick, when -the husbands are not at home.” - -Etoile, who had been listening at the door, pulled Gaillard into a dark -corner on the stairs when he came out to see to the guards. - -“So Barnabo is going a-love-making,” she said. “Good. Perhaps he will -not come back again.” - -And she sang to Peter of Savoy that night, a desirable woman whose face -betrayed no care. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -Denise was so much the saint and the Lady of the Goldspur woods that the -country folk had almost ceased to wonder whence she had come, and what -her past had been. She was Sancta Denise to them, a woman to whom they -went when they were sick or in trouble, who came and prayed for them, -and smiled on their children with her miraculous eyes. All the woodland -folk in the hundreds round looked on Denise as a saint, a child of -mystery who dwelt up yonder amid the great beech trees under the clouds. -Offerings were left before her gate, milk, bread, eggs, and herbs, the -offerings of the poor. If there was digging to be done, or the grass to -be scythed in the glade, some of Aymery’s villeins would be there at -dawn, working like brown gnomes in the dusk of the breaking day. Four -times a year a pedlar brought her the gold thread for her orfrays work, -for Denise had wonderful hands, and her embroidery had been worn by -queens. The money that she earned Denise spent among the poor, and she -might have walked from Rye to Shoreham, and no Sussex man would have -laid hands upon her, save to touch her gown for a blessing. - -Olivia, Aymery’s mother, alone had known Denise’s history, and Olivia -was dead. Some had said that she was the “love child” of a great lady, -others a “ward” who had fled from the King’s court rather than be -married to some creature who had offered the King money. But Denise was -Denise, and her past was of no account, though any hind could have sworn -that she was no peasant’s child. The cell in the beech wood had been -built for her by Dame Olivia, and the ground about it turned into a -garden. Denise had become part of the woodland life, a tender and -mysterious figure that threw a glamour over the hearts of all. - -Her coming had been soon after the great famine, when the crops had -failed after a wet summer. Death had passed over the land like a plague, -and in the towns the dead had lain for days unburied. The famine had -left sickness behind it, sick women, and sick babes at the breast, as -though the whole countryside had grown feeble for lack of bread. Denise -had come down from her cell in the beech wood, a veritable Lady of -Compassion. It was not the bread that she had given, but the pity and -the tenderness that had enshrined her in the hearts of all the people. -It was as though she had magic power, a glory given of God and the -Virgin. Men soon spoke of miracles. Sick children were brought to her, -and water taken from her holy spring. The abbots and priors of the south -heard of her, and more than one “house” considered the value that might -be set upon a saint. - -Perhaps Denise’s power lay largely in her youth, for she was no ulcerous -and lean recluse, but a woman in the morning of her beauty, a beauty -that was strange and elfin-like, rich as an autumn in red leaf. She had -but to look at men, and they felt an awe of her; at children, and they -came to her like birds to a witch. The hair under the grey hood had the -colour of copper, with tinges of red and of gold. Her eyes were between -amber and the brown of a woodland pool, her skin so clear and white, -despite the sun and the wind, that men believed her heart could be seen -shining like a red gem beneath. Denise was tall, and broad across the -bosom. Her fingers were so long, and slim, and white, that the -superstitious believed that pearls might drop from them, and that not -even the brown soil of her garden could cling to those miraculous hands. - -Denise carried her pitcher to the spring the morning after they had -brought Waleran’s boy to her with an arrow through his heart. She -stripped herself at the pool, and washed her body, scooping up the water -in her palms, her hair knotted over her neck. Denise’s naked figure -might have stood as the symbol of her womanhood, clean, comely, -unshadowed by self-consciousness. It was part of the infinite mystery of -things, a mystery that dwelt in Denise’s heart, and gave her power over -women and over men. - -Her brown eyes were sad that morning as she slipped on her white shift -and her grey gown, and went back under the beech trees to her cell. With -the fragrance of the wild flowers and the dew came the consciousness of -the rougher world within that world of hers. She remembered the flames -of the night before, Waleran’s dead boy, the savage anguish of the man -breaking out into bitterness and laughter. What more might not happen in -the deeps of the woods? Denise was no ignorant child, she had lived in -another world before Olivia had built her the cell under the Goldspur -beeches. - -Denise said her prayers, worked awhile in her garden, and then brought -out her orfrays of gold, and sat in the doorway under the deep shade of -the thatch. But though her fingers were busy with the threads, her mind -was full of a spirit of watchfulness and of unrest. She felt as it were -the stir and movement of another world beyond the towering domes of the -trees. She had a premonition that someone would come through the wood -that morning. It would be a man, and yet not Grimbald. Denise’s hands -were idle awhile, and her brown eyes looked thoughtfully into the deeps -of the wood. - -Nor was it very wonderful that Aymery’s thoughts should turn towards -Denise as a man struggles through the thick of a crowd when he sees a -beloved head in danger. He and Grimbald had been at the burying of -Waleran’s boy, but Aymery had left Grimbald and the rest, and ridden -back to Goldspur to see Denise. - -The trampling of his horse’s hoofs through the dead beech leaves came as -no surprise to the woman who sat with the orfrays work of gold in her -lap. She had watched her own mind, till, like a crystal, it had been -full of the man’s coming. Often in her life Denise had been able to -foresee the faces of those dear to her, and to feel friends near while -they were still far distant. She had the gift of inward vision, though -the power became lost to her later when she had suffered many -humiliations. - -Aymery rode out into the sunlight of the glade, and Denise could see -that he was armed. A surcoat of apple green covered the ringed hauberk, -though the hood of mail was turned back between his shoulders. Aymery -rode his big black destrier that day, and not the rough nag he used for -hawking and cantering over his lands. He looped the bridle over the post -at the gate, and came up the path with the air of a man who has more in -his heart than his lips might utter. - -Denise let her work lie idle in her lap. She had had no fear of Aymery -from the first, his face had become so familiar that it seemed part of -the life round her, like the trees, or the hills, or the distant sea. -Yet from the instant that he opened the wattle gate that morning, a -sense of strangeness took hold of both of them. Each felt the change and -wondered at it, so simple in its significance, and yet so strange. The -shadow of a cloud lay over them for the first time. The more intimate -hour had come when the man looked into the woman’s eyes and thought that -thought which opens the eyes of the soul—“if any harm should befall -her! If that dear head should suffer shame!” - -“We have buried the boy,” he said. “That will be the beginning of a long -tale.” - -There was something satisfying about Aymery, a man who carried his head -high, and looked fearlessly at the horizon. He had a quick yet quiet way -with him had Aymery of Goldspur. Shirkers and cowards were afraid of -those grey eyes of his, for they were not the eyes of a man to be -trifled with or fooled. - -He spoke to Denise, resting his hands on his sword, and looking at the -golden orfrays work in her lap. She was leaning against the door-post, -her face in the shadow, thought and feeling as intimately one as the -rose and the scent of the rose. - -“The woods are no longer safe. Peter of Savoy’s riders will be with us -again. Waleran will see to that.” - -Denise’s brown eyes had a tremor of light in them. - -“Have you proved me a coward?” - -“We are cowards, Denise, where others are concerned. What do the days -promise us? Waleran could not hold his house against those hired -swarthies, nor can I mine; I am not fool enough to doubt it. A few -arrows bearded with burning tow, the thatch alight, and the smoke and -the flames would make us run like rats. It will be war in the woods -where our bows can serve us, and where their men-at-arms cannot ride our -peasants down.” - -Denise did not answer him for a moment. Her hands were turning over the -embroidery in her lap. - -“I have lived with you all in the sunshine,” she said. “And now that -trouble comes you would have me run away!” - -“What man would not wish it?” - -“But you——” - -“I—I am the worst of all.” - -She dropped her head suddenly as though hiding the light and colour that -had rushed into her eyes and face. - -“I am not afraid,” she said. - -“I am”—and he shut his lips on the words—“it is human to be afraid. If -you knew this scum of Gascons, Flemings, and what not, you would wish -them well beyond the sea. Would to God that we could whip them out of -the land. But what would you! We cannot pull down such a rock as -Pevensey with our hands. These castles that the King’s men hold for him -are too strong for us to meddle with. It is they who will do the -meddling, and what do these hired men care for what we honour? You will -be on the edge of a pit here. Women are best away when swords are out.” - -He bent towards her, looking down into her face, his manhood shining out -on her, strong and honest, denying itself the right of a romantic beast. - -“Come with me, and I will guard you against all Christendom.” A weaker -and vainer man might have spoken in such heroics. Aymery knew what he -knew. Denise would be safer away from him when such men as Waleran were -to be his brethren-in-arms. - -“I tell you the truth, Denise, because——” - -She looked up at him suddenly, and their eyes met. Denise saw the deeper -truth, that great mystery of life that cannot hide itself from the eyes -of a woman. - -“Lord, what shall I say to you?” - -He spread his arms. - -“Say nothing. Do what I, Grimbald, all, desire. I have good friends at -Winchelsea. You will be safe there. The King wishes to win the Cinque -Ports over. He will not be rough with them, as yet. They are too -precious to be ravaged.” - -Denise looked at the sky beyond the boughs of the beech trees, letting -her hands hang over her knees. - -“Lord,” she said, “I am still obstinate. I have lived among you all.” - -“Denise, I also am obstinate.” - -“I would not have you otherwise. And yet, how can I shirk the truth that -I shall be deserting you all the moment trouble comes?” - -He smiled at her, and shook his head. - -“Should we be the happier if you fell into the hands of Peter of Savoy? -No. That is unthinkable! I would rather see you—dead like Waleran’s -boy—before they carried you into Pevensey! Good God, you, to be touched -by such hands!” - -Denise understood all that was in his heart. She crossed herself as -though against the evil things of the world. - -“Lord,” she said, “let there be this promise between us. If Goldspur is -threatened, then—I will do what you desire. When the people take to the -woods, I shall feel less of a coward. They shall not say that I fled -from a shadow.” - -And thus it was agreed between them, Aymery riding back through the -woods towards Goldspur, the face of Denise more wonderful to him than it -had ever seemed before. Aymery had come by the truth that morning, and -the world had a mystery—the mystery of the tenderness of spring. - -Close by Goldspur village, on the edge of the manor ploughlands, he met -Grimbald, who had come in search of him. The priest’s face had the look -of a stormy and ominous sky. He took Aymery’s bridle, and turned back -with him towards the village. - -“Waleran has gone towards Pevensey,” he said. “We must be ready for a -whirlwind when such storm-cocks are on the wing.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -A poor rag of a man, with the pinched face of a sick girl, came limping -on sore heels to the western gate of Pevensey. The man had a broken -arrow through the flesh of his neck; his mouth was all awry, and his -breath came in great heaves, for he had run ten miles that morning. When -someone caught him round the middle as he tottered at the gate, he -doubled up like a wet clout over a line, and emptied his very soul over -the stones. The guards put him on his back awhile, rubbed his legs, and -gave him a horn of mead to drink. One of them forced the back of the -arrow through the skin, and whipped it out as a woman whips a broken -bodkin out of a friend’s finger. - -The beer, and the blunt heroism of this barber surgeon brought Barnabo’s -man briskly upon his haunches. He clapped his hand to his neck, saw that -there was blood on it, and promptly began to whimper. - -“You’ve pulled the spiggot out,” he wailed. “Lord, did ever a hogshead -gush faster! Linen—oil, and linen, for the love of the Saints.” - -The men laughed at him. One of them took a smock that hung on a nail -outside the porter’s lodge, tore a strip from it, spat on the wound, and -bandaged Barnabo’s man till he had a gorget and whimple fit for a nun. - -“Take a little more beer, comrade,” he said. “Never a rabbit ran more -bravely.” - -The fugitive sulked under their attentive and jeering faces. - -“Go to perdition,” he retorted. “It was fifty to one, there, in the -woods. Messire Gaillard must hear of it. You will all be very brave, -sirs, when these devils begin to shoot at you from behind a hundred -trees.” - -Gaillard heard of it soon enough, as did Etoile, and Peter of Savoy. -Barnabo had been waylaid in the woods that morning, and the pole-cats -had clawed him off his mule. For no man was more hated than Dan Barnabo -in those parts, a hard, shrewd man who held many benefices, and saw that -his steward ground out the dues. The Italian could not speak ten words -in the vulgar tongue. His ministrations would have been ridiculous had -he ever troubled his soul about the people. It was told that a woman had -once waylaid Barnabo, and demanded to be shriven. The Italian had -understood nothing of what she said to him, but since she was pretty and -importunate, he had created a scandal by misunderstanding her whole -desire, and by seeking to comfort her in a fashion that was not -fatherly. The woman had scratched Barnabo’s face. There were many people -who had lusted to scarify him more viciously. Barnabo baptised no -children, sought out none of the sick, buried none of the dead. Twice a -year perhaps he had said mass in the churches that belonged to him. Few -of the people had come to hear Barnabo’s Roman voice. He was a better -lute player and lap-dog than priest, and the people knew it. - -Gaillard had his orders from Peter of Savoy. Etoile laughed in his face -when she met him upon the stairs. - -“Let the pole-cats play a little with Barnabo,” she said. “Do not ride -furiously, dear lord! I can learn to serve at chess better than -Barnabo.” - -Gaillard caught at her, but she slipped past him up the stairs. - -“There are two sorts of fools in the world, my Gaillard,” she said. “One -is killed for the sake of a woman, the other through greed for a woman. -Keep out of Barnabo’s path.” - -Both Peter of Savoy and the Gascon knew whither Barnabo had ridden that -April day. It was notorious that the Italian had kept a _focaria_ or -hearth-ward at a priest’s house of his in a valley beyond the hill -called Bright Ling because of the glory of its heathlands in the summer. -The woman—a Norman—was more comely than was well for Dan Barnabo’s -name, and she had kept the house for him, and rendered it to him sweet -and garnished whenever he chose to ride that way. - -Gaillard and his men marched past Dallington, where Guillaume Sancto de -Leodegario was lord of the manor, and on over Bright Ling with the furze -in full bloom. The little red spy jogged along beside the Gascon’s -horse. He led them into a deep valley, a valley full of the grey-green -trunks of oak trees, and the brown wreckage of last year’s bracken. A -stream dived and winked in the bottoms, and at the end of a piece of -grassland the thatch of the priest’s house shelved under the very boughs -of the oaks. No smoke rose from the place. It seemed silent and deserted -as Gaillard and his men came trampling through the dead bracken. - -Gaillard’s eyes swept hillside and valley, for he was shrewd enough to -guess that many an alert shadow had dogged them on the march that day. -He dismounted, sent his archers into the woods as scouts, and taking the -pick of his men-at-arms, marched up to the silent house, holding his -shield ready to catch any treacherous arrow that might be shot from the -dark squints. A wooden perch shadowed the main entry, and Gaillard saw -that the door stood ajar, and that the flagstones paving the porch were -littered with rushes, and caked with mud as though many feet had passed -to and fro over the stones. - -Gaillard pushed the door open with the point of his sword. It gave to -him innocently enough, and he crossed the threshold, and stood staring -at something that the men behind him could not see. - -The place had the dimness of twilight, lit as it was by the narrow -lancets cut in the thickness of the wall. Not three paces from Gaillard, -their feet nearly touching the floor, two bodies dangled on ropes from -the black beams of the roof. The face of the one was grey; of the other, -black and turgid; for one had died by the sword, the other by the rope. - -The body with the black face was still twisting to and fro as a joint -twists on a spit before the fire. The arms had been pinioned, and the -man’s tongue been drawn out, and the head of an arrow thrust through it. -The face could scarcely be recognised, but by the clothes Gaillard knew -him for Dan Barnabo, the Italian, lutanist, lover, spoiler of the poor. - -Gaillard touched the body. It was still warm. His men were crowding in, -peering over each other’s shoulders so that the doorway was full of -faces, shields, and swords. - -Gaillard waved them back. He swung his sword, struck at the rope that -held Barnabo, and cut it so cleanly that the body came down upon its -feet. For a moment it stood, poised there, before falling forward to -hide its black face in the rushes. - -Gaillard looked at it a little contemptuously, thinking of Etoile, and -the rivalry between her and this thing that had been a man. - -“Only fools come by such a death,” he said. “A dog’s death. This man had -a woman’s hands.” - -Dusk was falling, and Gaillard and his men settled themselves to pass -the night in dead Barnabo’s house under the oak trees. Gaillard, who did -not trouble himself about such a thing as a “crowner’s quest,” had the -two bodies buried in the garden at the foot of a holly tree. Waleran de -Monceaux had hanged Barnabo, and the priest was not pretty to look at -with his black face and his swollen tongue. Nor was Gaillard going to -quarrel with so convenient a coincidence. He called his archers back out -of the woods, posted two sentinels, had the horses brought in and -stabled in the hall. A fire was lit on the hearth, and the men gathered -round it, and opened their wallets for supper. - -Gaillard kept the red-headed hunchback at his elbow, and questioned him -narrowly as to the woodways, and the manor houses, and the gentry with -whom he would have to deal. These Sussex rebels had hanged Barnabo, and -in the hanging, thrown down the blood gauge to Peter of Savoy. War was -Gaillard’s business. He had learnt the trade in Gascony, where neighbour -went out against neighbour as for a day’s hunting. Nor was it Gaillard’s -concern to trouble about the law of the land, and how far feudal faith -bound this man or that. The King was the great over-lord, and Peter of -Savoy stood as his champion in those parts. Hence if rebels popped their -heads up, it was only necessary to strike with the sword. - -Night fell, and the men lay down to sleep in the long hall, crowding -about the fire, for the horses were ranged along the walls. The air of -the place was close and heavy with the smoke from the fire, the animal -heat of the crowded bodies, and the pungent scent of horses’ dung. Faint -flickers of light lost themselves in the black zenith of the timbered -roof. Gaillard, sitting propped in a corner with his sword across his -knees, could hear the wet murmur of the stream that ran close to the -house. He could also hear the two sentinels answering each other, and -since they seemed so whole-heartedly alert, Gaillard dozed off like a -dog. - -About midnight Gaillard opened his eyes, and sat staring at the dying -fire, and though he remained motionless, his face sharpened like the -face of one who listens. His eyes moved slowly from figure to figure, to -rest at last on the shutter closing a window. And Gaillard saw that the -shutter was shaking ever so little, and he knew that there was no wind. - -Gaillard did not move. He could hear a vague scuffling as of many men -moving about the house. But there were other sounds that made the -Gascon’s lips tighten and retract so that the teeth showed, a faint -crackling as of dry brushwood being piled against the door of Barnabo’s -house. - -The Gascon saw the shutter open. A white face peered in with eyes that -moved like the eyes of a wonder-working image. Then the face -disappeared, and the shutter closed again, but Gaillard was on his feet, -and going to and fro, silently rousing his men. Hardly a word was -spoken. The men caught up their arms, and stood like listening dogs, -while the archers marked the windows. - -Gaillard was at the door trying to lift the bar, but some weight from -without had jammed it in the sockets. He stood listening, sniffing the -air, and watching grey puffs of smoke come curling in through the -crevices. Then he shouted an order through the hall, an order that -brought his men crowding forward for a sally. Some of the strongest of -them put their shoulders to the bar. It flew up, letting the door swing -in with a gush of smoke and a crash of falling faggots. - -“Out—out!” - -Gaillard and his men broke through, hurling the brushwood aside, -dragging it into the hall, cursing as they realised the devil’s trick -that had been played them. Only the outer faggots were alight. There was -a gush of flame under the hooded entry, but Gaillard and his men sprang -through it with a weird glitter of gold upon their harness, and an -uprush of smoke and sparks. Dark figures flitted about the priest’s -garden. Arrows whistled and struck the walls as the Savoyard’s men came -tumbling out over the burning faggots. - -There was a sharp tussle in the garden; blows were given and taken in -the dark; arrows shot at a venture; torches thrust into hairy faces. -Gaillard’s men-at-arms in their heavy mail, for they had lain down armed -to sleep, were more than a match for the woodlanders in their leather -jerkins. Soon—scampering shadows went away into the moonlight. Gaillard -and his men were left to put out the fire about the porch. - -And savage men they were, men with the hot flare of that death trap in -their nostrils. The two sentinels had been stalked and killed, and the -brushwood piled against the door. The windows were so narrow that men -could have been shot while struggling through them. The flames and smoke -would have leapt in, making the place a hell of plunging, terrified -beasts, and mad and half-dazed men. - -Gaillard watched his fellows trampling on the brushwood. Now and again -an arrow came whistling out of the moonlight. - -“We will pay them for this,” he said grimly. “God, but they meant to -burn us like blind mice in a stack!” - -The fire was soon out, and there was nothing left but to wait for the -daylight, and to keep the house in darkness so that no lurking -woodlander should have the outline of a window for a mark. Gaillard’s -men were very sullen and bitter over the night’s adventure. They had -brought in the two dead sentinels, and crowded about them, letting their -fury break out in growls for to-morrow’s reckoning. There was no more -sleep for Gaillard’s men that night; they squatted round the walls, -telling each other what they would do to these people who murdered -priests and set fire to houses where the King’s men slept. - -The dawn came with a thick mist hanging over the woods, even covering -the crowns of the uplands of Bright Ling. Gaillard had made his plans, -and in the garden the little spy was drawing a map on the soil with the -point of a charred stake. The archers had gone out to scout, but had -found nothing but fog and rotting bracken. Gaillard ordered his men to -horse, and they were soon on the move through the mist, the drippings -from the trees falling on them, and on grass that was grey with dew. - -The hunchback, marching beside Gaillard’s horse, led them towards -Goldspur, following the high ground where there was less chance of an -ambuscade. Gaillard had ordered silence. Not a man spoke. The grey -shapes moved through the greyer mist with no sounds but the dull shuffle -of hoofs, the occasional snort of a horse, the creaking of saddles, and -the faint jingle of steel. - -It was still very early when they came to the hill above Goldspur, and -skirted the great beech wood whose topmost boughs were beginning to -glitter in the sunlight. The mist lifted quite suddenly like a white -diaphanous curtain drawn up into the sky. A broad beam of sunlight clove -like a sword into the deeps of the beech wood. And to these rough riders -of Peter of Savoy was revealed a vision, a vision such as a -crystal-gazer might watch growing from nothingness in the heart of a -crystal. - -In the full sunlight at the opening of a glade a woman stood washing -herself at a forest pool. The woman’s figure gleamed like snow against -the sombre trunks of the trees. Her hair blazed about her naked body -like flames licking a white tower. As yet she had not seen that line of -armed men winding along the hillside not a hundred paces from where she -stood. - -Gaillard reined in, and held up a hand for his men to halt. He looked -from the woman to the hunchback who held his stirrup strap. - -“Hallo, what have we here?” - -The cripple crossed himself, cur that he was. - -“It is Denise of the Forest, lording,” he said. “They call her their -Lady of Healing in these parts. She has a cell yonder, in the wood. She -can work miracles, so they say.” - -The rough faces behind Gaillard were all agog. A short, yapping laugh -came from some man in the rear. Gaillard turned in the saddle, and -looked for the man who had made the noise. - -“Enough of that, sirs,” he said. “Shall we laugh because a saint happens -not to cherish vermin.” - -Perhaps curiosity pricked Gaillard, perhaps something still more human. -At all events he pushed his horse forward and rode alone up the stretch -of green turf that sloped towards the beech wood. The men grinned like -apes so soon as his back was turned. Messire Gaillard might be a great -captain, but assuredly he was no saint. - -Gaillard was laughing to himself with a coarse spirit of mischief, being -inquisitive as to what this woman would do when she discovered that she -was no longer alone. He carried his chin high in the air, his hard eyes -gleaming like the eyes of a man who has drunk strong wine. But Denise -made her womanhood a thing of pride and splendour that spring morning. -Her tunic was still open at the bosom when the Gascon’s horse threw a -shadow on the grass close to the pool. - -Denise looked Gaillard straight in the eyes, and yet not at him, but -past him, as though he were so much vapour. Gaillard, Gascon that he -was, had not a word to say for himself, though he boasted himself so -debonair with women. Denise took her hair with her hands, put it behind -her shoulders, and picking up the clean cloth that she had brought, -turned and walked away into the wood. - -For once in his life Gaillard felt a fool, and his arrant sheepishness -did not please him. He comforted himself with that infallible sneer that -is the refuge of a vain man who has done something mean and cowardly. - -“Red-headed Pharisee, go your way,” he said. “A woman’s sanctity is as -thick as her skin. Fool! I am not the first sheep that has bleated in -these parts.” - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -Grimbald the priest stood on guard under the ash tree where the road -left Goldspur for the open fields. He had a buckler on his arm, and an -axe over his shoulder. His short, frayed cassock showed the beginnings -of a brown and mighty pair of calves, and the feet in the leather -sandals looked like the feet of an Atlas whose shoulders wedged up the -heavens. - -There had been a panic at Goldspur that morning, when a lad had run in -with the news that he had seen armed men riding through the mist, and -that they were marching towards Goldspur. And Grimbald, stalking down -into the village, had met some of the younger men skulking off as though -there were no women and children to be remembered. Grimbald had twisted -a stake out of the hedge, dusted some decent shame into these cowards, -and driven them back into Goldspur much as a drover drives his cattle. - -Grimbald had found the village in an uproar, for Aymery was away with -Waleran, and the folk had tumbled over each other for the lack of a -leader. Men and boys had herded in sheep and cattle, and the beasts were -bolting all ways, and taking every road but the right one. Women, -weeping, scolding, chattering, were carrying out their chattels from the -cottages. One had a baby at the breast; another clutched a young pig; a -third sat at her door, and screamed like a silly girl. Men were arguing, -shouting, quarrelling, eager to do the same thing, but obstinate in -trying to do it each in his several way. - -Then Grimbald had come and shepherded the people, knocked together the -heads of the men who quarrelled, and turned disorder into order. The -sheep, cattle, and pigs were driven off towards the woods. Men, women, -and children followed, carrying all that they could put upon their -backs. In a quarter of an hour from Grimbald’s coming Goldspur village -was a row of empty hovels, with nothing alive there but a few chickens, -and the sparrows, who trusted in God, and continued to build in the -thatch. - -Grimbald had set himself at the lower end of the village, and stood -there like the giant figure of some protecting saint. He was about to -follow his flock when he saw a man on horseback round a spur of woodland -in the valley. He came on at a canter for the village, and Grimbald knew -him for Aymery by the colours of his surcoat and his horse. - -Aymery reined in, hot with galloping, his eyes keen and full of flashes -of light. He had been with Waleran, and had ridden to warn his people of -what they might expect that day. - -Grimbald pointed with his axe to the open doors of the hovels. - -“They are safe in the woods by now. Have you had view of Peter’s -gentry?” - -Aymery turned his horse, and shaded his eyes with his hand. - -“They left the priest’s house under Bright Ling—at dawn. Waleran tried -a trick there, but the dogs smelt the smoke. I saw their spears coming -down the hill as I crossed the valley.” - -Aymery looked towards the beech wood on the hill, his eyes flashing back -the morning sunlight. The muscles of his jaw were hard and tense. - -“We must bide our time, and watch them,” he said; “they are coming to -make a bonfire here. They can burn every stick of the place so long as -they have not meddled with Denise.” - -Grimbald shifted his axe from one shoulder to the other. If ever a man -had cause to be jealous of a woman, that man was Grimbald. But his heart -was too warm and too well tilled to harbour such a weed. He thanked God -for the good he found in the world, and did not quarrel with it because -it was not part of his own halo. - -“She cannot be left yonder,” he said. - -Aymery still looked at the beech wood, head thrown back, grey eyes -a-glitter. - -“We must take cover and watch. They will be here soon, and we shall see. -To-night, I will take her away.” - -A gleam of spears showed in the valley, and Aymery rode off to the -nearest wood with Grimbald holding to his stirrups. They saw Gaillard -and his men come over the fields to Goldspur village, and Denise was not -with them. Aymery’s eyes made sure of that. The Gascon found nothing but -the empty hovels, the untroubled sparrows, and a black cock crowing and -scratching on a dunghill. One of Gaillard’s men fitted an arrow to the -string, shot the black cock through the body, and laughed at the way the -bird tumbled and flapped in the death agony. - -“Brother Barnabo may find use for him,” said someone, and there was a -laugh. - -“He will wake him before daylight,” quoth another. “Such birds are -useful to gallant clerks.” - -Goldspur village did not go up in smoke that morning, for Gaillard, -cunning as a fox, did not always run straight for the game in view. - -“We will take our dinner elsewhere, sirs,” he said. “When we are over -the hill, the fools may think that they will see us no more. When does a -cat catch mice? We shall do better in the dark.” - -And Aymery and Grimbald saw him and his men ride on towards the west as -though an empty village were too miserable a thing even to be burnt. Nor -did they turn aside to where the gable end of the manor house showed -amid the oak trees. It seemed that Gaillard had another quest in view. -Goldspur was left to the sparrows and the dead cock on the dunghill. - -Aymery and Grimbald watched the raiders till they had disappeared. - -“We are free of them for one day, brother. What about our people?” - -“We had better look to the fools,” said Grimbald. “They are as -frightened as rabbits.” - -And they went off together into the woods. - -Aymery and the priest found the Goldspur folk penning their cattle in a -wild part of the forest. The men had cut boughs and furze bushes, and -the women were building rude huts for shelter at night. Aymery sent some -of the boys to scout through the forest, and bring back any news of -Gaillard that they could gather. About noon one of Waleran’s men came -in, with a word to Aymery that Waleran and the woodlanders were -gathering to ambush the Savoyard’s men. Grimbald and Aymery went off to -join in the tussle, but saw nothing of Waleran though they sought him -most of the day. A woodman who was felling oak trees to bark for the -tanner, told them that young St. Leger had ridden by, and that Gaillard -and his company had marched back beyond Bright Ling. Aymery and the -priest turned homewards towards Goldspur. The long shadows of evening -were purple upon the grass, and Aymery’s heart remembered Denise. - -They came to Goldspur manor as the dusk was falling, and the song of the -birds went up towards the sunset, and everything was very still. The -bridge was down over the narrow moat, and the gate open; no man had been -there all that day, for Aymery’s servants had fled with the village -folk, and two men who could handle their bows had been sent two days ago -with Waleran into the woods. - -Grimbald drew the bridge, while Aymery went to the stable to feed and -water his horse. They had no fear of Peter of Savoy’s riders that night, -and took their augury from the fact that Gaillard had left the place -untouched that morning. Grimbald carried tinder and steel in his wallet, -and he lit a torch in the hall, and went to the pantry and kitchen to -get bread, beer, and meat for supper. He and Aymery sat down in the -empty hall, and ate for a while in silence, like men who were weary, or -were sunk in thought. - -They were nearly through with their hunger, and were talking of Denise -and the hermitage, when Grimbald, who was about to finish his mead, -paused with the horn between the table and his mouth. The men’s eyes met -across the board. They were both listening, motionless as images carved -in stone. - -The night seemed dark and silent without, the woodlands asleep, the -night empty of all unrest. Yet there had come to Grimbald a sense of -something moving in the darkness. And as they listened there was a faint -splash from the moat, and a sound like the creaking of wet leather. - -Grimbald’s eyes were fixed on Aymery’s face. - -“Listen!” - -“A rat in the moat?” - -Grimbald put his horn down on the table, rose up swiftly and silently, -and taking his axe, went out into the courtyard. Aymery’s sword and -shield hung from a peg in the wall. He took them down, and had gained -the door of the hall when he heard a sudden scuffling of feet, an oath -in the darkness, the harsh breathing of men at grips, the splash of -something into the water of the moat. - -A scattering of arrows whirred and pecked at the walls, one slanting in -and smiting the flagstones close to Aymery’s feet. He heard the dull -jingle of armed men on the move. Grimbald towered back suddenly out of -the night, a red splash of blood on his forehead, his eyes shining in -the torchlight. - -He flung the door to, and ran the oak bar through the staples. - -“Brother, we are trapped! I took the first of them and pitched him into -the moat.” - -He shook his shaggy head, and looked round the hall. Aymery was buckling -on his sword. - -“There is the garden bridge,” he said. “We can make a dash for it.” - -“Away, then; they are wading the moat, and climbing the palisade.” - -Aymery pushed in front of Grimbald as they hurried down a narrow -passage-way that led from the hall and the kitchen quarters into the -garden. - -“I go first, brother,” he said. “I have my steel coat; a stab in the -dark might find your heart.” - -Grimbald passed a huge arm about Aymery as they went. - -“Lad, what is that to me!” - -They came out into the garden, and stood for a moment listening. They -could hear Gaillard’s men beating in the door of the hall, but towards -the garden everything seemed quiet. - -Aymery laid a hand on Grimbald’s arm. - -“If one of us is taken, brother, let not the other tarry. Remember -Denise.” - -Grimbald understood him. - -“Come,” he said in an undertone, and they crossed the garden side by -side. - -Now there was a trestle-bridge from the garden over the moat, a -footbridge made of a single plank that could be thrust across and -withdrawn at pleasure. A wicket in the palisade led to the bridge. -Aymery unbarred the gate, and ran the plank forward on to the trestles. - -“We shall trick them,” he said grimly, “quick, they have broken in.” - -He ran across the bridge, Grimbald following, the plank creaking and -sagging under the priest’s weight. Aymery had stooped to drag the plank -away again, when he heard Grimbald give a short, deep cry, and saw him -spring forward and smite at something with his axe. - -“Guard, brother, guard.” - -Steel crashed upon steel, a glitter of sparks flying from axe and -helmet. An arrow stopped quivering in Aymery’s shield as he sprang -forward to Grimbald’s aid. Men rose at him out of the darkness. Dimly in -the midst of the waving swords, he had a glimpse of two men clinging to -Grimbald. He saw the priest shake them off, and beat them down before -him as a boy snaps thistles with a stick. There was a rush of armed men -in the darkness, the dash of steel against steel as they blundered one -against another. The red splutter of a torch came tossing out of the -night, with the hoarse shouting of men trying to tell friend from foe. -Grimbald and Aymery lost each other, and fought each for his own hand. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -Through the darkness of the night went Denise, her grey cloak passing -amid the beech trees like some dim ghost shape that drifts with the -night breeze. She had been restless and distraught all day, her -splendour of peace ruffled, her heart filling with a distrust of the -near future. To begin with, out of the grey fog of the morning had come -the man on the black horse, the man with the red eyes and the insolent -scoffing mouth. Gaillard had made her shudder despite her pride, for she -had learnt to hate the look of such a man before the woods had hidden -her from the world. Feeling a shadow of evil near her, Denise had gone -down to Goldspur after the Gascon and his men had ridden on, and had -found the place deserted, so many silent hovels in a silent landscape. -She had wandered up to the manor house, and found the same silence -there, the same foreshadowings of tragedy. - -The rest of the day had dragged slowly for her in the great beech wood, -and she had found her thoughts wandering like children into a forbidden -place. And Denise’s pride would start up after these same thoughts, -seize on them in that little pleasaunce of dreams, drag them forth, and -bar the door. But there was a restless refrain in the mood of the day. -The future seemed to fly open before her eyes like the magic gate of an -enchanted garden, and she had a glimpse of paradise bathed in a mist of -gold. Her thoughts were lured thither, though her pride arose and drove -them back. - -With the dusk the spirit of unrest in her had deepened, and she had -seemed to hear voices calling through the twilight of the woods. A -thrush had perched on the topmost bough of a beech tree, and had uttered -his desire, till the plaint had rung and rung into Denise’s heart. She -had tossed her cloak at the bird, but none of the wild things feared -her. And though the dusk fell, the song of the thrush seemed to thrill -through the brown gloom. - -Then night had come, and her cell had seemed small and stifling, a vault -for a live soul. She had thrown her grey cloak over her shoulders, and -gone out into the beech wood, following the path that led towards -Goldspur manor. Her brown eyes had more than human vision in the -darkness, and she knew the wood ways even at night. It was as though she -went out to watch over the place, and to dispel the shadow of dread that -had settled over her own heart. - -Denise had come to the end of the wood where the grassland swept down -into the valley, when she stopped to listen, putting her hood back so -that she might hear more clearly. Her face was towards Goldspur, and she -merged her body into shadow of the trunk of a great tree. Abruptly out -of the night came the sudden sound of men shouting, a vague clamour that -rose and fell like the noise of a wind through trees. Dots of light -shone out in the darkness, jerking to and fro like sparks blown hither -and thither by the wind. - -Denise stood there watching these dots of fire, afraid yet not afraid, -striving to understand what was happening down there in the darkness. -The shouting died down suddenly, to change into the scattered cries of -men running to and fro. The torches tossed this way and that as though -Gaillard’s fellows were hunting for fugitives, calling to one another as -they doubled upon their tracks. One of the torches came some little -distance up the hill towards the beech wood and then halted, and -remained motionless, flaming like the eye of a cyclops. - -Denise had drawn back behind the tree, when she heard the sound of -something moving in the darkness. A black shape passed momentarily -between her and the torch burning below upon the hillside. Footsteps -came near to her, the stumbling, irregular, running steps of a man hard -put for breath, and perhaps—for blood. He passed close to her in the -darkness, labouring for breath, and staggering from side to side. She -could still see the moving shadow in the gloom, when it plunged like a -man falling forward over a cliff, and she heard the sound of a body -striking the crisp, dead leaves. Fear was beneath Denise’s feet for the -moment. The man had fallen over the straggling root of a tree, and he -was struggling to rise as Denise came up with him. - -He had gained his feet, and stood rocking like a drunken man, trying to -steady himself, and to win forward into the wood. But his legs would not -carry him, and he went swaying as though struck on the chest, to stagger -against Denise before she could avoid him. She felt the hard rings of -his hauberk against her bosom, and to save herself she held the man, -throwing an arm about his body. - -Caught thus from behind, he turned his head and looked at her, not -questioning the strangeness of it, being dazed and almost dead with what -had passed. His face was so close to hers that Denise could not but know -him, even in the darkness. - -“Aymery!” - -Her voice set his dull brain thrilling. - -“Denise!” - -She kept her arm about him, for there was nothing else for her to do, -and he would have fallen had she not held him. Aymery’s face was as -white as linen, and she could feel him quivering as he stood. - -“Peter of Savoy’s men, we were caught yonder, Grimbald and I.” - -He spoke in jerks, and tried to stand apart from her, as though one -purpose had carried him so far, and as though the same purpose dominated -him still. - -“I want breath, that is all; they pressed us hard, there, at Goldspur; -we broke through, and I ran for the hills. You must go, Denise, -to-night; make for one of the coast towns. I can look to myself.” - -He was at the end of his strength, however, for all his hardihood, with -a sword cut through the shoulder, an arrow broken in his thigh. Denise -could see nothing of all this, but she knew that he could hardly stand. -Moreover, he had struggled up into the wood to warn her, and her heart -was the heart of a woman though the people called her a saint. - -Looking back over her shoulder she saw tongues of yellow flame rising -from Goldspur in the valley. Gaillard’s men had set fire to the place. -The glow from it caught Aymery’s eyes as he stood, swaying at the knees, -great sickness upon him, even his wrath feeble in him because of his -wounds and his weariness. - -“They have lit me a torch to travel by,” he said bitterly. - -Denise was shading her eyes with her hand. She turned swiftly upon -Aymery, for she had seen mounted men moving on the hillside between her, -and the burning house. - -“Lord,” she said simply, “yesterday, you were afraid for my sake; -to-night, it is I who fear.” - -Her eyes met his, and held them. The secret thoughts of the day no -longer had their half treacherous significance. Denise had no thought of -self in her that moment; the succouring hands hid the dull radiance of -the heart beneath. - -“To-night you must rest and sleep.” - -He looked at her, as though trying to understand. The darkness began to -deepen about him, and he felt cold, and numb to the core. - -“I can crawl to cover. If you could bring me wine and food, and a little -linen——” - -She went close to him suddenly, and passed her hands over his hauberk. -Touch told her the whole truth. She had no false shame to make her weak -and careful. - -“Wounds, and you would have hidden them!” - -“A little blood, nothing more. Let me lie here, Denise.” - -“To die,” and her voice had a deep, quiet passion in it; “lord, would -you choose death for a piece of pride! Come, I know the ways.” - -She put an arm about him, as though she was stronger than Aymery that -night, and had the will and courage to do for him what he, in his full -strength, would have done for her. Suffering and sickness sweep the -small prides of life aside. The heart of a woman is as elemental, then, -as the wind or the sea. - -“Lean on me.” - -He looked at her half rebelliously, and then hung his head, and obeyed. - -How great his need was became apparent before they had reached the -clearing amid the beech trees. The man stumbled and faltered at every -step, his head fell forward, he muttered incoherently, like one in the -heat of a fever. Denise felt his weight bearing more heavily upon her -arm. His head drooped, and rested upon her shoulder. Before they reached -the wattle gate of the garden the conscious life was out of him, and -Denise, borne down like a vine-ladened sapling bent by the wind, let the -man slip from her gently to the ground. - -She stood irresolute a moment, then stooping and putting her two hands -under his shoulders, she found that she could drag him slowly up the -stone path into her cell. Once within she closed the door, and slipping -off her cloak, she covered the slit of a window with it. There was a -little earthen lamp in the cell, and Denise sought and found it in the -darkness, also tinder, flint, and steel. Yet her hands shook so with her -labour of bearing up under Aymery’s weight, that it was a minute or more -before she had the lamp burning. - -Setting it upon a stone sconce in the wall, she bent over Aymery, the -light of the lamp making his face seem white as the face of the dead. -Her brown eyes grew frightened at the sight of his wounds, and at the -way he lay so quiet, and so still. But there was something greater than -fear in Denise’s heart that night. In a corner of the cell were some -rough boards covered with dry bracken, a coarse white sheet, and a -coverlet of wool. Denise, putting her arms once more under the man’s -body, half dragged and half lifted him to her own rough bed. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -The night was far spent, and the oil in the earthen lamp had failed some -hours ago. Denise, sitting in the darkness, with her chin resting on her -hands, listened to Aymery’s breathing, and waited for the dawn. Nerving -herself, she had twisted the arrow’s head from the flesh, unlaced his -hauberk and bound up the wounded shoulder, and poured some wine between -his lips. For a long time she had watched him for signs of returning -consciousness. Then the lamp had died out and left them in the darkness, -and Denise had sat wondering whether the man’s quietude meant sleep or -death. - -Denise did not close her eyes that night. She was wakeful, strangely -wakeful, almost conscious of the beating of her heart. More than once -she had bent forward and touched Aymery’s hand, and its coldness chilled -her, so that she longed for the day. Often too in the strained suspense -of the night’s silence she would fancy that he had ceased to breathe, -and she would fall a-praying with a passion that startled even her own -heart. - -A faint greyness beneath the door, a sudden tentative cry from some -awakened bird. For a while silence, then sudden and strange, a thrilling -up of note on note, a sense as of golden light mounting in sweeping -spirals towards the sky. Wizard’s magic in the grey of the great wood, a -thousand throats throbbing in unison till the whole world seemed full of -a glory of sound. The very air quivered within the cell. It was as -though invisible wings were beating everywhere, while the trees of the -forest were tongued with prophetic fire. - -Denise rose, opened wide the door, and let the song of the birds come to -her with the cold fragrance of the breaking day. As yet greyness -everywhere, grey grass, grey trees. A gradual gathering of light, then, -of a sudden, as though some god had hurled fire into the sky, a blur of -gold, a cry of crimson from the mouths of the pale clouds. Soon, an arch -of amber in the east, the forest black against the splendour thereof, -the grass a-gleam, the sky in the zenith still dim like a woman’s eyes -dim with tears. A beautiful tenderness transfigured the face of the -world; no wicked thing seemed thinkable while those birds were singing. - -So the dawn came, and flung his torch into the cell at Denise’s feet. - -Now that the daylight absolved her from suspense, she turned, a little -fearfully, and knelt down beside the bed. The man’s face was in the -shadow, so that it looked very sharp and grey to her, yet he was -breathing quietly with his lips closed. Only a little blood had soaked -through the bandages. Yet Denise knelt watching him, unable to shake off -the haunting dread that he might not wake to see another dawn. - -Whether it was the daylight playing on his face, or the long gaze of -Denise’s eyes, Aymery awoke without so much as the stirring of a hand, -and looked up straight into the woman’s face. And for some moments those -two stared silently into each other’s eyes. - -Aymery half rose upon his elbow, but Denise’s hand went to his unwounded -shoulder. - -“Lie still,” she said to him, with a pressure of the hand. - -He obeyed her, and sank back upon the bed. Denise saw his lips move, but -no words came from them. His eyes wandered from her face about the cell, -as though the slow consciousness of it all were flowing into his brain. -And as the daylight broadened, his mind’s awakening seemed to keep pace -with it. He was lying in Denise’s cell, and upon Denise’s bed. - -“How long have I been here?” - -She bent towards him, her hair shining about her face. Aymery’s eyes -caught the sheen thereof, and seemed dazzled by its glory. - -“Only lie still,” she said. “In the night I thought that you would die. -You are safe here. None but friends know the ways.” - -He seemed to feel the first burning of his wounds, for his hand went to -his right shoulder, but Denise caught it, and laid it upon the coverlet. - -“I have looked to your wounds.” - -“How did I come here?” - -His eyes searched her face. - -“You are safe, is not that enough; yet, you were very heavy,” and she -smiled at him. - -“Have you seen Grimbald?” - -“No, no one.” - -Aymery was silent for a moment, looking at Denise with a kind of quiet -wonder. Her face was turned from him. And suddenly he caught her hand, -and lifted it, and for a moment its whiteness lay across Aymery’s mouth. - -“God guard you, Denise.” - -Her eyes flashed down at him. - -“You must live. I ask that.” - -“Assuredly, I cannot die.” - -Denise rose up and went out into the sunlight, for her face had blazed -suddenly with blood that rushed from the heart. - -The first thing that Denise did that morning was to take a pitcher that -stood beside the door, and to go down to the spring to draw water. There -were drops of the man’s blood upon the stones of the path, and Denise, -bringing back her pitcher, washed the stains away so that they should -offer no betrayal. The beech wood seemed still and empty in the morning -sunlight. Yet the peril of the night haunted her heart continually with -an innocence that had no thought of self. - -She went to refill the pitcher at the spring, looking watchfully down -every dwindling woodway, and listening even for the rustle of dead -leaves. Aymery was lying awake when she returned. His eyes watched her a -little restlessly, and there was something in those eyes of his that -made the blood come more quickly to her face. - -Turning to a cupboard she took out bread, honey, and a little jar of -wine. - -“Is that water, there?” - -He was looking at the pitcher. - -“Yes.” - -Denise understood him instantly, for she found a clean napkin in the -cupboard, moistened it, and bent over the bed. - -“Your lips are dry.” - -She put a hand under his head, raised it, and washed his mouth and face. -He held out his hands to her, and she washed those also, yet her eyes -avoided Aymery’s, and their deeps were hidden from him by the shadows of -their lashes. - -“Are you hungry?” - -“No, not even a little.” - -“But you must eat for your strength’s sake.” - -“I will do all that you desire.” - -She would not suffer him to manage for himself, but spread the honey on -the bread, and held the wine flask for him to drink. - -“It is all that I can give,” she said simply. - -He looked at her, but found no answer for the moment. Both of them had -grown suddenly shy of one another and when their hands touched, the -touch thrilled them from hand to heart. - -Denise left him at last, and going to the doorway of the cell, stood to -break bread for her own need. Yet though her face was turned from him, -she could not put the man’s nearness from her, and the bread as she -crumbled it, fell in waste on the stones at her feet. - -“Denise.” - -Aymery’s voice startled her. He had not spoken loudly, but there was a -return of strength in the tone thereof. - -“Yes?” - -“You shall be rid of me before nightfall. I only ask for a day’s grace.” - -She had turned and was looking down at him with solemn eyes. - -“It will be days before you must stir,” she said. “Remember that I saw -your wounds.” - -“They are nothing.” - -“Lord, I know otherwise. You will bide there on that bed.” - -She spoke quietly enough, but Aymery looked up at her restlessly, -watching the sunlight shining through her hair. - -“I cannot lie here, Denise.” - -“You are safe.” - -“Too safe, perhaps; it is not of my own safety——” - -He paused, but not before she had caught his meaning. The truth was -difficult for Aymery to utter, and yet she honoured him for thinking of -her honour. - -“None but our friends come this way,” she answered. - -He half rose in bed with the strong and generous passion that made his -pale face shine on her out of the darkness of the cell. - -“Mother of God, child, am I so selfish, and so blind! Do I not remember -what you are, to all of us in these parts. If these dogs found me here! -I would rather crawl on my hands and knees than tempt that chance.” - -Her face flushed deeply, but not because of the mere words that he had -spoken. A sudden impulse seized her, an impulse that came she knew not -whither. Aymery had sunk back again, and the sight of this strong man’s -weakness went to her heart. In the taking of a breath she was bending -over him, and holding the wooden cross that hung at her girdle. Kissing -it she held it before Aymery’s eyes. - -“Lord, let this be as a sign between us, for I have no fear.” - -He looked at the cross, then at Denise, and his eyes seemed to catch the -glimmer of her hair. - -“Denise, but one day,” he said. “To-morrow——” - -“Leave God the morrow.” - -“Yet, who knows what even the morrow may bring.” - -Denise turned from him, and going out, closed the door. She stood -leaning against it, looking above the trees into the blue of a spring -sky. Infinitely strange, infinitely wonderful seemed this mysterious -fire that had been kindled suddenly within her heart. Quench it she -could not, though she strove to smother and hide it even from herself. -As for Aymery, the cell seemed very dark to him, for lack of the -radiance that had streamed from her hair. - -Denise went down through the beech wood towards Goldspur that morning, -meaning to see whether Gaillard and his men had gone. The valley was -full of sunlight, but over the village hung a thin dun-coloured mist, -with pale smoke curling upwards into the blue. No live thing moved in -the valley, and even her hope of the glimpse of a friend failed her. -Still, her heart was glad that there were no riders there, and that the -violence of the night seemed farther from her world. - -Gaillard had gone. He and his men had passed the night, drinking and -warming themselves before the burning house, none too pleased with the -evening’s handiwork. Soon after dawn a rider had come galloping in, -beaconed through the darkness by the glare of the burning manor, and -Gaillard, when he had spoken with the fellow, had ordered his men to -horse, after they had buried two comrades who had fallen beneath -Grimbald’s axe. They had ridden away towards the sea, since my Lord of -Savoy had called Gaillard back to Pevensey. - -The night before, some thirty “spears” and a company of archers had -marched in from Lewes, sent thence by John de Warenne, the Earl. - -“Since the iron is hot in your parts, sire,” ran the Earl’s message, “I -send you a hammer for your anvil. God keep the King.” - -Peter of Savoy had laughed at the message, and thrown a jewel into -Etoile’s lap. - -“The book tells us that we should go a-hunting,” he had said. “We will -send for the Gascon back again. There are lusty rebels to be pulled down -when the King’s need is paramount.” - -Etoile had laughed in turn, with a gleam of black eyes and of white -teeth. - -“Let our horns blow, sire, I too will ride with you.” - -“A bolt in time saves twine,” quoth her man. - -When Gaillard returned that morning, and Peter of Savoy heard the news -of Dan Barnabo’s death, and the way the mesne lords had called out their -men, he smiled at Gaillard very grimly, and twitted him with the little -that he had done. - -“You are clever at lighting bonfires, my Gascon,” he said. “But singeing -the bear makes him only madder. We have no need of our clerks and -lawyers, for when such work is afoot we can shut justiciar, coroner, and -sheriff up in the same box. Will any man tell me that I have no right of -private war in my own manors. The King is defied! Go to now, we have our -warrant.” - -Gaillard showed his teeth, and shot a stealthy, swaggering look towards -Etoile. - -“To catch the fox, sire, we must have hounds enough.” - -“Take them, my boaster, and sweep the countryside. We will ride with you -to see the chase.” - -“And madame, also? We will show her how these pigs of Englishmen can -run.” - -That same evening as the sun sank low, Denise went down to draw water at -the spring. The woods were full of a glory of gold, and the chequered -shadows of the trees fell upon the brown leaves, and the vivid grass. -The gorse seemed lit as for the evening of All Souls. Perfumes rose out -of the pregnant earth. A hundred thrushes seemed chanting a vesper song. - -The heart of Denise also was full of strange, elfin music. There was a -smile upon her mouth, and her eyes caught the enchanted distance of -dreams. As she drew water at the spring and the ripples of the pool were -inset with gold, she sang to herself softly, a song that she had learnt -as a young girl, a song of the tower, and not of the cell. - -Aymery heard her singing as she came across the glade to the gate of the -garden. The door of the cell stood open, but Denise had hung her cloak -so as to hide the bed. - -When she came in to him, Aymery watched her with the eyes of a man whose -heart is troubled. For he felt the guilt of his presence in that place, -and the fairness of Denise had made him afraid. True, she had taken no -formal vows, but to the world she was a creature whose very feet made -the brown earth holy. - -“No news of Grimbald?” - -“None.” - -Her deep voice thrilled him, but he stirred uneasily upon the bed. - -“I have gained strength to-day.” - -“Do not waste it, then, lord,” she answered him. - -His eyes pleaded with her like the eyes of a dog. - -“Give me a hand, Denise; I will try if I can stand.” - -“No; why, you will but open your wounds again.” - -“My thoughts are more to me than my wounds, Denise.” - -He struggled up suddenly before she could hinder him, only to turn faint -and dizzy, for the blood fell from his brain. He swayed, and went grey -as Denise’s gown. - -“Are you mad, lord; you will die of your wilfulness!” - -She put her arm about his shoulders, and her hair brushed against his -cheek. - -“Denise, if I could so much as crawl——” - -His wistfulness woke a rush of tenderness in her. - -“No, no, rest here.” - -“Rest! I cannot rest, cannot you understand?” - -Denise’s arm was still about his shoulders. They looked into each -other’s eyes, one long look full of mystery, of sadness, and unrest. - -“My heart understands you,” she said very softly. “Yet, is there shame -in my wishing you to live.” - -She let him lie back on the bed, and taking the wine, she made him -drink, and her hand brushed the hair from off his forehead. - -“You must sleep,” she said. “No harm can come while I am watching.” - -And Aymery’s eyes were full of a silent awe. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -There was a sound of horns in the woodlands as the morning of the second -day drew towards noon, and Denise, who had gone down towards Goldspur to -discover whether Grimbald or any of the villagers had returned, heard -the distant winding of the horns, and stood still to listen. - -The day was sunny, with a light breeze blowing, and Denise could see no -live thing stirring in the whole valley where the ashes of Goldspur -still threw out silver smoke. Yet those distant horns beyond the hills -seemed to carry a cry of strangeness and unrest. Denise would have given -much to know all that was passing yonder, but no man came that way and -she dared not leave the beech wood, and the wounded man in the cell. The -very silence and emptiness of the landscape filled her with vague dread. -No one had dared to return to the fields or the burnt village. The hawk -was still hovering, and the small birds kept their cover. - -Aymery was asleep when Denise returned to the cell, but he woke at her -coming, and looked up at her for news. - -“I have seen nothing but the smoke from Goldspur,” she said calmly -enough. “Grimbald and the people still keep to the woods. They may be -with us any hour.” - -Aymery lay quiet for a while as though sunk in thought. His -consciousness reflected clearly the meaning of the past and the promise -of the future. - -“So they have burnt Goldspur,” he said, as though speaking the words of -a prayer. - -Denise had set the door wide, and drawn a stool into the sunlight. - -“Surely there is some law left in the land?” - -“We have surfeited ourselves with law,” he said bitterly; “only to learn -that the law bows itself to the man with the sword and the title.” - -Denise leant back against the rough oak door-post. - -“You will build the house again?” she asked. - -He did not answer her for a moment. - -“No, not yet,” he said at last. “The sword is the first tool that we -Englishmen must handle. These Frenchmen laugh at us, calling us English -swine, but the day is near when the tusks of the English boar shall be -red with their blood.” - -He spoke with the fierceness of the man of the sword, but Denise’s heart -was with him, though her hands were held to be hands of mercy. - -“Such men as Hubert of Kent, they are our need,” she said. - -“Hubert! The land shall give us a hundred Huberts,” and his face blazed -up at her. “It will be the bills of England against the spears of this -hired scum from France and Flanders, these dogs in the service of dogs -who have plundered our lands and shamed our women. They have laughed at -us, robbed us, made a puppet of our king. ‘Get you to England,’ has been -the cry, ‘It is a land of fools, of heavy men stupid with mead and -swine’s flesh. Take what you will. The savages will only gape and -grumble.’ But I tell you, Denise, the heart of England has grown hot -with a slow, sure wrath. We are Normans no longer, nor Saxons, nor -Danes. Men are gripping hands from sea to sea. God see to it, but the -years will prove that England is England, the land of the English, and -woe to those who shall trifle with our strength.” - -Like a mocking voice came the cry of a horn, echoing tauntingly amid the -hills. Another took up the blast, and yet another, cheerily braying -through the young green of the woods. The two in the cell were mute for -the moment, looking questioningly into each other’s eyes. - -Aymery raised himself upon his elbow. - -“The Savoyard’s men!” - -Denise’s eyes were full of a startled brightness. - -“Why not Waleran?” she asked him as she stood listening at the door. - -“I know the sound of our Sussex horns.” - -She stepped out into the sunlight, and went swiftly down the path -towards the gate. - -“Lie still,” she called to him. “I will go and see what may be learnt.” - -Denise knew every alley in the wood, and her grey gown glided westwards -amid the dark boles of the trees. Ever and again the horns sang lustily -to one another, coming nearer and ever nearer, swelled by the faint but -ominous tonguing of dogs. Denise went forward more slowly, pausing often -to listen, her brown eyes growing more watchful as the sounds came -nearer to her through the maze of the woods. She could feel even her own -heart beating; and her face sharpened with the keenness of her -vigilance. - -Denise drew back abruptly behind the trunk of a great tree. She had -heard a crackling of dry leaves, a sound of men moving, voices calling -in harsh undertones, one to the other. She crouched down amid the -gnarled tree roots, her lips apart, her eyes at gaze. The heavy -breathing of tired beasts came to her, with the rustle of leaves, and -the quick plodding of many feet. As she crouched there she saw figures -go scurrying away through the mysterious shadowland of the woods. Some -were mounted on forest ponies, others fleeing on foot. One man passed -within ten yards of Denise, his mouth open, his hands clawing the air -beside him as he ran. None of them saw her, none of them looked back. -They disappeared like so many flitting shadows, and a second silence -covered their tracks as water closes behind the keel of a ship. - -Denise tarried no longer, but rose and ran back towards the cell. Those -flying shadows amid the beech trees had told her all that she could need -to know. As for Aymery, she must hide him and take her chance. Her gown -gleamed in and out through shadow and sunshine, while the tonguing of -the dogs and the scream of the horns haunted her like the discords of a -dream. - -Denise had half crossed the clearing when she saw a sight that made her -catch her breath. Close by the gate lay Aymery, propping himself upon -one arm, his head drooping like the head of a man who has been smitten -through with a sword. - -She ran to him, her eyes a-fire. - -“Lord, what have you done?” - -He lifted his face to her, a face that was grey and moist in the -sunlight. She saw that the linen swathings over his shoulder were red -with vivid stains. - -“I have time—yet.” - -Denise bent over him. - -“You are mad, you are bleeding anew.” - -“Give me wine, Denise; I can crawl, if I cannot walk.” - -She put her arms about him and tried to lift him to his feet. - -“No, no, come back to the cell. They are beating the woods. I saw men -flying for their lives.” - -Aymery clung to her, and gained his feet. - -“Denise, I must take my chance, help me into the woods.” - -But his eyes went dim and blind in the sunlight, and Denise, as she -looked at him, uttered a sharp, passionate cry. - -“Lord, you have tempted death enough. Come. There is no time to lose.” - -Denise was strong beyond her strength as she put an arm about him, and -half led, half carried him into the cell. She let Aymery sink upon the -bed, and covered him with the coverlet that he had thrown aside. - -“For God’s love, lie still,” she said. “Should they come this way I will -put them off with lies.” - -Denise went out from him and closed the door. For a moment a great -faintness seized her, for she had taxed her very soul in carrying Aymery -within. The sunlight flashed and flickered before her eyes, so that she -put her hands up before her face, and leant, trembling, against the -door. But the sound of the horns and the dogs grew louder in the beech -wood, and Denise’s strength came back to her with that fine courage that -women show when life and death hang in the balance. - -With one quick glance at the woods she went down on her knees on the -stone-paved path, and began to pull up the few weeds that she could find -in the borders. Her hair had become loosened in her flight through the -wood, and hung in waves about her neck and shoulders. Denise kept her -eyes on the ground before her, though her ears were straining to catch -the slightest sound. She prayed as she knelt there, as she had never -prayed for a boon before, that these men might pass by without seeing -the dark thatch of her cell. - -The trampling of many horses swelled the shrill whimpering and tonguing -of the dogs. A horn blared close by. The wood seemed full of voices, of -swift movement, of hurrying sounds. Denise heard the laughter of a woman -peal out suddenly, strange and unfamiliar in the midst of such a chorus. -A man’s voice shouted a fierce command. The whole wood about the place -seemed to become alive with colour, and the gleam and clangour of steel. - -Denise bent her head over the brown soil and gave no sign. Her fingers -plucked at a tuft of grass, but could not close on it because of their -great trembling. Her heart told her that these people would not pass by. -Swiftly, half fearfully, she raised her head, and looked up over the -wattle fence. - -Before her the shadowy wood seemed to swim with the faces and figures of -armed men. Horses crowded in with tossing manes, shields flickered, -surcoats with many colours. Brown-faced archers walked between the -horses, their steel caps shining, bows ready with arrows on the strings. -Rangers and servants held the dogs in leash, sweating, panting men who -cursed the beasts that strained, and yelped, and rose upon their -haunches. - -In the forefront of the whole rout, like a great gem set in the centre -of a crown, Denise saw a woman seated on a milk-white horse. Her green -gown was diapered over with golden lilies, and in her hand she carried a -bow. The woman’s face was flushed with riding, and her hair disordered -in its golden caul. On her right hand rode a lord in a surcoat of -purple, and the trappings of his horse were of white and blue. On her -left, with a drawn sword over his shoulder, Denise saw the man who had -surprised her at the spring. - -Since there was no help for it, Denise sat back upon her heels, her face -flushed with stooping over the soil. All those hundred eyes seemed -fastened upon her. Yet there was a sudden silence save for the -whimpering and the chafing of the dogs. - -Over the wattle fence, and across the narrow stretch of grass, the eyes -of the woman on the white horse met the eyes of Denise. And some instant -instinct of enmity seemed to flash between the two, as though—being -women—they could read each other’s hearts. - -Denise saw her turn to Gaillard, and point with her bow in the direction -of the cell. The Gascon laughed, and pretended to pray to the cross of -his sword. Then he flapped the bridle upon the neck of his horse, and -rode forward to speak with Denise. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -Gaillard rode up to the wicket and saw Denise kneeling on the path with -weeds and grass tufts scattered along the stones. Paltry, misplaced -labour, this, for a woman with such a body and such eyes and hair! -Gaillard had his grudge against Denise, and though his impulse was to -humble her, he could not forget how the morning sunlight had struck upon -her that morning at the pool. - -“The best of matins to you, Sanctissima,” he said. “I trust that you are -rid of your sins as easily as you are rid of those weeds.” - -Denise rose to her feet, his scoffing voice bringing the colour to her -face. The look in Gaillard’s eyes made her hate him, a jeering, -masterful, boastful look that showed that he was insolently sure of -himself, and knew how to play the bully on occasions. - -“What would you, messire?” and she felt her face hot under the man’s -eyes. - -Gaillard stared her over, as though he had no high opinion of women, and -especially of those who were comely and yet pretended to be righteous. - -“Holy Sister,” and his eyes looked beyond her towards the cell, “why do -you shut your door so close of a May morning?” - -His red eyes flashed down at her again, and Denise, with a fierce -burning of the cheeks, felt that he was watching her, and that her -secret might hang upon the tremor of a word. - -“You are curious over trifles,” she said curtly. “I live alone here -after my own fashion. What would you with all your dogs and men?” - -Gaillard heeled his horse close to the gate. Count Peter, Etoile, and -all their company watched and waited. - -“Come nearer, Sanctissima,” said the Gascon, keeping his eyes fixed upon -her face. - -Denise did not stir. - -“Come now, saint of the beech woods, put your pride aside, and let us -talk together. And keep those eyes of yours from anger. It may be that I -can give service for service.” - -He spoke softly to her, almost suggestively, but Denise hated his -smoothness more than his insolence. - -“I do not understand you, messire,” she said. - -Gaillard’s eyes grew keen and greedy. - -“Such a woman as you, my lady, should not be rash in refusing -courtesies. Now, if I ask you to open yonder door?” - -She tried to outstare him, but his eyes seemed to look her innocence -through and through. - -“Say what you please,” she said. “Men fled through the wood here before -you came. But I have not meddled in your affairs.” - -He tossed his head back suddenly and laughed, so that Denise saw the red -roof of his mouth above his smooth, strong, shining chin. - -“Sister, do they write of such things in heaven? Clerks tell us a tale -that whenever a cock crowed, St. Peter was seized with a spasm of -coughing. Who is it that you are hiding, yonder?” - -Denise stood dumb before him. The man’s face mocked her like the face of -a mocking Faun. - -“I have no answer for you, messire,” she said. “Go back to those who -sent you, and to your horns and your dogs.” - -She turned slowly, meaning to reach the cell and bar the door, hoping -the last hope that these people would ride on and leave her in peace. -But Gaillard was too shrewd to be cheated thus. He struck his horse with -the spurs, set him at the low fence, cleared it, and trampling the -garden under foot, put himself between Denise and the cell. - -“A capture, a capture!” - -He laughed down in Denise’s face, as he waved his sword to those who -were waiting on the fringes of the beech wood. - -The flash of the Gascon’s sword brought the whole rout swarming down -upon the place, dogs, men, and horses, fur, steel and colour. The wattle -fence went down before them; the herbs and the spring flowers were -trampled into the soil. A horse plunged and reared close beside Denise, -so that she had a glimpse of a black muzzle with the teeth showing, and -soaring hoofs ready to crush her to the earth. Some unknown hand thrust -her roughly aside, when a hound sprang at her, and was dragged back -snarling on the end of a leash. Suddenly in the whirl of it she found -Gaillard beside her on his horse, pushing the beast forward so as to -shelter her from the rout that had stormed in as though half Waleran’s -rebels held the hermitage. - -“Back, fools,” and he struck at some of them with the flat of his sword. -“Out, out! Who called for a charge?” - -He turned his horse this way and that, driving the men back, and -clearing a space about the cell. - -“Roland, on guard there, man, by the door. Stand to your arms, sirs; am -I captain of a drove of swine?” - -There was something fine in the way he wheeled his great horse to and -fro, driving men and dogs like so many sheep. Denise, her hair falling -upon her shoulders, drew back towards the cell, her senses dazed for the -moment by all this violence and roughness. - -The crowd of armed men parted suddenly, and through the gap between -their swords and lances came riding the woman on the milk-white horse, -haughty, yet smiling, her bow across her knees. Peter of Savoy rode -close beside her, a quiet, noiseless man, whose cold eyes were more -dangerous than a dozen swords. Gaillard wheeled towards them, touching -his horse with the spur so that the beast caracoled and showed off his -lord’s masterfulness in the saddle. - -Peter of Savoy smoothed his beard with a gloved hand that showed a great -ruby upon the leather. - -“What have we here, my friend? The lady in the grey gown looks as though -she would kill you an she could.” - -Gaillard laughed, and glanced at Etoile. - -“That is our Lady of the Woods, sire, a saint whom the boors worship. -Yet I might swear that she has more than her scourge, her stone bed, and -her cross in that cell.” - -Etoile’s black eyes covered Denise. - -“Does a saint carry such a fleece of hair,” she sneered. “This man-chase -pleases me better and better, sire. See how Madame Dorcas is standing on -live coals!” - -She laughed, and looked at Denise, tilting her chin, her eyes -inquisitively insolent. - -“Have the door opened, sire, and let us see what her man is like.” - -Peter of Savoy glanced shrewdly at Etoile. - -“How fair women love one another! Rosamond’s cup is always ready to the -hand.” - -Denise had drawn back close to the door of the cell, and stood leaning -against the wall under the shadow of the overhanging thatch. Her hair -seemed to burn under that band of shade like stormy sunlight under a -ragged cloud. Her hands were folded over her bosom, her brown eyes fixed -on the white forehead of Etoile’s horse. There was no furtiveness about -her face, no flickering of a half confessed shame. The open space -between her and Gaillard’s men seemed to symbolise something, perhaps an -awe of her that made these rough men of the sword hold back. - -Etoile pointed with her bow towards the door, and her eyes challenged -Denise. - -“Perhaps our Holy Sister will satisfy us with an oath,” she said. “For -the lips of a saint cannot utter a lie.” - -Denise answered her nothing, and Etoile’s face darkened maliciously -under her golden caul. - -“Will you lay me a wager, sire?” and she tapped Peter of Savoy on the -knee with her bow. - -His eyes gleamed at her. - -“A star is made wise by the stars; I keep an open mind.” - -“Then have the door opened, and let us see whether this good woman -cannot hide a lover.” - -Peter of Savoy nodded towards the cell, and Gaillard wheeled his horse, -catching a glimpse of Denise’s white and waiting face. - -“Roland, Jean, Guillaume!” - -His strident voice rang out. The three men stood forward with their eyes -fixed on him. Gaillard pointed with his sword to the door of the cell. - -“Open it.” - -They turned to obey him, one of the fellows forcing the door back with -the point of his sword, all three of them upon the alert with their -shields forward as though expecting the rush of armed men. - -The door had swung back showing nothing but a shadowy interior, a dark -and deep recess in the midst of the day’s sunlight. The three men craned -their heads over their shields. Gaillard heeled his horse forward, and -ordered the men aside. Stooping low in the saddle he looked into the -cell, his face lean and intent, his eyes like the eyes of a suspicious -dog. At first he could distinguish nothing. Then he laughed very softly, -straightened in the saddle, and looked down at Denise. - -“Perhaps, Sister, your bed works miracles!” he said. - -He laughed a little more loudly, his mouth mocking her, his eyes -sparkling over the humbling of her pride. The three men began to laugh -also. The pother seemed as infectious as the cackling in a farmyard; the -dogs opened their mouths, and bayed; the wood became full of stupid, -Bacchic mirth. - -Etoile laughed as loudly as any of the men, yet with a metallic hardness -that was not beautiful. - -“Here is a quaint tale,” she said. “Who is it, the lord of Goldspur, did -someone say? She has prayed over him like a saint!” - -The woman’s shrill laughter stung Denise like the lash of a whip. Her -lips moved, but she said nothing. - -They were all laughing, and looking upon Denise when a man appeared in -the doorway of the cell. He was unarmed, with reddened bandages about -one shoulder, and his white face blazed out from the shadows as though -all the wrath in the world burnt like a torch behind his eyes. There was -something so grim and scornful about that face that the men nearest him -fell back, silenced, repulsed, crowding upon one another. - -Aymery came out into the sunlight. He looked right and left, his eyes -sweeping the circle of rough faces, and leaving on each the mark of his -sharp contempt. Gaillard alone had a smile upon his face. He sat in the -saddle with his sword over his shoulder, and pouted out his lips as -though to whistle. Denise had not turned her head. Yet it was as though -she were trying to look at Aymery without betraying the quest of her -brown eyes, for Etoile was watching her with a sneer lifting the corners -of her mouth. - -Aymery glanced up at the Gascon, and then beyond him towards Lord Peter -and the lady. - -Gaillard laughed aloud. - -“It is our friend who ran away from us two nights ago,” he said. “I hope -you were happy, sir, hiding under a lady’s bed.” - -Aymery’s knees shook under him, and his eyes had turned to grey steel. - -“If your heart and mouth are foul,” he said, “make no boast thereof, my -hireling. God give me the chance some day, and I will choke you with -those words.” - -He held his head high, and looked Gaillard in the eyes. But the strength -was ebbing from him; he had lost more blood. Two of the Gascon’s men -caught him by the arms as he began to totter. - -Etoile touched Count Peter with her bow. - -“The man has courage in him. We have bated him enough.” - -The lord of the castles smiled like a cynic. - -“We men are so deserving of pity, we are such fine fellows! Lend him -your horse, my desire!” - -Peter of Savoy laid a hand over his heart, looking at Etoile under -half-closed lids as though she were a child to be humoured. He gave -Gaillard his orders. A spare horse was led forward, and Aymery lifted -into the saddle. He held to the pommel with both hands, trying to steady -himself, a confusion of faces before his eyes. - -“Wine, and I shall not hinder you.” - -A horn set with silver and closed with an ivory lid, passed from hand to -hand. It had come from the wallet that hung from Etoile’s saddle. A -soldier held it to Aymery’s mouth, steadying him with one arm. Aymery -drank, his hand shaking, so that the red wine stained his chin. - -“Thanks, friend, for that.” - -He gave the horn back again, raised his head, and looked round him for -Denise. She was still leaning against the wall of the cell. Their eyes -met for a moment in one quick look that left sadness and joy and pain in -the hearts of both. - -Gaillard’s voice rang out. A horn screamed. Dogs, men, and horses moved -suddenly like a crowd that has been held behind a barrier. Etoile -remained motionless upon her horse, watching the men pass by her with -Aymery in their midst. Already Gaillard’s red surcoat beaconed towards -the gloom of the beech wood, the sun shining upon it so that it looked -the colour of blood. - -Peter of Savoy loitered beyond the trampled garden, waiting for Etoile, -and wondering what whim kept her near the cell. The men had streamed -away before she turned her horse and walked the beast slowly past -Denise. And she stared at Denise boldly as she passed, her black eyes -mocking her from the vantage of her horse. - -“Sweet dreams to you, Holy Sister!” she said. - -And she rode on laughing, and leapt her horse over the wattle fence. - -Denise stood there motionless, her face bleak and cold, her eyes looking -into the distance as though they saw and understood nothing. Suddenly -her face blazed with a rush of blood. She hung her head, and seemed to -be praying. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -So briskly did the Lord of Pevensey sweep the woods that Maytide, -hunting his enemies with horn and hound, that he drove such mesne lords -as had drawn the sword beyond his borders into other parts. The mere -gentleman and the yeoman could make no fight of it as yet against a -great lord who held the castles. The peasants were cowed by the lances -of the troopers; a few still lurked in the deeps of the woods, chased -hither and thither like wild things that fly from the cry of the hound. -The finer and fiercer spirits fled with savage thoughts in their hearts, -counting on the day when their chance should come again. Waleran de -Monceaux took refuge in Winchelsea, and joined himself to the men of -that town. Others galloped away to seek Earl Simon, and to ease their -wrath under De Montfort’s banner. As for Grimbald the priest, he lay -near to death, hidden near a swineherd’s hovel, stricken with the wounds -that he had gotten him at Goldspur manor. - -When Waleran de Monceaux, that man of the fierce face and the bristling -beard, fled to Winchelsea town, he rode by the Abbey of Battle as the -dawn was breaking and halted there and called for food. He and his men -had touched neither meat nor bread for a day and a night. Some were -wounded, all of them ragged, famished, and caked with the mire of the -woodland ways. The hosteler looked sulkily at these savage and beaten -men. Love them he could not because of their importunity, and their -great hunger. And while they cursed him because of his slowness, he sent -word to the Abbot, desiring his commands. - -Abbot Reginald’s message came to him with curt good sense. - -“Feed them, and be rid of them.” - -So Waleran and his men had their paunches filled, because Reginald of -Battle was a man of discretion and desired to keep his lands untainted. -There were sundry inconveniences that clung even to the right of -sanctuary and such high prerogatives. Reginald of Brecon was a smooth -and astute man, a fine farmer, and keen as any Lombard. He would have no -neighbour’s sparks from over the hedge setting fire to his own hayrick. -If fools quarrelled, he could pray for both parties, and hold up the -Cross benignantly, provided no one came trampling his crops. - -In those days Dom Silvius was almoner at the Abbey, a quiet, -sharp-faced, gliding mortal, very devout yet very shrewd. Men said that -Dom Silvius loved his “house” better than he loved his soul. Never was a -mouse more quick to scent out peas. He knew the ploughlands in every -manor, every hog in every wood, how much salt each pan should yield, the -value of the timber and the underwood, the measure of the corn ground at -the mills, the honey each hive yielded, the number of fish that might be -taken from the stews. The Abbey’s charter, and each and every several -bequest might have been written on Dom Silvius’s brain. He was ever on -the alert, ever contriving, and such a man was to be encouraged. His -brethren loved him, for he was not miserly towards the “girdle,” and -their pittances were bettered by Dom Silvius’s briskness. What did it -matter if a monk meddled with more than concerned him, provided the -buildings were in good repair, and his brethren had red wine to warm -their bellies. - -Dom Silvius’s ears were always open. He was a quiet man who did not -frighten folk, but he learnt their secrets, and he often touched their -money. Few lawyers could have snatched a grant from under the almoner’s -cold, white fingers. He was a man of foresight, and of some imagination. -Property to him was not merely a matter of so many plough teams and so -many hides, pannage for hogs, and grindings at the mill. The Church held -all charters in the land of the Spirit; she could take toll from the lay -folk, and make them pay for using her road to heaven. - -The very day that Waleran rode through Battle, Dom Silvius walked with -folded arms and bowed head into the Abbot’s parlour. He stood meekly -within the door, his face full of a smooth humility, his eyes fixed upon -the rushes. - -Abbot Reginald trusted greatly in this monk. The man was ever courteous -and debonair, never turbulent or facetious, always inspired for the -“glory” of his “house.” - -“The blessing of the day, Brother. What business lies between us?” - -Dom Silvius lifted his eyes for the first time to his superior’s face. - -“If I repeat myself, Father, my importunity is an earnest failing. It -concerns the Red Saint for whom Olivia of Goldspur built a cell.” - -Reginald of Brecon leant back in his chair, and closed the book that he -had been reading. - -“The woman whom they call Denise?” - -Silvius looked demure, as though his sanctity were especially sensitive -where a woman was concerned. - -“Her fame has become very great these months,” he said quietly. - -“You covet it, Silvius.” - -The almoner bowed his head. - -“I grudge no soul its good works, Father. But in these days of burnings, -and of spilling of blood——” - -“The woods have grown perilous, Silvius, with Lord Peter’s men abroad.” - -“That is the very truth, sir. There is no place safe outside the -sanctuaries. I have heard it said that the Prior of Mickleham has -offered protection to the woman.” - -Abbot Reginald smiled, the smile of a philosopher. - -“Speak your thoughts, brother.” - -Silvius spread his hands. - -“The woman is certainly a saint,” he said. “It is common report that she -has worked many and strange cures. And, lord, with the foresight of -faith I look towards the future. From simple beginnings great things -have arisen. We do not draw pilgrims here—to our Abbey. How much glory, -sir, has the altar of Canterbury won by the swords of those violent -men.” - -Reginald of Brecon saw Dom Silvius’s vision. - -“A hundred years hence, brother, we shall be blessed through the relics -of St. Denise!” - -Silvius had no mistrust of his inspiration. - -“The maid is certainly miraculous,” he said. “We could grant her a cell -within our bounds.” - -He of the mitre put the tips of his fingers in opposition. - -“Our brethren of Mickleham or of Robertsbridge would forestall us, if -they could?” - -“They love their ‘houses,’ Father, and for that I praise them.” - -“Worthy men! Where would you lodge her, Silvius?” - -“There is that stone cot near Mountjoye, sir, with the croft below it. -We could set up a cross there that would be seen from the road. If the -maid can but work miracles here, people will flock to her; then gifts -can be laid upon our altar.” - -A sudden clangour of bells from the tower brought the almoner’s audience -to an end. Reginald of Brecon rose, and laid aside his book. - -“What does the woman say?” he asked, touching the core of Silvius’s -conception. - -“That, lord, must be discovered. If I have your grace in this——?” - -“Go, Brother, and prosper.” - -And Silvius went out noiselessly from the parlour, his hands hidden in -the sleeves of his habit. - -Though the may was whitening in the woods, and the blue bells spread an -azure mist above the green, May was a harsh and rugged month that year, -with north winds blowing, and the sky hard and grey. And Dom Silvius -when he mounted a quiet saddle horse and trotted away followed by two -servants, drew his thick cloak about him, and was glad of his gloves and -his lamb’s-wool stockings. - -Up in the beech wood above Goldspur the wind made a restless moan -through the branches of the trees. Sometimes the sun struck through the -racing clouds, and a wavering chequer of light and shadow fell on the -thin forest grass. There was a shimmer of young green everywhere, yet -the year seemed sad and plaintive as though chilled to heart by the -north winds. - -Denise, wrapped in her grey cloak, wandered that morning along the grass -paths of her trampled garden, brooding over the wreck thereof. Here were -her thyme and lavender bushes trodden under foot, or snapped and -shredded by the browsing teeth of a horse. Crushed plants peered at her -pathetically from the pits where hoofs had sunk into the soft soil; a -bed of pansies seemed to scowl at her with their quaint and -many-coloured faces, as though reviling her for having brought such -barbarians to trample them. Almost the whole of the wattle fence had -fallen, dragging down into the dirt the roses that had been trained to -it. - -Yet never had Denise’s garden been a more intimate part of herself than -that May morning with the wind tossing the beech boughs against a heavy -sky. What a change from yesterday, what a breaking in of violent life, -what revelations, what regret! The quiet days seemed behind her, far in -the distance, for the vivid present had made even the near past seem -unreal. As for her own heart, Denise was almost afraid to look therein. -It was like her garden, with the barriers broken, and the life of -yesterday trodden into the soil. - -She had tried to put these passionate things from her, and to turn again -to the life that she had known. There were a hundred things for her -hands to do, but do them she could not, for the will in her seemed dead. -Even the familiar trifles of her woodland hermitage were full of -treachery and of suggestive guile. Her bed, Aymery had lain there. Her -earthen pitcher, she had brought him water therein. The very stones of -the path still seemed to show to her the stains of the man’s blood. -Memories were everywhere, memories that would not vanish, and would not -pale. - -Denise’s face still burnt when she remembered Etoile’s laughter, that -hard, metallic laughter like the clash of cymbals. The woman’s insolence -showed her the mocking face of the world, yet for the life of her, -Denise could not tear her thoughts from the happenings of those two -days. Had the whole country risen to jeer at her, she could have -suffered it because of the mystery that made of the ordeal a sacrifice. -She had not saved the man, and yet she did not grudge all that she had -borne, all that she still might bear. The violence of yesterday had -opened the woman’s eyes in Denise. The world had a new strangeness, and -the chant of the wind a more plaintive meaning. - -She had been unable to sleep with thinking of Aymery, and of what had -befallen him, for she still seemed to see his white, furious face, -throwing its scorn into the scoffing mouths of the Gascon’s men. Nor -could she forget the last look that had passed between them, the appeal -in the man’s eyes as though he would have said to her: “God forgive me, -for all this.” Where were they taking him, would they be rough with him, -would he die of his wounds upon the road? What offence had he committed -that his house should be burnt, and his life hazarded, and who was this -Peter of Savoy, this Provençal that he should lord it over the men of -the land, claiming to act for his over-lord the King? It was the right -of the strong over the weak, the pride of the men who held the castles -crushing those who refused to be exploited. The curse of a weak King was -over the country. These hawks of his whom he had let loose in England -obeyed no one, not even their own lord. - -But Denise’s conscience took scourge in hand at last, and drove her from -her broodings and her visions. Work, something to fill the mind, -something tangible to fasten the hands upon! What did it avail her to -loiter, to dream, and to conjecture? There was no salvation in mere -feeling. Her heart was turning to wax in her, she who had worked for -others, and who had been knelt to as a saint. A rush of shame smote her -upon the bosom. The peasant women, these men of the fields, what would -they think of her if they could read her thoughts? She had held up the -Cross before their eyes, and was forgetting to look at it herself. - -So Denise drove herself to work that morning, lifting the fallen fence -and propping it with stakes, gathering the wreckage, binding up the -broken life of the place. It eased her a little this labour under the -grey sky, with the wind in the woods, and the smell of the soil. For in -simple things the heart finds comfort, and idleness is no salve to the -soul. - -It was about noon when Dom Silvius came to the clearing in the beech -wood, and Denise, who was binding up her trailing roses, saw figures -moving amid the trees. Her brown eyes were alert instantly as the eyes -of a deer. But there was nothing fierce about Dom Silvius’s figure, and -nothing martial or masterful about the paces of his horse. - -The almoner left the two servants under the woodshaw and rode forward -slowly over the grass. Silvius’s eyes had a habit of seeing everything, -even when they happened to express a vacant yet inspired preoccupation. -He saw the scarred turf, the hoof marks everywhere, the broken fence -about the garden, the woman in the grey cloak at work upon her roses. - -Silvius kept a staid and thoughtful face till he had come close to the -hermitage. Then his eyes beamed out suddenly as though he had only just -discovered Denise behind the spring foliage of her roses. And Dom -Silvius could put much sweetness into his smile so that his face shone -like the face of a saint out of an Italian picture. - -“Peace to you, Sister; we were nearer than I prophesied.” - -Denise lifted her head and looked at him. A rose tendril had hooked a -thorn in the cloth of her cloak. And to Silvius as he gazed down into -the questioning brown of her eyes, that thorn seemed to point a moral. - -“I come as a friend,” he said, hiding his curiosity behind smooth -kindness. “Silvius the almoner of the Abbey of Battle.” - -“I have heard of you, Father,” she answered him. - -Silvius smiled, as though there were no such thing as spite and gossip -in the world. - -“May my grace fly as far as yours, Sister,” he said. “You are wondering -why I have ridden hither? Well, I will tell you. It is because of the -rumours of violence and of bloodshed that have come to us. Even here, I -see that you have not been spared.” - -He looked about him gravely, yet with no inquisitive, insinuating -briskness. His eyes travelled slowly round the circle of the broken -fence, and came to point at last upon Denise. - -“I have come with brotherly greetings to you, Sister, from Lord Reginald -our Abbot. All men know what a light has burnt here these many months -upon the hills. It is a holy fire to be cherished by us, and all men -would grieve to see it dimmed or quenched.” - -After some such preamble he began to speak softly to Denise, for he was -a good soul despite his shrewdness, and the woman’s face was like a face -out of heaven. He put the simple truth before her, speaking with a -devout fatherliness that betrayed no subtler motive. Peace should be -hers, and a sure sanctuary, roof, clothes, bed, and garden, and a daily -corrody from the Abbey. The times were full of violence, lust, and -oppression, and Silvius feared for those far from the protecting shadow -of some great lord or priest. At Battle she should enjoy all the -sweetness of sanctity; she should have even her flowers there, and he -waved a hand towards the ruinous garden. - -Denise listened to him with a pale and unpersuaded face. Perhaps a -flicker of distrust had leapt up at first into her eyes. But the monk’s -simplicity seemed so sincere a thing that she put distrust out of her -heart. - -When he had ended, she looked towards the woods in silence for a while, -and Silvius made no sound, as though he reverenced her silence, and -understood its earnestness. - -“For all this I thank you, Father,” she said at last. “But come to you I -cannot. It is not in my heart to leave this place.” - -Silvius smiled down at her very patiently. - -“Who shall deny that the Spirit must guide you. Yet even St. Innocence -may remember what God has given.” - -Denise reddened momentarily, and Silvius looked away from her towards -the sky. - -“I am not a child, Father,” she said simply. “The people in these parts -love me, and I, them. They will return home in time, and will come and -seek for me. I should seem to them the worst of cowards, if they found -that I had fled.” - -Silvius was too sensitive and too shrewd to press his importunity upon -her, seeing that she was prejudiced in her heart. He could leave her to -think over what he had said to her. Her pride might refuse to waver at -the first skirmish. - -“You are living your life for others, Sister,” he said. “Nor do we live -in the midst of a wilderness at Battle. Trust the Spirit in you; do not -be misled. Yet I would beseech you to remember what manner of world this -is. Had not St. Paul fled from the city of Damascus, the Faith would -have lacked a flame of fire.” - -Denise looked up at him with miraculous eyes. - -“And yet, I would stay here,” she said. - -“So be it, Sister; some day I will ride this way again.” - -So Denise sent Dom Silvius away, clinging with all this strange new -tenderness of hers to a place that seemed sacred by reason of its -memories. Yet if she had known what others knew, or guessed what was -passing beyond her ken, she might have fled with Silvius that day, and -left her cell to the wild winds, the sun, and the rain. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -It was possible for such a man as Gaillard to be in love with two women -at one and the same moment, if indeed what Gaillard felt for a woman -could be called love. Peter of Savoy was at Lewes, and the Gascon had -the command at Pevensey, and had taken to oiling his hair, and having -musk sewn up in a corner of his surcoat. He and Etoile saw much of one -another, but the lute girl knew how to keep Gaillard at arm’s length. He -might play the troubadour, and make himself ridiculous by singing under -her window at night. Etoile wished to try the man further before she -trusted such a cousin as Gaillard with her power over Count Peter of -Savoy. - -One thing Etoile did not know, that Gaillard had ridden more than once -to the beech wood above Goldspur, and that he had seen Denise, and come -away feeling baulked and foolish. The Red Saint had shut herself -obstinately in her cell, and as for singing her love songs, even -Gaillard had not the gross conceit to treat Denise as he would have -treated Etoile. Yet Gaillard had no sense of the comic in life, and -accepted himself with such enthusiasm that anything was possible to so -blatant a creature. Display was a passion with him, and any clouding of -his conceit, an injury that made him scowl like a spoilt child. Life had -to be full of noise and bustle, the blowing of trumpets, and the -applause of women. Gaillard was so much in love with himself that he ran -about like a fanatic waving a torch, and expecting all the world to -listen to what he said. - -The Gascon might be a fool, but he was a pernicious fool in those rough -days, when there was a woman to be pleased. Denise had shut her door on -him, but Gaillard did not doubt but that she would open it in due -season. Her pride was a thing on the surface, so Gaillard told himself, -and she had more to surrender than had most women. Etoile also was -unapproachable, but in very different fashion to Denise. The one was a -white glare that blinded and repulsed, the other a glittering point that -lured and kept its distance. And Gaillard, like a great gross red moth, -blundered to and fro, making a great flutter. - -Etoile had much of the spirit of those Byzantine women who had the -devil’s poison under their tongues. Gaillard amused her. It pleased her -to discover how far she could drive him into making a fool or a cur of -himself, even as she might tease Count Peter’s leopards, playing on -their jealousy, or tantalising them by holding out food and snatching it -away between the bars. And Etoile’s ingenuity searched out an adventure -that should show her how far Gaillard could be trusted. She was shrewd -enough to realise that the man might be of use to her. Peter of Savoy -was but a child with a play-thing. It was worth Etoile’s discretion to -have a man upon whom she could rely. - -Gaillard grew more importunate, and was for ever offering her his -homage. “Well,” said Etoile to herself, “let him prove himself, but not -in the matter of brute courage.” She knew that it is always more -dangerous for a man to be tempted than to be dared. And Etoile gave -Gaillard a tryst at dusk among the cypresses of Count Peter’s garden, -and turning on him like a cat challenged Gaillard to prove his faith. - -No man was ever more astonished than the Gascon when she told him what -she would have him do. At first he hailed the devil of mischief in her, -but Etoile was in earnest, and flamed up when he laughed at her. -Gaillard shrugged his shoulders, and saw destiny stirring the live coals -of his desire. - -“It would be simpler to bring you her head,” he said, wondering whether -Etoile knew more than she had betrayed. “Cut off the woman’s hair, -indeed! The folk yonder would crucify me, if they caught me harming -their saint.” - -Etoile looked him in the eyes. - -“You are for ever shouting at me to prove you my Gaillard. Here is your -chance. There is often some wisdom in a whim. You are to bring me her -wooden cross, too, remember, as well as a piece of her hair.” - -Gaillard, uneasy under Etoile’s eyes, hid his more intimate thoughts -behind an incredulous obstinacy. He could have scoffed at the absurdity -of the thing. And yet, when he looked at it squarely, the adventure was -not so physically absurd. What did it mean but the robbing of one woman -to win another, the plundering of one treasure house to use the spoil to -bribe the keeper of other treasures! The fine rascality of the thing -delighted him. He threw back his head and laughed, though Etoile mistook -the meaning of his laughter. - -“You have not the courage, Gaillard, eh? The man who sings under my -window must be something better than a troubadour fool.” - -Gaillard bit his nails as though in the grip of a dilemma. The devil in -him applauded. He could have clapped himself on the back over the broad -humour of his cleverness. - -“What a road to set a man on, my desire,” he said, looking rather sullen -over it. “There is a sin that they call sacrilege——” - -Etoile clapped her hands. - -“Cousin Gaillard with a conscience! Oh, you fool, am I worth a piece of -hair, and the wood of a cross?” - -Gaillard spread his arms. - -“Fool! Do you think that I want a man with weak knees to serve me, a boy -who empties half the cup and then turns sick?” - -Gaillard made a show of faltering, rocking to and fro on his heels, and -looking at her under half closed lids. - -“Assuredly,” said he, “you are a devil. And to win a devil I will rob a -saint.” - -Denise’s inward vision helped her so little those days that she had no -foreshadowings of Gaillard’s treachery. He had shown none of his rougher -nature to her when he had ridden through the beech wood to her cell. And -Denise had let him talk to her once or twice, intent on discovering all -that had befallen Aymery since he had fallen into the hands of Peter of -Savoy. Only when Gaillard had tried to come too near had she closed the -door on him, frightened by the look in the man’s eyes, and yet feeling -herself very helpless in that solitary wood. For some days she had seen -nothing of the Goldspur folk, nor did she know whether Grimbald was dead -or alive. Gaillard had gone off sulking from the frost that she had -thrown out on him. Denise believed herself rid of the man. And yet in -her unrest, and loneliness, she thought of what Dom Silvius had said to -her, and was half persuaded to put herself within sanctuary at Battle. - -Gaillard had told her nothing about Aymery, save that he was alive, and -waiting the King’s pleasure. And of all these happenings Aymery knew -nothing as he lay on the straw in a tower room at Pevensey. His wounds -were mending, for Peter of Savoy had some of the instincts of a -Christian, and had sent his own barber surgeon to minister to Aymery’s -needs. Yet the lord of Goldspur manor thought little of his own wounds -those days. - -Though Aymery’s flesh was free from fever, the spirit chafed in him, -tossing and turning with an unceasing flux of thought. Those happenings -at the hermitage haunted him, and in the spirit he drank wine that was -both bitter and sweet, cursing himself for the helplessness that had -brought such things to pass, and laying to his own charge all the shame -that had fallen upon Denise. - -Yet Aymery had other thoughts to trouble him, for those hours at the -hermitage came back more clearly and vividly, as though they had -happened in the twilight, and been remembered in the day. He felt again -the touch of Denise’s hands, saw the gleam of her hair, and caught the -mystery of tenderness that had flashed and faded in the deeps of her -eyes. Aymery would be very still in the narrow room, still as one who -lies dead with a smile on his lips, and in blind eyes a vision of things -splendid. - -Sometimes Aymery would take to preaching to himself, growing sensible -and almost prosy, like a merchant looking methodically into his ledgers. -Without doubt Grimbald would be at Goldspur, the people would come back -to the village, they would think no shame of Denise, even if they heard -of the thing that she had attempted. The quiet life would begin again, -for there was no cause now for my Lord Peter to harry the countryside. -No harm might come of all these adventures, and to insure that end, -Aymery preached to himself still further. - -“Heart of mine,” said he. “Denise is for no such worldly desires. True, -she has taken no sworn vows, but for all that, my friend, she is as good -as a nun. Take heed how you tempt sacrilege. For to the people Denise is -a lady of many marvels. She is not of mere clay, there is mystery -yonder—and her love is the love of the angels and the saints.” - -In some such simple and sturdy fashion Aymery spoke often to his own -heart. Yet there was always an enchanted distance shining beyond these -vows of his like a sunset seen through trees. Flashes of passion -lingered that should not linger. A look of the eyes, a touch of the -hand, such things are not forgotten. - -As for his own fortune, Aymery had no grip thereon; he could only eat -his food and shake up the straw of his bed for comfort. He was mewed -there, “waiting the King’s pleasure,” a useful phrase in the mouth of a -lord who shared with others in persuading the King. Aymery might have -stood at his window and shouted “Charter” till the barber surgeon -decreed that he was turgid and feverish, and should be bled. There was -no such thing as a rescue to be thought of. Presently he might scheme at -breaking out in other and grimmer fashion if they did not release him. -For there was still much talk in the land of “Stephen’s days,” and it -was said that when the saints saved a soul, the devil erected a castle. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -Denise had some sign at last from the Goldspur folk, for she found that -offerings had been left at her gate, and since her store of food had -fallen to half a very dry loaf and a pot of honey, she was carnally glad -of such a godsend. - -The evening of the same day while she was at work in her garden, two of -Aymery’s villeins came out of the wood, each carrying a bundle of ash -stakes and an axe, for they had heard that the saint’s fence was as flat -in places as the walls of Jericho. The two men, Oswald and Peter, were a -little shy of Denise, as though the Goldspur conscience had accused the -community of neglecting the Red Saint. They told her that the cattle had -broken out from the pen, and strayed far and wide through the woods. It -had taken them days to recover the beasts, and they had been hampered by -the knowledge that the men of Pevensey were still sweeping the hundreds -of the rape. - -Both of the men knew that Aymery was a prisoner at Pevensey, but they -did not know that he had been taken at the very doorway of the Red -Saint’s cell. Nor did Denise betray to them all that had passed; she had -too much pride and a sacred sense of secrecy for that. Oswald and Peter -set to work, their axes catching the sunlight that sifted through the -trees, white chips flying, their brown faces intent and stolid. Denise -stood and watched them for a time, and Oswald, the elder of the two, -told her what had befallen Father Grimbald. A swineherd had found him -half dead in the woods, and had hidden him in a saw-pit for fear of -Gaillard and his men. It had been a sharp escape, and a sharp sickness -for Grimbald. He was still in hiding, and being healed of his wounds, -and there was not a woman in the whole hundred who would not have had -her tongue cut out rather than betray Grimbald to Peter of Savoy. - -Dusk was falling before the men had finished mending the fence, and a -wind had risen like a restless and plaintive voice, making the twilight -seem more grey and melancholy. The whole beech wood had begun to shiver -with a sense of loneliness that made the earth itself seem cold. Oswald -and Peter knelt down before Denise, and asked her to bless them before -they shouldered their axes and marched off into the wood. - -The two men followed the winding path that struck the main “ride” -running through the heart of the wood, and they walked fast because of -the twilight, and because it was believed that the wood was haunted. For -the wilds were the haunts of the evil things of the night, and when a -saint lived a holy life in such a place she was sure of being tempted -and vexed by devils. The tale of St. Guthlac of Crowland was a tale that -was told of many a saint. When the lamp of sanctity was lit in some such -wilderness the spirits of evil would fly at it in fury, and seek to beat -it out with the rush of their black wings. - -Oswald and Peter were no more superstitious than their neighbours, but -they were as timid as children in the thick of that dark wood. And to -frighten their credulity a strange sound seemed on the gallop with the -gusts of the wind, a sound that was like the trampling of a horse under -the sad gloom of the trees. The sound came so uncomfortably near to -them, that Oswald and Peter bolted into the underwood like a couple of -brown rabbits. And looking back half furtively, as they scrambled -through brambles and under hazels, they had a glimpse of a great black -shape rushing through the darkness on the wings of the wind. - -The two men did not wait to see more of it, but got out of the wood as -fast as their legs could carry them. - -“It was a ghost or a devil,” they said to one another. “God defend us, -but surely it is a terrible thing to be a saint.” - -They pushed on, heartily glad to be free of the far-reaching hands of -the spectral trees. - -“It was good for us that we had the saint’s blessing.” - -“God and St. Martin hearten her. The devil vexes those who live for good -works.” - -“Father Grimbald must know of it. He is man enough to come and take a -devil by the beard.” - -So Oswald and Peter went back to their womenfolk and their cattle, glad -to be near warm bodies, snug under their woodland huts. The night -passed, and the dawn came, a slow, stealthy dawn muffled in silver mist. -Rabbits scampered in the glades, brushing the dew from the wet grass. -Birds hunted for worms, and fluttered away to feed their young. And the -devil whom Oswald and Peter had seen, sent the rabbits bolting for their -burrows as he rode away through the beech wood towards the sea. - -Before noon Etoile the lute girl had a wreath of hair curled like a -snake about the little wooden cross in her lap. Gaillard had brought -them to her, hiding a guilty memory in the eyes behind a laughing -swagger. The Gascon’s voluble tongue was driven to deal very fancifully -with the adventure, since Etoile was very curious, and intent on hearing -everything. The Red Saint was very ready to be worshipped, such was -Gaillard’s explanation. She was a little vainer than the majority of -women, and Gaillard shrugged his shoulders and laughed. - -“A red apple is always a red apple,” he said. “Mother Eve taught us -that.” - -The mischievous devil in Etoile was not yet satisfied. - -“Never trust a saint, Gaillard,” she said. “I have not forgotten that -the man in the tower might be glad of this piece of hair. It will give -him something to think about while he sits and nibbles straws. Take it -up and push it under his door, and tell him it comes from his lady.” - -The joke caught Gaillard’s fancy. He climbed the tower, and pushed the -trophy under Aymery’s door with the point of his poniard. - -“A woman gave it me, my man,” he said. “But since I have something -better for a keepsake, you can have the hair.” - -He went away, laughing, a thorough Gascon in his gross -self-satisfaction. And Aymery picked up what Gaillard had left him. He -knew it for Denise’s hair, for there was none like it in all those -parts. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -The may was budding into bloom, and Dom Silvius came riding Goldspur way -again, thinking of the many things that may occupy the mind of a man who -keeps both eyes fixed upon the affairs of the “house.” Silvius’s soul -felt very comfortable within him that morning. The bloom was setting -well upon the orchard trees, such a sea of foam that the autumn should -be red with fruit. Word had come from the shepherds in the pasture lands -that hardly a lamb had been lost that spring. There was little sickness -anywhere, but few poor to need alms, and no shortage of dues from the -tenants. Dom Silvius made it his business to know of all these things, -even though they might not concern his authority. He was like a child -and a miser in his joy and carefulness in working for the wealth and -honour of his Abbey. - -So Dom Silvius came to the beech wood above Goldspur, and followed the -main ride, talking to himself like a happy starling, for he rode alone -that morning. And he would lean forward and fondle his nag’s ears, for -the beast was provided by one of the tenants, and Dom Silvius loved the -horse because he had not to feed him. - -“A little more roundly, my good Dobbin,” he prattled. “But beware of -worldliness, for the sake of my dignity; we must not bump like a butcher -to market. What will Sancta Denise say to us this morning? The child -should not set herself alone here like a white dove for any hawk to -swoop at. _Mea culpa_, but the girl has hair like dead beech leaves -touched by the sun, saving, Dobbin, that the leaves have no glitter of -gold. And what eyes! God bless us, but we may hope for miracles. And if -the folk flock to be healed, they shall lodge in the Abbey, and surely -their gratitude will make us rich.” - -The almoner sobered himself however when he turned aside by the white -stone that marked the path leading to the hermitage. The woodlands might -have eyes and ears, and it would not be seemly for a man of Silvius’s -age and estate to be overheard babbling like a lover who must talk even -though it be only to his horse. So he rode very demurely into Denise’s -glade, with his chin on his chest, and his lips moving as though he said -a prayer for every furlong. - -The door of Denise’s cell was shut, nor could Dom Silvius see her -stirring in her garden. “Perhaps she is abroad,” thought he, “or maybe -she is at her prayers,” so he rode up quietly, dismounted, and looped -his bridle over the post of the wicket gate. Then he went in and up the -path, and was about to knock softly, when the door opened under his very -hand, and Silvius saw a figure in grey standing upon the threshold. - -Dom Silvius dropped his eyes suddenly as though he blamed himself for -being surprised into staring at a woman’s face. - -“The grace of Our Lady to you, Sister,” he said. “I was in doubt whether -I should find you at home or no.” - -Now Silvius was not a shred embarrassed, though he pretended to a kind -of saintly coyness. He had his eyes on the sandalled feet that showed -under the hem of the grey gown. They were very comely feet, with the -brown straps of the sandals contrasting with the nut brown of the skin, -and Dom Silvius was thinking how different these feet were with their -arched insteps and straight toes from the gouty and behumped members -that shuffled and progressed in the Abbey cloisters. Yet in looking at -Denise’s feet the almoner missed the first shadows of a tragedy. - -Denise stood very still, her hood drawn forward, one hand holding the -edge of the door. The face under the hood expressed nothing, if despair -be nothing more than a pale, mute mask. Yet the eyes that looked at the -monk were the eyes of one whose blood was full of a spiritual fever. - -“It is Dom Silvius?” she asked at last, and her voice sounded steady and -even tame. - -Silvius folded his hands together, and raised his eyes to the level of -Denise’s knees. - -“You may remember, my Sister, how I said that I might ride this way -again.” - -She was silent, as though absorbed by some memory that pervaded all her -consciousness. Silvius’s eyes climbed a little higher and rested upon -her bosom. - -“We did not agree then, Sancta Denise. It may be that you still love the -life in the wilderness. The winter is past with us, for which God be -thanked; you will have summer here, and the woods are pleasant in -summer. Perhaps you have your birds to feed. The fruit promises well. I -am never one for importunities.” - -He spoke like a man who had rushed too quickly towards the point aimed -at, and who covered up his retreat with irrelevancies. For Dom Silvius -felt that his wisdom had slipped for the once, and that he should have -begun with a digression. Women like love tokens hidden in a posy of -flowers, and passion pledged in a song. But Denise’s directness saved -Silvius from tracking her whims through a maze. - -“Your words have been with me,” she said. - -Her voice surprised him, so much so that he looked up sharply into her -face. The hood was drawn, but an immovable mute pallor, a kind of -deadness, struck on Silvius’s eyes like the whiteness of a whitened -wall. - -“I am not unthankful for that, Sister.” - -“And you are of the same mind?” - -“What God and the Church offer is ever an offer,” he said, dropping his -eyes again, and finding his intuition in touch with something that was -invisible, and yet to be felt. - -He heard Denise draw her breath in deeply. - -“Sometimes we seem wise, sometimes foolish,” she said. “Life teaches the -heart many things. You offer me some such place as this to lodge in? And -that I shall be alone?” - -Silvius threw aside vague conjectures, to seize the prize he had long -coveted. - -“It is a sweet place,” said he. “With a garden, and fruit trees, and a -croft below it. The garden has a good quick hedge all about it. As to -the flesh, your soul shall be as Solomon’s lily, Sanctissima. We have no -ritual for those whose eyes see into Paradise.” - -So as the great purple cloud shadows drifted over the young green of the -beech wood, and the sun shone forth with moments of gold, Dom Silvius -warmed with his own words, and in his kindling never so much as saw that -Denise listened like one who struggled against some inward anguish. What -light and shade were there over her own soul as Silvius put his visions -into his voice? The monk thought her calm and sensible, a little cold -perhaps, but then the snow of her chastity would make her that. Silvius -was no coarse colourist, no noisy twanger of strings. There should be -mysticism, aloofness, a play of pearly light about such a part. His -exultation burnt delicate flattery. For Silvius knew that many sacred -souls loved their sanctity as a gay quean loves her clothes. How many -Magdalenes were there who dreamt of being seen while they washed the -feet of God and the Saints! And Silvius wished to lead this child of the -Miraculous Heart so that she should walk in a path of his own -conceiving, a sweet saint who should draw the country, aye far -countrysides, as the moon draws the sea. The coming of Denise to the -bounds of Battle should be as the coming of the Bride to the Church of -God. It should be a pageant, and a poem. For in those days pageantry -preached to the people, and through the eyes the heart was persuaded. - -Denise heard him, like one very weary, one who listens because there is -no escape. And in good season Silvius had the wit to see that he had -pressed wine enough for the day. Denise had given him her promise, and -he took his leave of her with sweetness, and all reverence, putting -himself beneath her, and speaking of her wishes as commands. - -“Would their most blessed Sister take up her new cell soon?” - -Denise leant her weight against the door, feeling that if she were not -rid of Silvius she would drop at his feet and weep. - -“Before the moon is full,” she answered. - -And the monk mounted his horse, and rode away like one who has received -a pallium, dreaming miraculous dreams, and beholding innumerable -pilgrims, peasant and prince, knight and lady, riding and journeying -towards Senlac over hill and dale. - -As for Denise she stood at the door of her cell long after Silvius had -left her, as though she lacked even the power to move. What help was -there, what other means should she devise? This cell of stone had become -a den of evil dreams for her; the tenderness and mystery had fled. She -had no heart to live there any longer, no heart to meet those who had -knelt to her before this thing had happened. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -Since the fight at Goldspur Father Grimbald had lain hidden in a saw-pit -on one of the forest manors, the swineherd who had hidden him being also -woodman and sawyer when his hogs were rooting amid the beech mast and -the acorns. Saw-dust with heather spread over it made none so miserable -a bed, and the swineherd had fortified Grimbald against wind, rain, and -the inquisitiveness of enemies by covering the mouth of the pit with -faggots. For a month Grimbald had lain there, his shirt and cassock -clotted to great wounds that no man dared to touch. At first a fever had -taken him, and he had roared and stormed at night like some sturdy saint -at grips with Apollyon in a corner of hell. The swineherd had banked up -the faggots to deaden the sound, praying God to abate Father Grimbald’s -fever, for a dozen of Gaillard’s men were camped that very night not two -furlongs from the saw-pit. Yet Grimbald’s shouts had come rumbling out -of the earth, “Strike, strike, St. George!” “Shine, brown bills, and -beat the Frenchmen into the sea!” And so strenuous and bellicose had the -fever grown in him, that the swineherd, staking purgatory or peace on a -pail of water, had lifted the faggots and doused Grimbald to cool him. -Nor had any harm come of it, but rather good, for Grimbald had grown -less fiery, and fallen into a deep sleep. - -About the time that Dom Silvius made his second pilgrimage to the beech -wood above Goldspur, Grimbald was so well recovered of his wounds that -he could sit up on his bed, and take his food with great relish. Being -also an industrious soul he made the swineherd throw him down billets of -seasoned oak, a knife, and a hatchet, and set himself to carve heads of -the saints for decorating the corbels of his little church. But either -St. Paul and St. Simon were in an ill humour, or Grimbald knew little of -his craft, for the saints emerged pulling most villainous faces, sour, -evil, and grotesque, with flat noses, and slits for eyes. So Grimbald -gave up his struggle with them, and heaved them up out of the pit to be -burnt, and took to pointing and feathering arrows, for your woodlander -was often his own fletcher. - -The flesh prospering so well with him, and the end of his sojourn in the -saw-pit seeming near, Grimbald sent the swineherd for some of the -Goldspur folk. The very same evening the swineherd brought in the two -men Oswald and Peter, both of them full to the brim with gossip, and -ready to empty themselves at their spiritual father’s feet. Grimbald sat -on his bed in the pit, whittling a yew bough with his knife; Oswald and -Peter squatted side by side on a faggot like a couple of solemn brown -owls on a bough. - -“Father,” quoth Oswald, “we have seen the devil in St. Denise’s wood.” - -Peter chimed in to add to the impression. - -“A black devil with a black horse that breathed fire and smoke.” - -“And he came and went like the wind, Father!” - -Even such honest men as these had imaginations wherewith to decorate an -experience. Grimbald’s face looked the colour of brown earth in the -darkness of the pit, and to Oswald and Peter his eyeballs seemed to -glare like two white pebbles at the bottom of a well. - -“And you ran away from this devil?” he said. “Yes, you ran, my sons, as -fast as your legs could carry you. When shall I come by a Christian who -is not afraid to stand on his own feet, and to astonish us by making the -devil run?” - -Though Grimbald scoffed at them, the two men knew his methods. No one -had anything to fear from Grimbald so long as he looked him straight in -the face and spoke the simple truth. But a liar or a fawner were likely -to be thrashed, since Grimbald’s chastening of souls was not wholly a -matter of the tongue. He used his hands like a Christian, and for the -love of their flesh he did not spare them. - -“Assuredly, Father, it was the devil we saw in the beech wood. Night was -just falling——” - -“So! And he was very black was he? Just as black as charcoal, and had -two live coals for eyes?” - -The good man’s grim irony drove neither Oswald nor Peter from his -breastwork of conviction. - -“We would take oath it was the devil, Father.” - -“Oswald, Oswald, you seem too familiar with the face of Satan! You are -too fond of the mead-horn, my man.” - -The accused one accepted the charge meekly, knowing that it was true in -the abstract, and that Father Grimbald knew it, for there had been an -occasion of second baptism in a somewhat dirty ditch. But Oswald was -stolidly sure of his innocence on the night in question, nor had he as -yet finished his confessions. - -“I had no mead froth on my beard that day, Father,” said he. “Whether it -was the devil or no we saw, we saw him with these eyes of ours. And he -rode like a black north wind. But what is worse, Father, we have never -had sight of our saint since then.” - -This was news that struck the irony out of Grimbald’s mouth. He laid the -yew bough aside on the heather, and became at once the demi-god, and the -seer. - -“What is that you are saying, man Oswald? Why are you troubled for -Denise?” - -Oswald looked like a wise dog that has come by kicks undeservedly, and -is now to be commended. - -“The door of the cell is always shut,” he said, “and never a word or a -sound have we now from our lady. What is more, Father, the stuff we took -there two days ago was still by the wicket when one of the lads went up -this morning.” - -Grimbald looked thoughtful. - -“Have you tried the door?” he asked. - -“We durst not, thinking she might be in a vision or in prayer.” - -“Did you call to her?” - -“Not above asking her blessing, Father, and telling of the food, and -news of you. And it was four days ago that her voice answered us, but -since then we have heard no sound.” - -Grimbald stood up slowly on the bed, propping himself with his arms -against the walls of the pit. - -“God helping me, I could sit a horse,” he said. “This must be looked to. -Oswald, my son, you had a fat pony. Bring the beast here to-morrow, at -dawn.” - -“It shall be done, Father.” - -And they departed with his blessing, but Grimbald was awake all that -night, troubled lest any harm should have befallen Denise. - -“Devil!” thought he. “Oswald’s devil was one of good human kidney, or I -have no sense of smell. Satan need not heat himself with galloping in -these parts. We have enough of him in the flesh.” - -Meanwhile at Pevensey, Aymery of Goldspur had thrown the preaching part -of himself aside, for that which Gaillard had thrust under his door had -stung the manhood in him, and left the poison of a great fear in his -blood. The hair was Denise’s hair; he could have sworn to that on the -relics of the Cross. How had they come by it, here in Pevensey? Was -Denise also a caged bird, and if not, what had happened in that beech -wood, where the great trees built dark winding ways with the sweep of -their mighty branches? Aymery’s thoughts plunged in amid those trees, -grimly and passionately, yet with the sheen of a woman’s hair luring him -on like the mystic light from the Holy Grael. Had evil befallen her -because of him? What devil’s mockery might there be in the way the truth -had been thrust into his ken! Had Gaillard any hand in it? And at the -thought of Gaillard, Aymery twisted Denise’s hair about his wrists, and -yearned to feel those hands of his leaping at the Gascon’s throat. God! -What did it avail him to pretend that he feared for Denise as he would -have feared for a sister? She was the ripe earth to him, the dawn of -dawns, the freshness of June woods after rain. He could cover his eyes -no longer as to what was in his heart. - -To break out into the world, to gallop a horse, to feel his muscles in -their strength, that was the fever in him, the restless fever of a -chained hawk beating his wings upon a perch. To be out of this hole in a -stone tower, but how? He had no weapons, not so much as a piece of wood, -or the rag of a linen sheet. They had taken his leather belt, but left -him his shirt, tunic and shoes, and he laughed despite his grimness, for -they might as well have left him naked. The man who brought him bread -and water, filled a cracked flask for him, and took the water-pot away. -And what a weapon that great earthen jar would have made, swung with the -verve and sinew of a young man’s arm. - -Impatient with his own impotence, he stood at the narrow window looking -seawards, drawing Denise’s hair to and fro between his fingers as he -would have drawn a swath of silk. A thought came to him, but at first he -revolted from it as from a piece of sacrilege. His sturdy sense saved -him, however, from being fooled by a shred of sentiment, and he twisted -the strands of hair till he had wound them into a fine and silken cord. -Wrapping the ends about his wrists he looped the cord over his bent -knee, tried the strength thereof, and smiled as though satisfied. - -That evening there was the sound of a scuffle when the bread bringer -drew back the bolts and pushed the heavy door open with his foot. The -fellow had made light of his duty of late, for Aymery had seemed quiet -and tame, and still feeble after his wounds. He had marched in -perfunctorily while Aymery waited for him behind the door. There was the -crash of the pitcher on the stones. The jailer’s knees gave under him; -he sank sideways driving the door to with his weight. - -Aymery had no wish to end the poor devil’s life, so he left him there to -get back breath and consciousness, after robbing him of his rough cloak -and the knife he carried at his girdle. Pushing the body aside, he swung -the door to cautiously, and shot the bolts. Almost instinctively he had -wound Denise’s hair about his wrist, and as he descended the winding -stair he tossed the man’s cloak over his shoulders, turned up the hood, -and kept the knife hidden but ready for any hazard. Going down boldly he -came out into the inner court, crossed it and reached the gate without -being challenged by any of the men who loitered there. - -Aymery’s heels were itching for a gallop, but he held himself in hand, -and walked on coolly, whistling through his teeth. He was under the -gateway, through it, and crossing the bridge. Someone called to him, but -he laughed, crowed like a cock, and gave a wave of the hand. - -The outer court with its great garden still lay before him, and he -followed the paved track, praying God to keep all officious fools at a -distance. Fifty paces, twenty paces, ten paces, and he was at the outer -gate, with the cypresses black behind him, and no betrayal as yet. The -gate still stood open, though it was closed at sunset, and to Aymery it -was an arch of gold, a dark tunnel way with a tympanum cut from the -evening sky. - -He was half through it, when a lounger at the guard-room door lurched -forward and caught him roughly by the cloak. It may have been a mere -challenge to horse-play or the grip of a swift suspicion. Aymery did not -wait to decide the matter, but struck the man across the face with the -knife, broke loose, and ran. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -They brought the Red Saint to Battle when the meadows were a sheet of -gold, and the thorn trees white above the lush green grass. Dom Silvius -and two of the Abbey servants came for her in the morning, bringing a -white palfrey to carry her on the way. - -Denise had kept vigil all that night, praying, and striving to quiet a -heart that would not be quieted. And when the dawn had come she had gone -out into the garden and stood there silently, looking at the familiar -things that had mingled with her life. Yet very strange had garden, -hermitage, and woodland seemed to Denise that morning; the strangeness -of leave-taking was over them, and the sadness of farewell. Even the -rose trees that had been given her, and which she had cherished, had -seemed to catch her memory, with their thorns. Memories, memories! Some -infinitely dear; others, brutal and full of shame. The thatch would rot, -the walls crumble, the garden beckon back the wilderness. And a great -bitterness had fallen upon her, because of what she was losing, and of -what she had suffered, and yet might suffer. She had felt glad in -measure when she had heard the tinkling bells on Dom Silvius’s bridle as -he had come riding through the beech wood. Her love of the place had -hurt her. The very stones had cried out, and the pansies had scowled at -her as she went down the path. - -At Battle there was joy that day, and a ringing of bells, for Abbot -Reginald had ordered it. And the song of the bells went over the -woodlands that gleamed or grew gloomy as the clouds drifted. The cuckoo -called; green herbs rose to the knees; the meadows rippled with gold; -the oaks were in leaf. Over the blue hills, and through slumbrous -valleys filled with haze, Silvius and Denise came to the Abbey lands. - -Before her there, beside a wayside cross, Denise saw many people -gathered to welcome her, but her heart wished them away. She would have -come quietly to this new refuge, nor had she foreshadowed Dom Silvius’s -pageantry. Here were gathered the Abbey singing boys in white stoles, -the precentor with them; also a number of the Brethren, two and two, -solemn figures with hoods and hanging sleeves that seemed to catch the -shadows. All the townsfolk had streamed out from their boroughs, old and -young. Some carried green boughs, the girls had their bosoms full of -flowers, even toddling children had their posies. - -Denise’s blood became as water in her when she saw all these people -gathered there, ready with their gaping awe, and their inquisitive -reverence. The bright colours of their clothes, the greens, blues, and -russets became a blur before eyes that felt hot with bitter tears. It -was all so much mockery to Denise. The precentor’s arms waved; the -singing boys moved off two and two to lead her, singing some quaint -chant. The people were down on their knees beside the road, all save the -girls who strewed their flowers before her. And Denise rode by on her -white palfrey, her eyes blind, her cheeks burning, a strangle of -humiliation in her throat, knowing what these people could not know, and -shamed to the heart because of it. She saw neither the silent faces -under the row of cowls, nor the green boughs that waved, nor the hands -that were stretched out to her by children and by women. Nor did she see -Dom Silvius’s subtle and happy face as he rode beside her, carrying a -wooden cross upon his shoulder. - -So the white-stoled boys chanted, the bells rang and the slow and sombre -Brethren threaded their way between the green boughs and the colours. -The people followed on, and began to buzz and to chatter. “The Lady of -Miracles has come to dwell with us,” they said. Their mouths were full -of all manner of marvels, and each began to think of the advantage that -might be dreamed of. - -“She shall keep the sheep rot from us,” quoth one. - -“And cure the bone ache and the rheumatics,” said another. - -A fat, pork butcher with a face the colour of swine’s flesh remembered -that his dame was to take to her bed in a month, and that he would have -her blessed by Denise. A charm against “the staggers” was the desire of -a carrier. Wuluric, a wax chandler, wondered whether his trade would be -increased. One old woman was eaten up with a sore that would not heal. -“I shall beg me a little of her spittle,” said she, “a holy virgin’s -spittle on a dock leaf is a wondrous cure.” - -So they brought Denise to her cell near Mountjoye Hill, and from that -hour they began to call the little field below it “Virgin’s Croft.” - -All this had happened the day before Oswald and Peter had told the Lord -of the Saw-pit the tale of the devil in the Goldspur beech wood. -According to Grimbald’s bidding they brought the pony to him at dawn, -helped him from his hiding-place, and set him upon the beast which bore -up bravely though Grimbald’s heels nearly ploughed the ground. They -started off through the woods, thinking to make Goldspur within two -hours, but their reckonings were without the sanction of heaven, for -Grimbald’s pony stumbled over a red ant’s mound, and threw the priest -heavily, for he was weak after his many days abed. And Grimbald lay on -his back with his arms spread out like the arms of a man crucified, and -Oswald and Peter stood and stared at him, and wondered whether he was -dead. - -They knelt down and chafed his feet and hands until Grimbald came to his -senses again, and cheered them with the uttering of a few godly curses. -The men lifted him up, and for their clumsiness he cursed them further, -and bade them put him with his back against a tree. Grimbald, being a -heavy man, had broken his right collar-bone in the fall, and he was -still weak for such rough byplay. - -“Give me a mouthful of water,” he said. - -But neither Oswald nor Peter had water with them, nor was there a pool -near, nor a running brook. Grimbald looked at them with mighty disdain, -and Oswald, sneaking off, mounted his pony to get what he could. Five -miles rode Oswald that morning before he came to Burghersh village, and -begged a hornful of mead there, and a bottle of water. He bumped back -again at a rollicking canter, till his pony’s coat was as wet as if he -had swum a stream. Grimbald had been sick as a dog with the twist of the -fall, but the mead heartened him, and he bade Oswald splash the water on -his face. Then they bound his right arm to his body with their girdles, -and when he had rested awhile, he made them put him again upon the pony. - -Nor was this mounting an easy matter, though approached in subtle and -backward fashion over the pony’s tail. Happily the beast had no kick in -him, being tired and subdued. So they had Grimbald astride, and started -off once more, the men walking one on either side, and steadying him as -they went. - -What with the time wasted, and the slow travelling that they made, -evening was making the beech wood brilliant as they climbed up out of -the valley. The great sentinel trees that stood forward from the main -host cast purple shadows upon the grass. A small herd of red deer went -trotting into the green-wood, and there was a great silence save for the -sucking patter of their hoofs. - -One corner of Denise’s glade was still steeped in sunlight when Grimbald -and his men came from under the beech trees. They could see that both -the wicket gate and the cell door stood open. Grimbald dismounted at the -wicket, and leaning on Oswald’s shoulder, went up the path towards the -cell. They were close to the threshold when a brownish thing flew forth -into their faces, screamed, and sped away on noiseless wings. It was -only a great owl, but Oswald had covered his face with his arm like one -who fears a blow. - -“Assuredly it was the devil, Father!” said he, uncovering a pair of -round and credulous eyes. - -Grimbald pushed on alone and entered the cell. One glance showed him -that it was empty. He saw the rough bed with the coverlet spread awry, -the wooden settle, the hutch where Denise had kept her clothes, the -great water-jar in the corner. In the cupboard he found nothing but a -dry loaf, a drinking horn, and the lamp that she had used. There seemed -no sign of violence, nor even of a hurried flight. - -Grimbald stood there awhile considering, and then went out into the -gathering dusk. It seemed probable to him that Denise had not been in -the cell for some days, for was not the bread dry and the water-jar -empty? He walked about the garden, turning his beak of a nose this way -and that like an eagle, his weakness and his broken bone forgotten in -the unravelling of this coil. The little lodge built of faggots where -Denise had kept her tools and wood, enlightened him no further, and he -was ruffling his brows over it when he heard Oswald calling. The man had -caught all Grimbald’s spirit of unrest, just as a dog catches the moods -of his master, and searching the ground he had found hoof marks on the -grass. - -Grimbald found him kneeling outside the wattle fence, pointing at -something that lay across a grass tussock, something that glistened like -a few shreds from a woman’s hair. Oswald went on his hands and knees -with his face close to the turf. He beat to and fro awhile, crawled -forward across the glade, lay almost flat a moment, and then started up -with an eager cry. He had found the fresh print of a horse’s hoofs in -the grass under the fringe of a tree whose boughs nearly touched the -ground. - -Grimbald went to see what Oswald had to show him. Dusk was falling fast, -and they both stooped low over the marks in the grass. But Oswald -started up on his haunches and sniffed the air like a dog. - -“Hist!” - -His eyes dilated as he turned his head to and fro, staring into the -deepening gloom under the trees. Something was moving out yonder. They -heard one bough strike another, a dead branch crack, the faint brushing -of feet through leaves and grass. Oswald laid a hand on the knife at his -belt; his teeth showed between snarling lips. - -But Grimbald caught him by the shoulder, and they turned back towards -the cell where Peter loitered at the wicket in the dusk, and the pony -stood with tired and drooping head. They were half across the glade when -a man came running after them, and they could see that he was armed. - -Grimbald swung round instantly, and stood with head thrown back, -shoulders squared. A sword flashed not three paces from him before his -lion’s roar made the dusk quiver. The man’s sword dropped, and he came -to a dead pause. - -“Grimbald!” - -They caught each other as men do who love greatly, and for a moment -neither spoke. Then Aymery stood back, and picked up his sword. - -“Denise? Is she here?” - -Grimbald’s forehead became seamed with lines. His short silence betrayed -perhaps more than he could tell. - -“We came to find her, brother,” he said. - -“And she is gone?” - -“The cell is empty.” - -Aymery’s voice sounded harsh as the rasp of a saw. He swung his sword up -and let it rest upon his shoulder. Even in the dusk Grimbald saw that -glitter in the eyes, that fierce closure of the lips, that spreading of -the nostrils. - -“The cell has been empty some days, I judge. I was troubled for the sake -of Denise, for I had heard a strange tale from Oswald here. We came, and -found nothing.” - -Aymery swung to and fro with swift, sharp strides. Then his sword shot -out and pointed Oswald away. - -“Go. Out of earshot.” - -The man went. Aymery brought his sword back to his shoulder, stretched -out an arm, and showed Grimbald something coiled about his wrist. - -“Look, a coil of her hair!” - -Grimbald bent his head, and then straightened with a deep-drawn breath. - -“This——?” - -“They put it under my door at Pevensey, the dogs! Yesterday I broke out -and hid in the marshes. They gave chase, and I killed one of those who -followed, and took his horse and arms. That was to-day. Then I galloped -here.” - -He tossed his head, shaking back his hair, his eyes hard as a frost. -Then he pointed towards the hermitage with his sword. - -“What is there in yonder?” - -He seemed to stiffen himself against the truth, challenging Grimbald to -tell him all. - -“There is nothing, brother, but her bed, hutch and cupboard and the -like.” - -“No more than that?” - -“Nothing.” - -Aymery bent forward slightly, and looked into Grimbald’s face. For a -moment they stared each other in the eyes as though asking and answering -silent questions. Then Aymery seemed to understand. - -“There has been some devil’s work here,” he said, and Grimbald told him -Oswald’s tale, and showed where the hoof prints might be seen by -daylight. - -“God knows the rest!” he said, smoothing his beard. - -But Aymery was kneeling, and praying to the cross of his sword. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -Twilight had fallen, a twilight of blue mists and vague, mysterious -distances. A young moon was in the sky, and in a thicket near Denise’s -cell nightingales were singing. She was to offer herself at the high -altar that night, to strip her body before God, St. Martin, and Our -Lady, for Dom Silvius had so persuaded her, arguing that her chaste -holiness would be the more miraculous when offered publicly to God. -Denise had had no heart to determine for herself, and to withstand Dom -Silvius’s arguments. Her womanhood stood mute and humbled, feeling that -some subtle virtue had fled out of her, and left her without purpose. -She had lost faith in her own genius; in the magic crystal of her heart -she could no longer see visions. And like one very weary she was leaving -her destiny in the hands of others, letting them think for her, and -guide her as they pleased. - -When the twilight had fallen Denise went out into the little grass close -before the cell, a close that was shut in by a high thorn hedge. She -carried with her a jar of water that Abbot Reginald had blessed, a -napkin, a vial of perfumed oil, and a pure white shift and tunic, given -by the devout. No one could see her there, and Denise stripped off her -old clothes, washed her body from head to foot, dried it, and anointed -it with oil. - -Now the warmth of her bosom made the perfume of the oil rise up into her -nostrils, and the perfume seemed to steal straight into Denise’s heart. -The night was very still, save for the song of the nightingales. Dew had -fallen on the grass, yet a sweet warmth rose out of the earth, a warmth -that is rare in the month of May. There was the moon yonder, and far -hills faint under a mysterious sky. And Denise who a moment ago had felt -miserable and weary of soul, in one breath was blushing as red as a -rose, her whole body quivering in the moonlight, her eyes full of some -inward fire. - -A call from the unknown had come to her, and her heart had answered it, -and for the moment she stood transfigured. The night seemed magical, -a-whisper with mystery. She felt that she must steal away into the sweet -green gloom of the woods, taking all hazards, dreaming a great love. She -stretched her arms above her head, so their white and anointed sheen -caught the faint light of the moon. Then as a white flame leaps and -falls again into the darkness, so Denise’s arms fell suddenly across her -bosom. The warmth and the perfume had gone again, and she felt cold in -body and in heart. - -What could it avail her that she was a woman and could dream dreams? The -torch was quenched, the wine spilt from the jar. There was no other path -than this even though it was strewn with thorns. She must follow it to -the end, forgetting that other life, and yet remembering it, hating the -world, yet thinking of one heart that might have stood for the whole -world. If she escaped bitterness and shame, surely she should be -grateful, and contented with such mercies. There was no other life for -her but this one of self-renunciation. - -Slowly, and very sadly she put on the white shift and tunic, emblems of -what the world believed in. She bound up her hair and the touch of it -brought back the memory of that night, a memory that stung like an asp -at the breast. When she had dressed herself, she knelt on the threshold -to pray until the midnight offering. But her misery fled forth into -other ways, and she thought of man before she thought of God. - -Hours had passed, and there was a sense of stir somewhere over yonder -where the abbey lay. A bell began to toll, slowly and sonorously, the -first clang of its clapper sounding a note of dismal sanctity. Torches -were being lit, for a faint glare began to rise above the orchards and -the thickets, and Denise, kneeling on the bare stones, knew that the -hour of her renunciation was near. - -The sound of their coming was still a sound in the distance when Denise -heard the trampling of a horse along the road that ran not very far from -her cell. It ceased suddenly, and a murmur of voices came up to her in -the darkness. Then all was still again save for the tolling of the bell, -and the solemn chanting which told her that Dom Silvius and the Brethren -who had charge of her were coming with torches over the hill. - -Now Denise had risen and gone out into the green close when the -trampling of hoofs came along the thorn hedge with the creaking of -harness, and the snorting of a horse. Denise stood still, holding her -breath as she listened. The moon had gone, and the only light was the -glare of the torches that were topping the hill. - -Denise heard a voice calling. - -“Denise,” it said; “Sancta Denise.” - -The trampling of hoofs had ceased, and there was silence save for the -chanting of the monks upon the hill top. Something moved beyond the -hedge, and Denise heard the latch of the gate lifted. The heart stood -still in her a moment. Someone was near her in the close, for she heard -the sound of breathing, and the rustling of feet in the grass. - -A man’s whisper came to her out of the dark. - -“Denise!” - -In a moment, she knew not how, the warm silence of the night grew full -of love and life. He was close to her with a white, passionate face -looking into hers, questioning her very soul. Perhaps their hands -touched. It was like the tumult and yearning of waters in a dark and -narrow place. - -Denise was trembling from head to foot. Aymery had touched her hand, no -more than that, yet nothing but a thin film of darkness seemed to hold -the two apart. Denise heard the outpouring of his words, a man’s words, -poignant and tender, striking her very heart. What could she say to him, -with this renunciation of hers so near. - -“Denise, why have you left us?” - -She covered her face with her arms. - -“Lord, lord, was it not you who told me to seek a surer refuge?” - -His hands were straining back, and straining forward, as though to touch -her, and not to touch. - -“Yes, but that was a while ago. Things happen in this world, when a man -is tied to his bed. If all has been well with you——” - -She let her arms fall from before her face, and there, above them, the -dark hillside was seamed with a stream of light. And in the flare of the -torches she could see many shadowy figures moving, and the outline of a -great cross carried in the van. - -Aymery had seemed blind to all save the white figure before him. But the -torch flare struck across his face, and he seemed suddenly to -understand. - -Then Denise spoke, as though compelling herself. - -“They are coming for me,” she said. “To-night, I offer myself at the -high altar. They must not find you here.” - -He did not answer her for the moment, but stood looking at the torches, -almost stupidly, like a man stunned. Then he bowed his head before her, -spoke her name, and went out into the night. - -Aymery remembered all that followed as a man remembers few things in the -course of his life. He hid his horse in a thicket, and followed on foot -when the cross and the torches turned back towards the abbey. The abbey -town seemed full of strange curious faces, of shadowy figures that -jostled him, of the light of torches, of folk whispering together. There -were many people moving under the gate, and on towards the abbey church. -Aymery moved with them, silently, dully, like one carried along in the -midst of a stream. They flowed in at the doors, these people, and on -between pillars that towered up into darkness, and along aisles that -were shadowy and dim. The high altar alone was lit with many waxen -candles. The Brethren were in their stalls, the sound of chanting came -from somewhere out of the dusk. - -Then began in that great church the last episode of Dom Silvius’s -pageant. Aymery, leaning against a pillar in the darkness, saw Denise -kneeling before the altar, Reginald of Brecon near her, and two of the -most aged of the monks. A bell rang; a strong and strident voice spoke -some prayer; then the chanting soared and rolled into the far vaultings -of the roof. Heads were bowed everywhere; the monks in the choir had -their faces hidden. But Aymery’s eyes were turned towards the altar -where the candles flickered and the smoke of incense seemed to curl and -ascend. - -He saw Denise rise, drop her white tunic and shift, and kneel naked upon -the altar steps. An old monk bent over her, and clipped away her hair so -that it fell like light about her body. She bent before the altar with -outstretched arms, and holy water was sprinkled upon her body and her -clothes. A voice sounded. She rose slowly and re-arrayed herself. One -long murmur seemed to pass like a wind through the darkened church. - -The year of a novitiate had begun, a season of probation that should -pass before more solemn and final vows should be put upon her. Silvius, -shrewd man, had advised Denise guardedly for the sake of the honour of -his “house.” There should be a ceremony, a kneeling before the altar. -That would please the people, and bring her more solemnly before their -eyes. Then let Denise prove herself as a child of miracles, and they -could talk of the greater and more lasting vows. - -Then the aisles seemed alive with swirling water. The people were moving -forth with lowered heads, while Denise knelt again before the high altar -with its candles. Aymery went with the people, looking back but once -when he had reached the western door. The night struck warm after the -cold air of the great church. He found himself in the abbey town, -walking aimlessly in the midst of many moving, whispering figures. - -Then a great hunger to be alone seized him. He almost ran through the -straggling town, up past Mountjoye to where he had hidden his horse. And -when the first grey of the dawn came he was galloping northwards along -the forest roads as though trying to distance the memories of the past -night. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - -At Pevensey that June-tide Peter of Savoy discovered something that -concerned him, thanks to Gaillard’s foolhardiness, and the Gascon’s -boastful, passionate nature. There were bitter words between the Lady of -the Lute, and Peter of Savoy, though much of the bitterness was in -Etoile’s mouth, for the Count could be cold as a frost, when cheated. - -“Madame,” said he, looking her coolly in the face, “it is every man’s -privilege to see that he is not fooled. Let us be merciful to one -another. You will find a horse at the gate.” - -Now Etoile might have persuaded most men with her beauty, but in my Lord -Peter’s eyes there was a look that told her that he would use steel if -she made a mocking of his pride. She smothered her words, and dissembled -her wrath before him, for he was too cold and clever a man to be treated -as she would have treated Gaillard. “Go,” his eyes said to her, “and be -thankful in the going.” And Etoile hid her rage, and went, half -wondering the while whether some man had orders to stab her in the back. - -Then Peter of Savoy sent for Messire Gaillard, but the Gascon had become -suddenly discreet, and betaken himself early to the stable. - -His master snapped his fingers. - -“Let the fool go,” he said. “Madame will need company on the road to the -devil.” - -One of his gentlemen, a very young man, showed some concern for the Lady -of the Peacocks. - -“Will you turn her out next to naked, sire?” - -Peter of Savoy laughed in his face. - -“Are you a fool, also, Raymond? Go with her if it pleases you, you will -have to fight the Gascon. God knows, I would prevent no man drinking -green wine.” - -So they turned Etoile out of Pevensey, suffering her to take nothing -with her but the horse, the clothes she rode in, a little money, and -such jewels as were hers. - -Peter of Savoy had not judged the case amiss, for if Raymond of the Easy -Heart had followed Dame Etoile some miles that morning, he would have -found Gaillard waiting for her under the shade of a beech wood near the -road. But at first Etoile would not look at the man, for her anger was -still hot in her because of all that had passed. She reviled Gaillard -without mercy, letting the whip of her tongue flay him as he rode along -beside her horse, half loving her and half hating her for her taunts and -for her fury. - -Whether Gaillard spoke up well for himself, or whether Etoile began to -consider her necessity, it came about that she gave up mocking him, and -let him ride more peaceably beside her. Probably it was not what -Gaillard said, but what Etoile thought that brought them to softer -speaking. The woman looked at once to the future, and the future to her -was a forecasting of the importunities of self. Here was she, worse off -in pride than any beggar woman, she whom Peter of Savoy had brought with -pomp and homage out of the South. Gaillard had brought all this upon -her, and Gaillard seemed her necessity since she was set adrift in a -strange land. Perhaps she loved him a very little, with the treacherous, -transient love of a leopardess. For the present he must serve her. The -husk of to-day might be the gold shoe of the morrow. - -Matters were so well mended between them that they halted to rest under -the shade of a tree. And there Gaillard knelt in his foolish, passionate -way, and swore many oaths on the cross of his sword. Etoile curled her -lip at him, and bade him save his breath. She was in no mood for such -philanderings, and had other thoughts in her head. - -“Come, Messire Gaillard,” said she, “you and I must understand each -other if we are to travel the road together. Those who are turned out of -doors must learn to face rough weather.” - -Gaillard showed his temper by pulling out a purse, and pouring the gold -in it at her feet. - -“Such stuff is to be won. I will fight to win pay for you, my desire, as -never man fought before.” - -Etoile touched the money contemptuously with her foot. - -“Put it back again, you may need it.” - -Gaillard shrugged, and humoured her. He spun one of the coins, caught -it, and balanced it on his thumb. - -“A woman is made a wife for less,” he said. - -“And kept, for less. Listen, fool, we are not a girl and a boy.” - -She spoke to Gaillard a long while, looking in his eyes as she spoke. At -first Gaillard carried his head sulkily, but little pleased with what -she said. Presently his eyes began to glitter, he protruded his chin, -and once more his shoulders seemed ready to swagger. Before Etoile had -ended she had made him her man, ready to skip to the tune she piped. - -“Splendour of God!” and he began to laugh. “That is a game after my own -heart. In a year the King shall give us the best of his castles. What -Fulk de Brauté did, I can do even better.” - -He sprang up, happy, vain, and audacious, not thinking to read into the -deeps of Etoile’s eyes. - -“You are a great man, my Gaillard,” she said. “You and I shall make our -fortunes without waiting for Peter’s pence.” - -Hardly three leagues away from these two worldlings the Church took -cognizance of holier things, and sought to boast of a miracle at the -hands of Denise. More than a month had passed since the Lady of Healing, -as the folk called her, had knelt at midnight before the altar, and -offered her body to the glory of God. Dom Silvius, dreaming his dreams, -and chaffering over his ambitions, thought the time ripe for Denise to -prove her sanctity. For a month she had been left in solitude to commune -with the saints, save that an Abbey servant had daily brought her food -and drink. The thoughts of all the people turned to the thorn hedge and -the brown thatched cell that stood on the northern slope of Mountjoye -Hill; and human nature being self-seeking, especially in its prayers, -each soul had some hope of profiting by the miraculous hands of Denise. - -While Etoile and Gaillard rode together in the course of adventure, Dom -Silvius came to Virgin’s Croft, and a servant with him bearing a young -child in his arms. Several women followed devoutly at the almoner’s -heels, keeping their distance because of Dom Silvius’s carefulness -towards the sex. The child was said to be possessed by a devil, and when -a fit took him he would fall down foaming, struggle awhile, and then lie -like one dead. The devil had brought him to such a pass, that he seemed -frailer and feebler after each seizure. The boy was the only son of his -mother, the brawny wife of a still more brawny smith, and they had great -hopes for the child now that Denise had come. - -Silvius had the child laid before her door. - -“A devil teareth him, Sister,” said he. “Your purity shall drive the -devil out.” - -And they left the child with her, and went their way. - -Now Denise was very miserable that day because of something in herself -that she had begun to fear, and she needed her own heart healing before -she might dream of healing others. The world remained with her, though -she was shut up as a saint, and the solitude and the loneliness had -preyed the more upon her mind. At Goldspur the wild woodland life and -the life of the people had been hers. Here she had only her own haunting -thoughts, and a voice that whispered that the virtue had gone out of -her, and that she no longer had the power to help and to heal. - -It was with a kind of anguish that she watched over the child, taking -him to her bed, and praying that the devil of epilepsy might go forth. -All that day she watched and prayed, the boy lying in a stupor with wide -eyes and open mouth. So the night came, and Denise lit her taper, and -knelt down again beside the child. All that night she pleaded and strove -with God, beseeching Him to show His grace to her for her own sake and -the child’s. - -Just before dawn the boy was taken with a strong seizure, crying out at -first, and then lying stiff and straight and silent as a stone image. -Denise took him into her lap, put her mouth to his mouth, and held him -against her bosom. As the dawn came, so the truth dawned also that the -boy was dead, dead in her lap despite her prayers. And a great horror -came upon her, as though God had deserted her, nor had the saints -listened to her prayers. A new shame chilled her heart. The virtue had -gone out of her, she felt alone with her own thoughts, and the dead. - -When Dom Silvius and the women came some two hours after dawn they found -Denise seated upon the bed with the dead child in her lap. A kind of -stupor seemed upon her. She did not so much as move, but sat there with -vacant face. - -“He is dead. Take him.” - -That was all she said to Dom Silvius. The almoner took the boy, not able -to hide the mortification on his face as he carried the dead child to -his mother. Denise heard the woman’s cry, though the cry seemed far away -like a voice in a dream. Dom Silvius sought to comfort her, but comfort -her he could not, because she had hoped so much from Denise’s prayers. -And as is the way so often with the human heart, the woman went home in -bitterness and anger, holding the dead child to her breast, and -murmuring against Denise. - -If Denise felt herself deserted of God, there was one Sussex man who did -not lack for inspiration, and whose heart was possessed by both God and -the devil. Aymery of Goldspur had ridden from the Thames to the Severn, -to join Earl Simon’s army that was on the march from the Welsh borders. -The great Earl was like a rock in a troubled sea, or a beacon that drew -all those who loved their land, and who strove for better things. The -King might call him a “turbulent schemer”; sneers never killed a man -like De Montfort. For the heart of England was full of turbulence, and -it seemed that England’s heart beat in Earl Simon’s breast. - -Aymery, wild as a hawk, borne along by the storm-wind of his restless -manhood, grieving, exulting, torn by a great tenderness that could have -no hope, came within the ken of the People’s Earl. For it was Aymery’s -need that month to throw himself at the gallop into some cause, to live -in the midst of tumult, to let his face burn wherever the banners blew. -Perhaps fortune set her seal on him because he was ready to hazard his -life with the fierce carelessness of a man who had no traffic with the -future. Be that as it may, Simon’s host marched down from the West, -taking Hereford and Gloucester on its way, and Aymery had caught the -great Earl’s eye before they came to Reading Town. - -Moreover, on the march from Reading to Guildford, over the heathlands -and wild wastes, there were skirmishes with the King’s men who had -pushed out from Windsor. Sharp tussles these, horsemen galloping each -other down, spear breaking on the hillsides, men slain on the purple -heather. Here the fiercer, bolder spirits were to be found, the young -eagles who would redden their talons. In one such skirmish Aymery -charged in, and rescued young John de Montfort who had been taken -prisoner through too much zeal and daring. At Reigate again there was -more fighting, though the place soon fell, yet Fortune pushed Aymery -into a lucky chance. Certain of the King’s men, hired ruffians most of -them, had barricaded themselves in a church, nor would they budge, -though an assault was given under the eyes of the Earl himself. Fortune -helped Aymery as she so often helps the man who is careless as to his -own end. He found the window of a side chapel unguarded, broke in, and -held his ground desperately till others followed, and the place was won. - -Earl Simon himself came into the church, and knelt there before the -altar, close to where two of the King’s men lay dead in their blood. -When he had finished his prayer, he stood on the altar steps and called -for the man who had leaped down first into the church. And they put -Aymery forward, finding him standing behind a pillar, and so gave him -the glory. - -Simon made ready to knight him there in the church, but Aymery begged -seven days to chasten himself, keep vigils, and be blessed with his -sword and shield. Simon looked at him steadily, for he was a man after -his own heart, grim, resourceful, dangerously quiet, and no boaster. He -granted Aymery the seven days, telling him to come to Tonbridge whither -the host went towards the siege of Dover. - -“God first, man afterwards,” he said. “You have chosen as I would have -you choose.” - -So Aymery slept that night at Guildford before the altar of the church. -When the dawn came he mounted his horse, and rode southwards, alone. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - -A man’s chivalry must have a queen to crown it with the crown of a high -purpose, and Aymery had no will to forget Denise, nor the mystical -beauty of her womanhood. The thought of her drew him as the Holy City -drew those who had taken the cross. Since he was to be made a knight, -she should bless his arms for him, and serve as a Lady who looked at him -out of Heaven. Thus Aymery went riding southwards in the July heat, -saying his prayers devoutly at dawn and at sunset, bathing his body when -he found clear water; and filling his soul with the thought of Denise. -He had broken himself to the belief that she was lost to the world, -though he was still troubled as to the happenings that had driven her -from Goldspur. Denise’s silence seemed sacred to him, and her -unapproachableness made his love the greater. Now, like a man who has -found a good excuse, he returned again to win a glimpse of her face. - -Late on the afternoon of the first day Aymery turned aside from the road -under the shade of an oak tree to rest his horse. Below him stretched a -deep valley with the road running through it like a white thread; the -place seemed very desolate, while on the farther side of the valley the -woods came down close to the road. The day was full of a shimmer of -gold, and no mowers had come to mow the summer grass. - -As Aymery sat there under the shade of the tree, he saw a man in a blue -surcoat riding a grey horse along the road below. Aymery had hardly set -eyes on him when he saw the man halt, and remain motionless under the -July sun that glittered on him and showed that he was armed. A woman had -come out from the woods close to the road, a woman with black hair and a -scarlet tunic that shone up against the green. What was passing between -them Aymery could not tell, but he saw the woman disappear into the -woods and the man on the grey horse follow her. - -Some time had passed, and Aymery’s thoughts had flown elsewhere, when a -cry rose out of the summer silence, held a moment, and then died down. -Presently he saw a grey horse and a rider in blue reappear out of the -woods with another horse and rider beside him. The second man wore -green, and carried a plain, black shield. - -Aymery saw them ride away westwards into the golden light that covered -the woods and the valley. The way they rode seemed strange to him, for -the horses went shoulder to shoulder, and one arm of the man in green -lay about the body of the rider in blue. He was puzzled moreover by the -thought of the woman in the red tunic, and the cry that he had heard, -and it crossed his mind that there had been foul play yonder. - -When he had mounted and come down to the place where the blue knight had -turned aside, Aymery turned aside also into the woods. A little way in, -under the trees where a bank rose covered with bracken, he found a track -that had been trampled leading to a place where someone seemed to have -lain. But he saw nothing else beyond the tree boles, the cool green -foliage, and the bracken splashed here and there with sunlight. When he -called, no voice answered him, so he rode out of the wood and went his -way. Yet there was more in the wood than he had seen, nor did he guess -that he would meet again with the rider on the grey horse. - -On the evening of the second day Aymery came to the hills by Montifeld, -and saw the Senlac uplands smitten by the evening light. Beyond -Watlingtun he found a man mowing grass beside the road, and stopped to -question him concerning Denise. The man pointed towards Mountjoye Hill, -for they could see from where they stood the thatched roof of the cell -above the thorn hedge. - -“The Virgin’s cell is yonder, lording,” he said, thinking perhaps that -Aymery rode thither to be cured of some wound, and that he would be -disappointed, for the Lady of Healing had worked no cures since they had -brought her to the Abbey lands. - -Denise was at her prayers, kneeling on the threshold with the door of -the cell wide open, when she heard the trampling of Aymery’s horse, a -sound from the outer world that made her heart stand still and listen. -There was a minute’s silence before she heard the latch of the gate -lifted, and someone moving through the unmown grass. - -“Aymery! Lord!” - -He saw the wave of colour go over her face, for he had come upon her -suddenly as she knelt there upon the threshold. The rush of blood from -the heart died down again. She looked at him, and prayed that he should -not see that she was trembling. - -Denise rose up from her knees as though the sound of her own voice had -broken some spell. A kind of dumb discomfiture possessed them both. -Aymery, with the sunlight shining on his battle harness, felt challenged -by his own silence. The words he had meant to utter stuck in his throat, -for that wave of redness over the woman’s face had somehow made him feel -ungenerous and a coward. What right had he to come galloping into her -life again, when they had put a day of dreams behind them? - -And like a man who would be honest, he stumbled to the blunt -perfunctoriness of a boy going down on his knees in a church. There was -something to be gone through with, and the sooner the better, since he -had begun so clumsily. Many women would have misunderstood the mood in -him. Denise understood it, perhaps more clearly than Aymery himself. - -“Yes?” - -Her eyes questioned him, more than her voice. Aymery put his shield -before him as he knelt. - -“I have been with Earl Simon,” he said, looking at his shield. “It is to -be the sword on the shoulder, and a pair of spurs.” - -He spoke, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, a man ill at ease under -his own eyes, even though self-consciousness was not part of his normal -nature. Denise’s heart had dropped to a steadier rhythm. The quicker wit -of the woman has always the advantage of the man. - -“Earl Simon gave me some days, to keep vigils, wash, and be cleansed. I -would have my arms blessed also, they will serve in a good cause.” - -He drew out his sword, set it point downwards in the grass, and looked -at it, and not at Denise. - -She had her two hands over her bosom, and seemed to draw several breaths -before she could speak. - -“There is the Abbot Reginald.” - -“Should I ride forty miles to be blessed by Reginald of Brecon? Here are -my sword and shield. Bless them, or they shall go unblessed.” - -She looked at him, recoiling upon the consciousness of all that had -happened to her since the days at Goldspur. - -“I?” - -“You can bless them, Denise. Who better?” - -The fog in the air between them thinned and vanished. But neither Aymery -nor Denise noticed its passing. Life, and the infinite earnestness -thereof had both their hearts in thrall. - -“Is it so great a thing to ask, Denise?” - -He was looking at her steadily now, the self-consciousness had slipped -from him. - -“Lord, if my blessing were but worthy.” - -“Need you ask that!” - -“It is I who ask it of my own heart,” she answered. - -He flung out his arms suddenly, and his face blazed up at her. - -“For England, for the land, not for me alone, Denise. Mother of God—I -will have no other. Am I not wise as to my own desire?” - -His ardour caught her spirit and sent it soaring above the earth as a -wind blows a half-dead beacon into flame. The miserable self-fear, the -consciousness of coming shame fell away from her like a ragged garment. -She was the Denise of the woods again, with miraculous eyes and hands. - -“Give them to me.” - -She stretched out her arms, took his shield, held it to her bosom, and -spoke words over it that Aymery could not hear. Yet how much love and -how much supplication there were in those words of hers, the heart of a -woman alone could tell. She took his sword also, kissed the cross -thereof, and held it on high. - -“Break not, fail not. Keep troth, rust never.” - -She gave him the sword again, and Aymery kissed it, and knelt awhile -with bowed head, as though in prayer. Then he rose up out of the grass, -holding the cross of the sword before his eyes. - -“I would keep my vigil here,” he said. “Yonder where there is a thicket -of young oaks. Before dawn, I shall be gone.” - -Denise’s face was still transfigured. The realisation of her earthliness -had not returned as yet. - -“God guard you in the wars,” she said to him. - -Aymery lifted his head, and for a moment they looked into each other’s -eyes. Then he turned from her as though his own heart bade him go. And -it seemed to each that they had snatched a moment of joy from that -half-closed hand of life that holds more pain than gladness. - -There were some children standing staring at his horse when Aymery came -out from the wicket in the hedge of thorns. He paid no heed to them -however, and taking his horse by the bridle, led him to the oak thicket -on the hillside below Virgin’s Croft. The children ran away into the -town, and told their mothers that they had seen a knight come out of St. -Denise’s gate with a naked sword over his shoulder. The children’s -tale-bearing caused some tattle in the Abbey town, and the Abbey -servants heard it. - -Thus these two, soldier and saint, passed the night within call of one -another; Aymery kneeling bareheaded under the stars, with sword and -shield before him; Denise pitiably wakeful in her cell, conscious of the -darkness, and of that shadow of darkness that grew each day more heavy -about her heart. She prayed for Aymery that night, prayed for herself, -and against the future that she dreaded. They were so near to each -other, and yet so utterly apart. It seemed to Denise that night that she -had fled to this place of refuge, only to meet the greater bitterness -and shame. - -At last the dawn came, and with it the sound of a horse moving over the -grass. She heard Aymery come riding up to the hedge of thorns. She saw -his sword flash out against the dawn as he stood in the stirrups and -called her name. - -“Denise, Denise!” - -“God keep you,” she answered him in her heart. - -He went away into the world at a gallop, as though it was easier to -leave her thus in the gold and green of a summer morning. - -Aymery had been gone but half an hour when a monk and two lay brethren -came hurrying over Mountjoye Hill. Their figures looked dark, intent, -outlined against the virginal clearness of the dawn. The monk was Dom -Silvius, and his eyes were sharp and watchful. - -He came alone to Denise’s cell, leaving the two lay brothers at the gate -in the hedge. Denise was washing her neck and bosom; she had closed the -door, and suffered Silvius to speak to her from without. She soon learnt -that he had heard of Aymery’s coming, and that he desired to discover -the reason thereof. - -“It was one who rode here, Father, to have his arms blessed. He is on -the eve of knighthood, and kept his vigil in the wood, yonder.” - -Silvius’s face was very astute, he stroked his chin and considered. -There was nothing of the dreamer about him that morning. - -“And the offering, Sister, the offering?” - -Denise did not choose to understand. - -“What offering, Father?” - -“That which the man left, for the blessing.” - -“He left no offering with me,” she said. - -“No gift, Sister, nothing out of gratitude for the blessing?” - -“No.” - -“Not even a ring or a piece of money?” - -“Nothing.” - -Silvius’s face condemned such vagrant meanness. He hid his vexation, and -spoke softly, remembering that he was dealing with a certain sensitive -thing called woman. - -“Sister,” said he. “Perhaps the man was poor. We grudge nothing to those -who are blessed with poverty. But an offering should always be made, -even though it be but the half of an apple. God loves not niggardliness, -my sister, and I would not have our good Lord, St. Martin, offended.” - -Denise could not see Silvius because of the closed door, but there was -something in his voice that made her see him as a sharp-faced, shrewd, -insinuating figure hiding covetousness under the cloak of humility. - -“I asked for nothing, Father,” she said. - -Silvius’s face was very cunning. - -“True, my Sister, we do not barter with our own souls. But there are the -poor to be remembered, the fabric of the church, the glory of St. -Martin. There is no shame in holding out the hand for these.” - -Denise’s hands were fastening her tunic. And in the darkness of the cell -she seemed to understand suddenly, as one comes by the understanding of -the deeper things of life in the midst of some great sorrow, the reason -of their eagerness to win her to the Abbey. The realisation of it was -like the discovery of simony and self-seeking in the character of one -beloved. She stood motionless, staring at the door beyond which Silvius -listened. And the day seemed bitter and sordid to her after the night of -Aymery’s vigil. - -“Such things as I receive,” she said, “shall be laid before the altar,” -and from that moment she felt that she hated Silvius because she had -seen the motives that moved his soul. - -“That is well, Sister,” he answered her. “St. Martin is generous to all -who give.” - -The almoner went away grumbling to himself, disgusted as any Jew that a -man who had benefited should have left nothing in return. - -“The woman needs more shrewdness,” he thought. “Nor have we had any -marvel from her yet to open the people’s hearts, and purses. God grant -that we have not made an indifferent bargain. We are losing rental, and -giving food and gear,” and he returned in a temper, and thought -mercenary thoughts all through Matins in the Abbey Church. For to -Silvius his “house” was a great treasure-chest to be guarded, and -enriched. - -Denise was glad when Silvius had gone, and though she strove to put the -sneering suspicions from her, they remained like dead trees, white and -ugly in the green of a living wood. To count the money in the alms-box, -to clutch at the offering, with the prayer hardly gone from the mouth! -It was not in her soul to suffer such a traffic. - -The day seemed very grey to her, though the sun was shining, because of -that other thing that haunted her more than the thought of Dom Silvius’s -keenness. She felt more and more that the virtue had gone out of her, -and that the Lord of the Abbey would have no miracles to bring him -treasure. If this thing were to mature, what then would follow? She shut -the eyes of her soul to it, and tried to think of that night in May as -but the memory of an evil dream. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - -From the gold of the wheat harvest to the picking of red apples no great -time passes, yet in those few weeks the people began to scoff openly at -the healing powers of Denise. She had been brought in with such quaint -pomp and ceremony, with such singing, and such a show of blossom on the -boughs, that folk had looked for a wonderful fruiting, and for an -especial blessedness that should show itself in each man’s house. - -Denise, poor wench, had come into the wilds of life, to find primitive -things dragging her beautiful altruism into ruins. She had lost her -wings and could no longer soar, because of the earthliness that grew -more apparent to her day by day. Everything that she attempted failed -with her, and faith in her own power dwindled out of her heart. Long ago -she had noticed the prophetic change in Dom Silvius’s attitude. He was -suspicious, grieved, hesitatory, always hoping for some lucky miracle, -some splendid coincidence that might fire the beacon of his imaginings. -He had boasted a little of this Virgin Saint out of the woods, and the -eyes of some of the Brethren were beginning to twinkle. - -One sunny day early in October Dom Silvius went down to the stews to -fish. There happened to be some of the younger monks there, and Guimar -the hosteler, a long, lean quiz of a man whom Silvius hated. - -“Brother,” said he to the almoner. “Have you come to fish?” - -Dom Silvius answered the question by settling his stool with great -deliberation at the edge of the pond. Guimar glanced at the rest. - -“My Brothers,” he said. “See, here is Silvius come a-fishing. Let us -kneel and pray for him, and perchance his saint may catch a miracle!” - -They all laughed at the joke, all save Silvius, who bit his lips. And -from that moment his pride began to work like a slow poison in him, -filling him with a hatred of Denise. - -Once only, and that in August, Father Grimbald had come stalking up the -hill to Virgin’s Croft, when the people were busy with the harvest, and -there were none to see his coming. What he said to Denise, and she to -him, no man knew, for Grimbald held his peace concerning it. But Denise -wept when he had gone, bitter, impassioned tears that welled up out of -her heart. Grimbald’s brow was heavy with a thunder cloud of thought as -he trudged home to Goldspur over the hills. He opened and closed his -great fists as he went, as though yearning to smite something, or to -take an enemy by the throat. He had been unable to learn much from -Denise, save that she seemed unhappy, and that she had left Goldspur -because of the violence of the times. Grimbald had his own suspicions, -but speak them he could not, though he was troubled within himself for -Denise’s sake. He knew that it had not been a matter of vainglory with -her, a desire to be flattered by the worship of a wider world. Oswald’s -tale of the Devil on the Black Horse loomed largely in the background of -Grimbald’s mind. Denise had hidden something from him. Of that Grimbald -felt assured. - -The burgher folk of Battle and the people on the Abbey lands began to -have their grievances against Denise, grumbling with superstitious -pettiness because their hopes had profited so little. There was a -multitude of small things remembered against her, for of what use was a -holy woman if her sanctity brought no blessings. Grubs had attacked the -apples; why had not Denise prevented that? The sheep had been worried -with the “fly”; again Denise had been besought to pray against the pest. -Many of the wells had run dry with the hot summer; what was the use of a -saint who could not bring back water? - -There were many more things quoted against her. - -Mulgar the carrier had brought a horse cursed with “wind sucking” and -the staggers. A holy woman should be able to conjure such trifles, and -Mulgar had brought three pennies as an offering. The horse had died on -the road next day. - -Gilbert the miller was plagued with rats. And the rats prospered, even -though he had brought a dead buck rat to Denise, and besought her to -curse the vermin. - -Olivia, the goldsmith’s wife, brought a girl with a purple birth-mark on -her cheek. She desired Denise to touch the stain that it might -disappear. The birth-mark remained for all to see. - -A woman in child-bed sent for Denise’s blessing. The child was -still-born the very same night. - -Well might Denise feel that the virtue had gone out of her, that the -people were beginning to mock, and that her prayers were as so much -chaff. The bitterness and the humiliation were not of her own seeking. -They had set her upon a pinnacle, crowded about her open-mouthed, ready -for the blessings she should bestow. Her white garments, and her burning -aureole of hair had dazzled them, and the power of her beauty remained -with her still. But the mystery was passing; she had profited none of -the people; her prayers had burst like bubbles in the air. And since the -human heart is ever a fickle thing, ready to scoff and sneer, and think -itself cheated when its own fancies fall to the ground, the very -children began to catch the spirit of their elders, and to throw -surreptitious stones at Denise’s door. They invented a game, too, that -they called the Silly Saint, in which one of the girls wore a halo of -straw and attempted to work wonders which were never wonderful, till the -audience rose and rolled her in the grass. No one chided them for such -indecent blasphemy. Even Dom Silvius was ready to wash his hands of -Denise. - -There were more sinister whisperings in the air as the autumn drew on -and merged into the winter. Bridget, the smith’s wife, whose boy had -died on Denise’s knees, had set her tongue and her spite against the -saint. The woman had been very bitter against Denise all through the -summer, laughing maliciously over her failures, and nodding her head -with the air of “I could have told you so.” When neighbours had still -seemed credulous, she had put her tongue in her cheek, and mocked. - -Bridget and some other women were spreading their linen on the grass one -windy October day, and their talk turned upon Denise. As women will, -they spoke of the things that had been noised abroad of late. There were -some that said that Denise was no saint, that she was no better than -they themselves were, far worse in fact because of her vows. It had been -told that a strange knight had kept a vigil near her cell, and the women -laughed, as only women of a kind can. - -Bridget, the smith’s wife, was the bitterest of them all, because of her -dead child, and the spite that she had nurtured against Denise. And as -they spread their linen on the grass she began to tease the women, and -to tantalise them with all manner of cryptic nods, and sneers, and -insinuations. The end of it all was that much of the linen blew hither -and thither because the women were so eager to listen to Bridget, and -forgot to weigh the sheets and body gear down with stones. - -Bridget was the fat hen with the worm in her beak, and they all crowded -about her as though to thieve it. But all she did was to laugh and to -smooth her frock with her two hands. - -The women set up a great cackling, and then ran to and fro to catch the -linen that was blowing in the wind. - -“Blessed Martin,” said one, “when the Abbot hears of it!” - -“A mighty poor miracle for Dom Silvius to boast of! I could do as well -myself.” - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - -The early days of December found Earl Simon lodged at Southwark, while -the King and his men prowled to and fro in Kent, coveting England’s sea -gate, Dover, that the barons had taken in the summer. Earl Simon had no -great gathering with him in Southwark, for he had London at his back, an -ant’s nest into which the King would not venture to thrust his spear. -There had been much bloodshed and violence in the land, and it was De -Montfort’s hope that Henry would show some wisdom now that he had seen -many of his great lords in arms against him. A truce had been mooted, -with Louis of France to judge between the two parties. Yet no man -trusted Henry, because of his fickleness and his foolish cunning, and -because of the favourites who had his ear. - -Henry had hated the Londoners with exceeding bitterness since they had -pelted his Queen from London Bridge when she had sought to escape to -Windsor in the summer. They had thrown stones and offal at her barge, -and the King, and Edward his son, talked of the blood of the city as -though it were the blood of swine. It was even said that they had sworn -upon relics to make a slaughter there that should be remembered for many -years. Yet a number of the wealthier merchants were for the King, partly -because they hated the lesser men and the mob, and partly because they -had taken bribes. There was treachery afoot of which Earl Simon knew -nothing, nor had he any foreshadowings of the peril that was near. - -Early in December Henry had attempted to win his way into Dover. The -attempt had failed miserably; and the news was that he and his men were -still lingering on the coast. No one thought of him as within ten -leagues of London; the traitors in the city were alone wise as to his -plans. Earl Simon remained in Southwark, debating the future with the -barons who were with him, and with the Londoners who would hear of -nothing but that the King should swallow the Great Charter, and that the -Provisions of Oxford should hold. They had not forgotten Richard of -Cornwall’s corn ships, and the way Henry had attempted to play the Jew -at the expense of the starving poor. - -It so happened that Aymery was in the saddle one December evening as the -darkness came down over the land like a rolling fog. Rain had begun to -fall, a fine drizzle that made the fading horizon in the west a dim grey -streak. Infinite mournfulness breathed in the gust of a wet winter wind. -Tired horses plodded past Aymery as he sat motionless by the roadside, -the hood of his cloak turned over his helmet. A party had been out to -bring in forage, and Aymery had had the handling of the escort, a few -archers and men-at-arms. - -The last tired horse had gone splashing by, and the creaking of the -saddles and the breathing of the beasts were dropping into the darkness -before Aymery turned to follow his men. He was about to push his horse -to a trot when he heard the sound of a man running along the wet, -wind-swept road. Aymery drew up across the road, and saw a figure come -out of the darkness, head down, hands paddling the air. - -The man seemed to see neither horse nor rider till he was almost into -them. He stumbled, recovered himself, and drew back out of the possible -reach of a possible sword. - -“Montfort—Montfort?” - -Aymery reassured him, and he staggered forward and leant against -Aymery’s horse, panting out his news, for he had run two miles or more. - -“Lording, there is an army on the march down yonder. I was carrying -faggots from a wood, when I saw them riding out of the dusk. Their -vanguard halted under the wood, and I hid myself, and listened, and then -crept away and ran like a rabbit.” - -He panted, pressing his ribs with his two hands, as though his heart was -gorged with blood. Aymery bent down, and looked into the hind’s -mud-stained face. - -“Quick, good lad——” - -“It was the van of the King’s host, lording, they are riding on -Southwark out of the night.” - -“How near are they?” - -“The wood is a mile beyond the cross where the roads branch. They were -resting their horses, the beasts had been hard ridden, and their bellies -were all mud.” - -Aymery straightened in the saddle, and sat motionless. The night gave no -sound for the moment save the soughing of the wind through some poplars -that grew near. Half a furlong away the darkness thickened into a black -curtain, hiding the world, tantalising those who watched with the -wraiths of a thousand chances. - -Yet, as they waited there on the wet road, a confused sense of movement -came to them from somewhere out of the darkness, like the sound of the -sea galloping in the distance over a mile of midnight sand. Aymery swept -round, pulled off his glove with his teeth, and threw it at the man’s -feet. - -“Look to yourself, my friend,” he said. “They are coming through the -night yonder. Bring that glove to the Earl, and you shall have your -due.” - -Aymery clapped in the spurs, and went away at a gallop. He did not doubt -that it was the King’s arms behind him, pouring upon Southwark to -surprise De Montfort’s weak force there, and take him or slay him before -the Londoners could gather to his aid. - -As Aymery galloped through the night, the lights of Southwark and of the -city beyond the river came to him in a blur through the mist of rain. He -did not slacken even when he came to the outskirts of the place, but -rode straight for the Earl’s lodging, shouting to those whom he passed -in the street. - -“Arm, arm,” was his cry as he galloped through. “The King’s men are on -us.” - -And so he brought the news to Simon the Earl. - -De Montfort and his knights and gentlemen were at supper, but they left -the wine cups unemptied, and made haste to arm. The Earl sent his son -Simon to ride across the bridge and rouse the train-bands in the city. -The narrow streets and alleys of Southwark were soon in a great uproar -with the running to and fro of men, the tossing of torches, and all the -tumult of a hurried call to arms. A bell began to clash somewhere up in -the darkness. The narrow ways were full of movement, of an infinite -confusion that struggled and chafed like waters meeting and beating -against one another. Trumpets blared. Leaders sought their men, men -their leaders. From beyond the river also bells began to peal, the city -was bestirring itself, and humming like a hive of bees. - -Aymery, rushing out from the Earl’s presence, ran against a man with a -fiery tangle of bright-red hair. It was Waleran de Monceaux, that rebel -of rebels, driven by Gaillard out of Sussex. He caught Aymery by the -shoulder, and blessed God fiercely because the Sussex men were the first -to show their shields. - -“Brother,” he shouted, “I have thirty spears for a charge home. I heard -you were here. Come. We shall have the van.” - -They went out together into the street where some of the Earl’s men were -already under arms. None the less there was a dire tangle everywhere, -the place choked with disorder that promised well for the King’s men if -they lost no time. Aymery and Waleran found their bunch of Sussex spears -standing steady and stiff for the night’s need. They were soon joined by -other knights and their men who gathered out of the wet gloom. De -Montfort himself came out, and ordered his archers forward into the -outskirts of the suburb, to scout and discover what was happening in the -darkness yonder. - -A shout rose suddenly, and went from mouth to mouth. Young Simon came -out of the darkness with torches, riding his white horse, and a mob of -half-armed men with him. - -“Sire, treachery, the gates at the bridge are locked.” - -Such in truth was the case, for the King had planned the trick, and -those of the wealthier citizens who were in his pay had locked the gates -and thrown the keys into the river. - -Simon saw his imminent hazard, but his sword was out to hearten his men. - -“Break down the gates.” - -And then, standing in his stirrups: - -“Sirs,” said he, “let the King’s men come to us. They will find it hot -here, despite the rain.” - -A number of archers came running back out of the night, shouting that -masses of men were pouring along the dark streets at their heels. A -blare of trumpets tore the darkness. The narrow main street began to -roar with the rush of mounted men. The Earl’s trumpets gave tongue in -answer. In an instant a black torrent poured forward as though a dam had -broken, and fell with fury upon the flood that lapped from wall to wall. - -A man has no time to remember what happens in such a fight when he is -caught by a whirlwind of human fury, and driven this way and that. -Horses reared, fell, and crushed their riders. The narrow street rang -like a hundred smithies. Blows were given and taken in the darkness, men -grappled together in the saddle, for there was no room often for the -swing of a sword. Aymery found himself and his horse driven against the -wall, and pinned there by the mass that filled the street. He struck -out, with cries of “Montfort, Montfort,” and was struck at in turn by -those who bawled for the King. - -Aymery found himself being forced along the wall his horse, scared and -maddened, backing along the street. The tide had turned in the King’s -favour. The Earl’s men were being driven by sheer weight of numbers. The -night had a black look for Earl Simon and his party. - -Of what followed Aymery could have given no clear account, all that he -knew was that he went on striking at those who struck at him, and that -he remembered wondering that he had not been wounded or beaten out of -the saddle. His brain seemed to become dulled by the din and clangour, -and by the tumult in the darkness and the rain. A roar of voices rose -suddenly, flowing from somewhere out of the night. “Montfort, Montfort!” -A great rallying cry came up like the sound of the sea, for the -Londoners had broken the gates, and were pouring over the bridge into -Southwark to rescue the Earl. - -For a while the fight stood still, and then slowly, and with a sense of -infinite effort it began to roll towards the fields. New men seemed to -come from nowhere, streaming up alleys and side streets to break in on -the flanks of the King’s party. Aymery found himself with space to -breathe; his sword arm ached as though he had been swinging a hatchet -for an hour. Comrades came up on either side of him, they gathered and -pushed on, shouting for Earl Simon, and fighting shoulder to shoulder, -Aymery found the street opening suddenly upon a small square before a -church. In one corner a torch had been thrust into an iron bracket on -the wall of a house, and still burning brightly, despite the rain, it -seemed to serve as a rallying point for those whose stomachs were not -sick of the fight. - -It was becoming a hole and corner business now, a question of group -fighting against group, man against man. Each party had been tossed into -so many angry embers, like a fire scattered by a kick of the foot. The -Londoners were still streaming over the bridge. Their shouts of -“Montfort, Montfort,” held the night. The surprise had failed, thanks to -the hind who had run two miles in the mud. - -Aymery was pushing his horse across the square, battered shield forward, -right hand balancing his sword, when his eyes were drawn towards a -skirmish that was going on where the torch burnt in the bracket on the -wall. A big man in green surcoat, and mounted on a black horse was -keeping some of the Londoners at bay. And behind the green knight, just -under the torch, Aymery saw a knight in a blue surcoat on a grey horse, -a contrast in colours that struck him as familiar. The blue knight was -taking no part in the tussle. His comrade seemed to be defending him, -backed up by a few men-at-arms whose harness gleamed in the light of the -torch. - -Aymery spurred forward, and came to blows with the man in green. Nor had -he had much to boast of when a mob of Londoners came up at a run and -broke into the thick of the scrimmage. Aymery found himself driven close -to the knight in blue. He struck at him, but the other seemed to have -lost his sword, for he did nothing but cover his head with his shield. -Aymery caught the blue knight’s bridle, and urged both the horses out of -the press. He had a glimpse of the man on the black horse trying to -plunge through the Londoners towards him. But he was beaten back, and -disappeared, still fighting, into the night. - -Aymery got a grip of the blue knight’s belt. The man appeared to have -little heart left in him, for he dropped his shield, and surrendered at -discretion. - -“Quarter, messire, quarter.” - -The voice that came through the grid of the great battle helmet seemed -more the voice of a boy. - -Aymery kept a firm hold of the gentleman, and rode back with him into -the main street. The grey horse went quietly as though thoroughly tired -of the night’s adventure. Aymery had no trouble with either beast or -man. - -A great crowd had gathered at the bridge head. Earl Simon was there, -guarded by an exultant and shouting mob of Londoners who were carrying -him across the bridge into the city. The crowd was so great that Aymery -had to halt with his prisoner, and bide his time. Torches had been lit -and their glare and smoke filled the street where a thousand grotesque -faces were shouting “Montfort, Montfort.” - -Aymery felt a hand touch his arm, for he still had hold of the blue -knight’s sword belt. - -“Ah, messire, see what manner of prisoner you have taken.” - -The blue knight had lifted the great helmet and let it fall with a clash -upon the stones. Aymery saw masses of dark hair flowing, and a white -face looking into his. - -“Mother of God,” said he, “what have we here?” - -“A woman, lording,” and she laughed a little, and then said again, more -softly: “A woman.” - -Aymery scanned her by the light of the torches, and it seemed to him -that he had seen her face before. Her hair was dark as night, her skin -the colour of a white rose, and she looked at him with eyes that seemed -full of an amused yet watchful glitter. - -For the moment Aymery thought of letting her go free, but the lady -herself appeared to have no such ambition. - -“I am in your hands, messire,” she said. “Keep me from the mud and the -mob, and I will thank you.” - -Aymery asked her name, being puzzled to know what to do with such a -prisoner. - -“My name?” and she laughed, and gave him a look that was meant to -challenge a possible homage. “I dropped my name with my shield. Nor -would you know it if I told it you.” - -Aymery was asking himself what had best be done with this lady in man’s -guise. To many men the answer would have been gallant and none too -difficult. But Aymery coveted neither the responsibility nor the -possible romance. Nor was he sorry when a happy chance intervened -between him and the dilemma. - -A number of knights came riding out of Southwark with Simon the Younger -on his white horse at their head. And Simon who was an adventurous and -hot headed gentleman with the eyes of a hawk when a woman was concerned, -caught sight of Aymery and his prisoner, and swooped down instantly -towards the lure. - -“Hallo, my friend, who are you, and what have you here?” - -Aymery showed his shield, but the Earl’s son recognised his face. - -“Sir Aymery, out of Sussex! And what is this treasure, messire, that we -have taken?” - -At the sound of Aymery’s name the woman’s eyes had darted a look at him, -like the momentary gleam of a knife hidden under a cloak. Then she moved -nearer to young De Montfort, and was soon speaking on her own behalf. - -He bowed gallantly to her when she had done. - -“Since you offer us no name, madam,” he said. “Let us call you Isoult of -the Black Hair. I am Simon, the earl’s son. Also, I am your servant, -unless our friend here stands between us.” - -Aymery renounced all prestige, not having Simon’s capacity for instant -infatuations. - -“It is no concern of mine, sire,” he said, with a bluntness that was -hardly courteous to the lady. - -A laugh hailed this frankness. De Montfort’s son was looking at Etoile. - -“Will it please you to command my courtesy?” he asked. - -Etoile smiled at him. He took her bridle, and they went riding together -over London Bridge into London City. Nor did Simon guess that this was -the first ride along a tortuous road that would lead him to bring death -upon the great earl, his father. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - -Winter had come, and since Denise’s cell stood on the northern slope of -Mountjoye Hill, it was bitter cold there, nor would the north wind be -stopped by such things as a thorn hedge or a closed door. To Denise the -cold was but part of the misery that was closing upon her, for people -were hardier in those days, and less softened by the luxury of glass and -carpets. But it was not the cold that kept her wakeful through the -night, but the blank and unpitying face of the future that never -departed from before her eyes. Denise knew the truth now, and soon the -world might know it also. - -The Abbey folk had sent her no winter gear, but that was Dom Silvius’s -affair, perhaps due to his meanness, or his discontent with her, or to -the feeling that a recluse whose prayers went unanswered needed to be -chastened by wind and frost. It seemed very far from that day in May -when the meadows were sheeted in gold, and the singing boys sang her -into the Abbey _leuga_. Denise would have had no winter clothes, had not -a good woman who distrusted Dom Silvius, sent her a lamb’s-wool tunic, -and a cloak lined with rabbit’s skin. - -So the winter deepened, and Denise saw always that shame that was coming -nearer day by day. She knew now how utterly she had failed, and the -reason thereof seemed in herself. Life had thrust hypocrisy upon her -insidiously and by stealth. She would have fled from it, but the wide -world seemed cold and empty, nor was she free to follow her own will. -Reginald the Abbot was her lord now, both in the law and in the spirit, -he could have her taken if she fled, condemned, whipped, and turned -forth with contumely in the eyes of all. Denise had her woman’s pride, a -pride that shrank from the thought of a public scourging and of open -shame. - -Two weeks or more after Christmas, on a clear frosty morning, three -women came to Denise’s cell, and one of these women was the smith’s -wife, Bridget. They had loitered on the road awhile, talking volubly, -priming one another for some enterprise. No one had come near Denise for -a month or more, save the Abbey servant who left food at the cell, but -never saw her face. - -So the three women came to Denise’s cell, and stood before the closed -door, smirking and making a mystery of the event. They had christened -each other “Warts,” “Sterility,” and “Thorn-in-the-Thumb,” and their -business was to win a glimpse of Denise. - -Dame Bridget, or “Thorn-in-the-Thumb,” made a devout beginning. She was -a big woman with a high colour, and a mouth that was generally noisy, a -woman of coarse texture, and of gross outlines that showed Nature as a -craftswoman at her worst. - -Bridget had picked up some Latin words, and she began with these, as -though such a prelude would impress Denise with their seriousness in -coming. - -“Sister,” she said with a snuffle, when she had come to the end of her -Latinity. “Here are three poor women in need of a blessing. We pray you -to come out to us, Holy Sister, and to touch us with your hands.” - -Denise had no thought of treachery that morning, and she opened her -door, and stood there on the threshold. The three women were kneeling -humbly enough in the wet grass, their hoods drawn forward, their hands -together as in prayer. - -Bridget showed a thumb red and swollen about the pulp. - -“There was a thorn twig in a faggot, Sister,” she said. “I laid my hand -to the sticks, and the thorn went into my thumb. It has kept me awake o’ -nights with the pain of it.” - -Then Sterility had a hearing, and while Denise bent over her, for the -woman chose to whisper, Thorn-in-the-Thumb nudged Warts with her elbow, -and stared Denise over from head to foot. - -Lastly, Warts displayed her imperfections, looking most meekly into -Denise’s shadowy eyes. And when Denise had touched them all and given -them her blessing, the three women departed, walking very circumspectly -till they gained the road. Then Thorn-in-the-Thumb flung her arms about -the necks of her neighbours, crumpled them to her, and laughed gross -laughter that was not pleasant to hear. And they went up the hill -together, gaggling like geese, blatantly exultant over the thing that -they had discovered. - -Very soon hardly a man or woman in the five boroughs of Battle had not -heard what Bridget and her neighbours had to tell. Rumours had been rife -of late, but this last cup was spiced with the palatable truth. The -women spoke more loudly than the men, were more strenuous and -vindictive, more self-righteous, more eager to have the hypocrite -proclaimed. Mightily sore were some of the worthy folk who had gone on -their knees for nothing before Denise’s cell. They were quick to cry out -that they had been cheated, more especially those who had left an -offering to bribe the Blessed Ones in Heaven. The insolence of this -jade, setting herself up as a virgin and a saint! “Out with her,” was -the common cry. As for Dom Silvius he was little better than a fool. - -With all these hornets humming even in the midst of winter, some of the -older burghers and the head men of the boroughs went secretly to speak -with Dom Silvius, and to show him discreetly how matters stood. Such an -open sore needed healing; it was an offence and an insult to St. Martin, -and the saints. Old Oliver de Dengemare was their spokesman, a man with -a wise eye and a sagacious nose. Dom Silvius kept an imperturbable -countenance, and heard them out to the bitter end, though inwardly he -was aflame with wrath and infinite vexation. “The jade, the impudent -jade.” His brain beat out such imprecations while the old men talked. - -No sooner had they gone than he crept off to whisper it all to Reginald -the Abbot. Now Reginald was a man of easy nature, bland, kindly, one who -chose a suave word rather than a sour one. Silvius came to him, cringing -yet venomous, slaver dropping from his mouth as he stuttered and spat -his wrath. He took the thing as infamous towards himself; the greed, the -self-love, and the ambition in him were tugging at the leashes. - -“Let them hound her out and spit upon her,” he said, driving the nails -into the palms of his hands, the muscles straining in his pendulous -throat. “Let them spit upon her.” - -Abbot Reginald placed the sponge of his placidity over Dom Silvius’s -mouth. - -“Brother,” he cautioned him; “such things should not be spoken till the -anger is out of one. A hot head at night calls for penitence in the -morning.” - -He saw very clearly how matters were with Silvius, that the monk’s zeal -had turned sour, and sickened him; and that he was mad that all his -astuteness should have taken, in the eyes of his little world, the -motley of the fool. - -“You are too hasty, my brother,” he said. “Does a man whose wife has -lost her virtue, shout it from the house-tops? Come, my friend, let us -consider.” - -But Silvius would not be appeased. The fanatical cat had spread its -claws, a beast more cruel than any creature out of the woods. Reginald -of Brecon watched him, as a fat man who had dined well might watch the -petulant tantrums of a child. He took to turning the ring upon his -finger, a trick habitual with him when he was deep in thought. - -“It is growing dark,” he said at last, glancing at the window. - -Then he rose and stood awhile before the fire. Silvius had ceased to -spit and to declaim. - -“My cloak and hood, Brother Silvius. You will find them there in the -recess.” - -The monk obeyed his lord. When he returned with the cloak, Reginald held -up two fingers, and spoke one word:— - -“Peace.” - -There was not the glimmer of a star in the sky when two dim figures -climbed Mountjoye Hill. A north wind was blowing and whistled coldly -into Reginald’s sleeves. Dom Silvius jerked from side to side, looking -restlessly into the darkness as though his blood were still hot and -bitter in him despite the cold. Reginald understood the savage -impatience that possessed his monk, for he bade him wait at the gate in -the hedge, and went on alone to the cell. - -Silvius kept watch there, striding to and fro, blowing on his nails, and -beating his arms against his body like a great black bird. He envied his -Abbot the rights of an unbridled tongue, for Silvius would have been a -libertine that night in the matter of godly invective and abuse. He -could hear voices, the dull, half-suppressed voices of people who spoke -earnestly, and yet with passion. Once he thought that something stirred -in the hedge near him, for he was startled, and stood still to listen. A -prowling fox might have taken fright, or a bird fluttered from its -roosting place. - -Meanwhile on the threshold of that dark cell stood Reginald the Abbot, -shocked, unable to retain much store of anger. A shadowy something knelt -there close to him. The very heart of Denise seemed under his feet. - -“Lord, let me go,” was all that she could ask. - -And again— - -“Lord, let me go, away yonder, into the dark.” - -Reginald looked down at her from the serene height of his abbacy. - -“Daughter,” he said at last, with no sententiousness, “go, and God pity -you. It is better that this should end. Yet, wait till the day comes. -You would lose your way on a night such as this.” - -“I will wait, lord,” she answered, utterly humble because of his -kindness, and her own poignant shame. - -When Abbot Reginald returned through the gate in the thorn hedge, Dom -Silvius’s voice hissed at him out of the darkness, for the cold had -sharpened a venomous tongue. - -“The jade, has she confessed?” - -Reginald was possessed by a sudden unchristian lust to smite Dom Silvius -across the mouth. - -“My son,” he said very quietly, “take care how you cast stones.” - -And he was more cold to Silvius on the homeward way than the breath of -the winter wind. - -But Silvius, that dreamer of dreams, that most mundane monk, who thought -more of the jewels crusting a reliquary than the Cross of Christ, did a -vile and a mean thing that night. Denise, poor child, was to slip away, -so Reginald said, at dawn; but Reginald did not tell Dom Silvius that he -had left money on the stones whereon she knelt. And Silvius, still -venomous because he deemed himself befooled, took pains to betray -Denise’s secret going. And the method of the betrayal was the meanest -trick of all. - -When he had seen Abbot Reginald safe within the Abbey, he called two -servants and went out with a basket of victuals to visit certain of the -sick poor. That the hour was a strange one for such charity counted for -nothing with Silvius whose head was full of the ferment of his spite. -Many of the folk had gone to their beds, but some few he found still -lingering about the covered embers on the hearth. - -It was counted for holiness to Silvius that he should come on God’s -errand at such an hour. - -“Feed my sheep,” the Lord had said. - -And Silvius fed certain of them that night with hypocritical humilities, -shaking his head sadly, and dropping a few treacherous words like crumbs -into mouths that hungered. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - -A red, wintry dawn was in the east when Denise stood ready for her -flight from the Abbey lands, her rabbit-skin cloak about her, and the -hood drawn over her head. She had knotted the money that Reginald had -given her into a corner of her under tunic, and the food that she had -saved from yesterday she carried wrapped in a clean cloth. Denise had -thought of seeking Grimbald, but her heart had failed her at the thought -of meeting the familiar faces of the people who had looked upon her as -something superhumanly pure and wonderful. The passion that obsessed her -for the moment was the passion to escape from the inquisitive eyes of -those who knew her, and to slip away into the world where she would be -nothing more than a mere woman. - -A robin twittered on the thorn hedge as she left the cell and, crossing -the grass, went out by the wicket gate. The land was white with hoar -frost, each twig and blade beautiful to behold, and the arch of the east -red with an angry dawn. The hills looked big and blue, and very sombre, -and in the north the sky had an opaqueness as of coming snow. - -The brittle silence of a frosty morning seemed unbroken as yet, and -Denise, after looking half fearfully about her, came out from the shadow -of the thorn hedge, and walked quickly in the direction of the road. She -would be away and over the Abbey bounds before anyone knew in the town -that she had gone. Reaching the road, she climbed down the path into it, -for the road ran in a hollow there. A bramble had caught the latchet of -her shoe and pulled it loose, and Denise bent down to refasten it, -putting the cloth with the food on the bank beside her. - -Now Dom Silvius’s treachery had betrayed her to the people, and Denise, -as she fastened her shoe-latchet, was startled by a shrill, gaggling -laugh that seemed to rise out of the ground close to her. The banks on -either side of the road were covered with furze bushes, and a number of -these bushes were suddenly endowed with the miraculous power of -movement. They rose up from where they had grown, and came jigging down -the steep banks into the road. - -Moreover these same furze bushes burst into loud laughter, and began to -crow with exultation. - -“A miracle, a miracle!” - -“St. Denise has worked a wonder, at last!” - -“Holy virgin, see how the bushes dance!” - -Denise stood still at the foot of the bank, and the furze bushes came -jigging round her like mummers in a mask. Flapping skirts and shuffling -feet gave a human undercurrent to the green swirl of the furze. Now and -again she saw a red, triumphant face, or a pair of brown arms holding a -bough, while the frolic went on with giggles and little screams of -laughter. Then, at a given shout from one of them, these women of the -winter dawn flung their furze boughs upon Denise, as the Sabines threw -their shields upon Tarpeia. - -The thorns were as nothing compared with that circle of coarse and -jeering faces that stood revealed. Old hags with white hair, skinny -arms, and flat bosoms; women in their prime, rough and buxom, with hard -features and loud mouths; young girls, whose tongues were pert and -insolent. Bridget, the smith’s wife, led this wolf pack, like a hungry -and red-eyed dam. - -Denise’s face was bleeding, but she did not flinch now that her pride -had been driven against the pricks. She looked round at the women, -holding her head high, although they had beaten her across the face. And -for the moment the women hung back from her as she pushed the furze -boughs aside, and made as though to pass on without answering a word. - -Bridget, the smith’s wife, stood in her path. She flung up her head and -laughed like a great raw-boned mare, and an echo came down from -Mountjoye Hill like the answering neigh of a horse. On the ridge above, -where the dawn light shone, were crowded the men who had come out to see -their women bait Denise. - -Bridget began the savage game with a word that brought the blood to -Denise’s face. The women shrieked with delight. Taunts struck her on -every side as they crowded close on her, gloating, screaming, their -mouths full of cursing and derision. They began to shake their fists, -and to stretch their claws towards her, and the smell of their bodies -was in her nostrils. - -Bridget swung forward, and spat in her face. - -“She would work miracles, this jade, this wanton! Where is my boy, you -minion? Answer me that, I say!” - -“Where is your man, eh?” - -“We know him, we know him! Let him show his face here!” - -“Look at her, the pretty jade!” - -“Spoil her beauty. Strip her naked.” - -“Out with the harlot. Let her freeze.” - -Warts, Sterility, and fifty more were howling about her, drunk with the -very noise they made. For a moment Denise stood white-faced in the midst -of them. Then she disappeared in a swirl of coarse and violent movement, -like a deer that is dragged down and smothered beneath the brown bodies -of the wolves. - -The road that morning was a martyr’s way as the redness of the dawn -waned and the sky became cold and grey. Mouths spat upon her, hands -smote her, and clutched at her clothes. Buffeted at every step, jostled, -and torn, she was brought to the boundary of the Abbey _leuga_, and -driven out thence into the world. The women even caught up stones and -pelted her when they had let her go, screaming foul words, and laughing -in loud derision. - -Denise was as dazed and as exhausted as though she had been wrecked, and -washed ashore half dead by some lucky wave. Her face was bruised and -bleeding, her clothes in tatters, her tunic torn open so that her bosom -showed. She drew her ragged clothes about her, and went unsteadily down -the road, with the cries of the women still following her as she went. -Denise’s pride made a last brave spreading of its wings. It carried her -beyond the sound of those voices, though her feet dragged, and her knees -gave under her, and a kind of blindness filled her brain. - -Perhaps she struggled on for a mile or more before she turned aside, and -lay down under some hazels beside the road. And as she lay there, -dull-eyed, grey-faced, and still half dazed, the power to think came -back like the sense of reviving pain. Horror of herself and of the world -took hold of her by the throat. It was as though those women had spat -upon her soul, and made her revolt from herself as from something -unclean. Those mocking faces symbolised the mercies of her sister women. -All those who knew the truth would scoff, and draw away their skirts. -She was an outcast, a thing whose name might broider a lewd tale. - -Denise was no ignorant child, but a grown woman, yet she was weak and in -pain, and her very weakness made her anguish the more poignant. She lay -there a long while under the hazels, not noticing the cold, nor the -sodden soil, for her heart seemed colder than the frost. Life held its -helpless, upturned palms to the unknown. What use was there in living? -God had deserted her, and had suffered her innocence to be put to shame. -She was too weary, too miserable even for bitterness or for rebellion. -Inert despair had her, body and soul. - -Presently a boy came along the road towards Battle, driving an ass laden -with paniers full of bread. Close to the spot where Denise lay under the -hazels, the ass was taken with the sulks, and stood obstinately still. -The boy tugged at the bridle, shouted, thwacked the beast with his -stick, but make her budge he could not. Denise sat up and watched him, -this piece of byplay thrusting a wedge between her and the apathy of -despair. - -The boy was a sturdy youngster, with brown face, brown smock, and brown -legs splashed with mud. He rubbed his nose with a brown hand, and -catching sight of Denise, took her to be a beggar, and perhaps a bit of -a witch. - -“Hi, there,” he shouted, “give over frightening the beast.” - -“It is none of my doing,” she said, surprised somehow at the sound of -her own voice. - -“She stopped here, none of your tricks, old lady,” said the boy. - -Denise put back her hood, and the youngster stared. - -“Lord,” said he, “you have been fighting, and you are not old, neither!” - -His curiosity was curtailed by the curiosity of the ass, who took to -kicking, sending sundry loaves rolling on the road. - -“Hi, there, come and help.” - -Denise rose up, and went towards the struggling pair. She took the -bridle from the boy, and began to pull the donkey’s ears, to rub her -poll, and talk to her as though she were a refractory child. The beast -grew suddenly docile, and the bread was saved. - -Denise helped the boy to pick up the loaves. He looked hard at her when -they had refilled the paniers, and then offered one of the loaves to -Denise. - -“Take it,” he said almost roughly, yet with the brusqueness of a boy’s -good-will. - -“It will be missed.” - -The boy gave a determined shake of the head. - -“Father’s bread. The jade served him the same trick last week, kicked -the loaves on to a dung heap. He can’t blame me.” - -He thrust the loaf into Denise’s hand, gave her a friendly grin, and cut -the ass viciously across the hind-quarters with his stick. The response -on the beast’s part was a wild and hypocritical amble. - -This simple adventure on the road heartened Denise in very wonderful -fashion, even as the voice of a child may interpose between a man and -murder. It was like a mouthful of wine in the mouth of one ready to -faint upon a journey. Denise watched the boy disappear, hardly thinking -that she had been saved from despair by the obstinacy of an ass. She had -the loaf in her hand and the boy’s smile in remembrance, and the mocking -voices of the morning seemed less shamefully persistent. - -Denise broke and ate some of the bread, and finding a ditch near with a -film of ice covering it, she broke the ice with her shoe, and soaking -one corner of her tunic in the water, she washed the blood from her -mouth and face. It was then that she found the money that Abbot Reginald -had given her still knotted up in her clothes. And these two things, the -bread and the money, comforted her with the thought that she was not -utterly forgotten of God. Both blessings had come to her by chance, but -when a soul is in the deeps it catches the straws that float to it, and -believes them Heaven-sent. - -Despite her wounds and her bruisings Denise walked five miles before -noon. The passion to escape from familiar faces and to sink into the -outer world, had revived in her. She skirted Robertsbridge and its -Abbey, crossing the Rother stream by a footbridge that she found. On the -hill beyond she met a pedlar travelling with his pack, and taking out a -piece of money bought a rough brown smock from him, a needle and some -thread. About noon she found some dry litter under the shelter of a bank -of furze. She put on her brown smock, and mended her cloak, and then -despite the January cold, such an utter weariness came upon her that she -fell asleep. - -When Denise awoke it was with a rush of misery into the mind, a misery -so utter that she wished herself asleep again, even sleeping the sleep -of death. She was so stiff with the cold and her rough handling that it -hurt her to move, and the infinite forlornness of her waking made her -shudder. Something soft touched her face, like the drifting petal of -apple blossom out of the blue. A wind had risen and was whistling -through the furze bushes, and buffeting them to and fro. The sky had -grown very sullen. Snow was beginning to fall. - -Denise dragged herself up and drew her cloak closer about her. She must -find shelter for the night somewhere, unless she wished to tempt death -in the snow. Yet she had gone but a short way along the road when a -sudden spasm of pain seized her, pain such as she had never felt before. - -Denise stood still, clenching her hands, her eyes full of a questioning -dread. The spasm passed, and she went on again slowly, the flakes of -snow drifting about her, the sky and the landscape a mournful blur. She -had walked no more than a furlong when the same pain seized her, making -her catch her breath and stand quivering till the spasm had passed. Nor -was it the pain alone that filled her with a sense of infinite -helplessness and dread. The birth of a new and terrible consciousness -seemed to grip and paralyse her heart. She knew by instinct that which -was upon her, a state that called up a new world of shame and tenderness -and fear. - -Denise went on again, a woman laden with the simple and primitive -destiny of a woman. It so happened that she came to a wood beside the -road, and at the edge of the wood under the bare branches of the trees -she saw a lodge built of faggots, and roofed with furze and heather. The -place seemed God-sent in her necessity, and her anguish of soul and -body. Denise found it empty, save for a mass of dry bracken piled behind -some faggots in one corner of the lodge. The place had a rough door -built of boughs. Denise closed it, and hid herself in the far corner of -the lodge, sinking deep into the bed of bracken. The pangs were upon -her, and all the dolour and the foreboding that take hold of a woman’s -heart. - -It was bitter cold that night, and the snow came driving from the north, -a ghost mist that wrapped the world in a garment of mystery. The wind -roared in the trees whose bare boughs clapped together, creaking and -chafing amid the roaring of the storm. It was a night when sheep would -die of the cold, or be smothered in the snow drifts banked against the -hedges. - -The sky began to clear about dawn, patches of blue showing between -ragged masses of grey cloud. The sun shone out fitfully at first, -flashing upon a white world, upon a world of brilliant snow schemes and -glittering arabesques, with the wood’s sweeps of black shadow across a -waste of white. - -The wind had dropped, and there was the silence of snow everywhere, not -a voice, not a sound, save the occasional creaking of a rotten bough and -the swish of its falling snow. The sun climbed higher, and the whiteness -of the world became a pale and blinding glare. - -Now, the silence of the wilderness was broken that morning by a slow and -steady sound that grew on the still air. It was the muffled beat of -hoofs upon the snow of the road that ran southwards along the ridge of -the hill. Presently the snorting of the horse, jingle of metal and the -creaking of leather were added to the plodding of the hoofs. A man’s -voice rang out suddenly into a burst of song. The white world was -glorious in the sunshine, marble and lapis lazuli, with flashes here and -there of gold. - -The muffled beat of hoofs ceased by the wood where stood the lodge built -of faggots. The snow was virgin about it, and the man turned his horse -towards the wood, swung out of the saddle, and began kicking the snow -aside as though to give the beast a chance of cropping the grass. Taking -wine and meat from a saddlebag, he brushed the snow from a log that lay -outside the lodge, and sat down to make a meal. - -And as he sat there in the sun he talked to his horse, and gave the -beast some of the bread from his own breakfast. The horse nosed against -him like a dog, its breath steaming up into the frosty air, its eyes the -colour of sapphires seen against the snow. And there were no sounds save -the man’s voice, the breathing of his horse, and the dripping from the -boughs as the snow thawed in the sun. - -In due course the man remounted, and rode off down the road with the -morning sunlight upon his face. Cowering on the bracken in the lodge -Denise lay dazed, and weary, hands and feet numb with the cold. She had -prayed to God that the man might not enter the place, and find her there -on her bed of bracken. He had been so near to her that she had been able -to hear the sound of his breathing, and even the breaking of the crust -of the bread. - -Beside her on the bracken lay a white thing that neither moved nor -uttered a cry. Denise lay and stared at it, half with dread and mute -wonder, half with a passion of primeval tenderness that was too deep for -tears. And as Aymery rode away from her into the morning, she kept her -vigil beside that innocent thing that did not whimper and did not move. -The snow and the secret silence thereof seemed part of her life that -morning, and the eyes of the world were full of a questioning mist of -tears. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - -Aymery went riding southwards over the snow, a cloak of furs over his -harness, and the leather flaps of his steel cap turned down to cover -cheeks and ears. He rode alone, for though the gilt spurs were at his -heels, his purse saw little of the colour of gold, and his horse and his -arms were all that he had. - -There was peace in the land that January, for men had put up their -swords, and delivered their quarrel into the hands of the King of -France. It was the month of the Mise of Amiens, when Louis, Saint and -King, sat to judge between Henry of England and his people. Men trusted -in that Holy Heart, that Flame of Sacred Chivalry, that had brought -peace to France, and given God martyrs on Egyptian sands. But Louis was -a King judging between a King and turbulent towns and still more -turbulent barons. Nor was it strange, therefore, that a saint, from -whose mouth should have sprouted an olive branch, hurled back over the -sea a two-edged sword. - -A truce had been called, and with the sheathing of his sword, Aymery had -seized the chance and the time to ride southwards into Sussex. Goldspur -manor house was a black ruin, but the manor folk were there, with -Grimbald to see that an absent lord was not forgotten. No forfeiture had -been proclaimed, and Aymery had saddled his horse Necessity, and ridden -to see whether his villeins and cottars were honest men. Aymery had left -no steward over them, but Grimbald was more to be trusted than any -steward; no one would play him any tricks. - -Aymery’s road ran a devious way that January morning, the road of a man -who galloped ten miles out of his path for the glimpse of a woman’s -face. And Aymery rode wilfully towards Battle, though Goldspur lay over -and away beyond the white hills in the west. - -About noon Aymery let his horse take his own pace up the hill from -Watlingtun. The slope of Mountjoye seemed one sweep of virgin snow, and -Aymery, looking for Denise’s cell, marked it out above the thicket of -oaks where he had kept his vigil that summer night. When he came to the -place where the path should turn aside from the road, he saw a muddy and -much trampled track leading over the snow towards the cell with its -hedge of thorns. It looked to Aymery as though the whole countryside had -made a pilgrimage to Denise of the Hill. He followed the path in turn, -giving Denise her glory with the sadness of a man who cherishes an -impossible desire. - -The ground about the gate in the thorn hedge had been trampled into a -quagg of mud as though many people had passed to and fro that morning. -Aymery dismounted, and threw his bridle over the gate post, numbering -himself among those who had come for Denise’s blessing. But the sight he -saw startled him not a little, for there was no benediction to be won -there that morning. - -The door of the cell stood open, and before it, in the middle of a space -of trampled snow, two of the Abbey servants were heaping up straw and -faggots as though for a fire. The trampling of Aymery’s horse had been -deadened by the snow, the men had not heard it, and he stood at the -gate, watching them and wondering what this meant. The two men went to -and fro into Denise’s cell, carrying out the wooden bed, the straw, and -the sheets thereof, her prayer stool, and cross, and other lesser -things, for Silvius in his first ardour had seen her better housed than -a mere recluse. The men piled everything upon the faggots, and then -stood aside in silence as though waiting for someone’s coming. - -Aymery tarried no longer, but marched out from the shadow of the thorn -hedge, a voice crying in him: “Can it be that she is dead?” The two -servants saw him, and for some strange reason began to handle their -staves, while one of them went to the door of the cell, and spoke to -someone within. - -Dom Silvius and Aymery came face to face outside Denise’s cell that -morning, for the monk had been within, watching the unclean things -carried out for the burning. He came out with a lighted torch in his -hand, ready with canonical curses, hot and hungry for the chance of -scolding the whole world. But when Silvius saw Aymery, he seemed to grow -cold of a sudden, and thin with a malicious carefulness. - -For Silvius saw the hauberk and the gilt spurs, the long sword at the -girdle, the shield slung across the back, the shoulder plates painted -with a knight’s device, the golden claw of a hawk. And Silvius sprang to -sinister conclusions with the intuition of a woman. Here, no doubt, was -the woman’s paramour, some hot-headed gentleman who had ridden in to -discover how things fared with Denise. - -Silvius took no notice of the Knight of the Hawk’s Claw, but plunged his -torch into the straw, and watched the flames spring up and seize the -wood. The smoke rose straight up into the still air, turning to a pearly -haze as the sunlight touched it. The monk stood there, with bowed head -and folded arms, as though too busy with his own prayers to be troubled -by any stranger. But prayer was very far from Silvius’s soul. His eyes -were wide awake under their lowered lids. - -Aymery came two steps nearer. Silvius raised his head and looked at him, -and saw at a glance the face of a man who was not to be repulsed or -fooled. - -“Whom may you be seeking, my son?” he asked, watching Aymery out of the -corners of his eyes. - -The Knight of the Hawk’s Claw turned his head towards the cell. Silvius -seemed to enjoy an inaudible chuckle. - -“Perhaps you have come for a blessing, messire?” - -As yet Aymery had not spoken a word, but Silvius read his thoughts by -the puzzled frown and the alert eyes. - -“Ah, my son,” he went on, beginning to sneer, “you are wondering what -has become of our saint.” - -Aymery looked from Silvius to the flames that were leaping through the -wood. - -“Has death been here?” - -Silvius’s eyes were netted round with cynical wrinkles. - -“Assuredly your saint is both dead and alive,” he said. “Some of you -gentlemen have slain the saint in her. I will not ask you, my son, -whether the guilt of the sacrilege is yours.” - -His sly, sneering face made Aymery’s manhood grow hot in him. He was in -no temper for sardonic subtleties. Silvius saw a look in his eyes that -betrayed a lust to take someone by the throat. And Silvius kept the fire -between him and the man of the sword, nodding to the two servants, and -hinting without deceit that they should be ready with their staves. - -“My son,” he said, licking his lips; “we are burning the unclean relics -of an unclean woman. If you ask me for reasons, I send you to my lord, -Reginald, at the Abbey. His word is law here. I am but a humble servant -in God’s house.” - -Aymery looked Silvius in the eyes, and then turned on his heel, with a -face like ice. He mounted his horse, and went up Mountjoye Hill at a -canter, choosing to gallop at the core of the truth rather than suffer -Dom Silvius to lick his lips and sneer. Nor had horse and rider -disappeared below the sky line before Silvius called the two servants to -him, gave them their orders, and sent them away into the town. He -himself tarried there awhile, warming his hands at the fire that -consumed those relics of an unsaintly saint. - -When Aymery came out from the presence of Reginald of Brecon that day -his face had the frozen bleakness of a winter land. He walked stiffly, -almost rigidly, with nostrils that twitched, and hungered for air. The -Abbey servants fell back before him as he mounted his horse at the gate. -Here was a man who was not to be meddled with. His face sobered them -more than the face of a leper. - -Aymery struck his horse with the spurs, and the beast leapt his own -length, stood quivering a moment, and then went away at a sharp gallop -as though he had the devil on his back. Aymery’s eyes looked straight -before him, eyes that caught the white glare of an inward fury, and were -blind to the outer world. The snow lay white upon the roofs of the -little town. Smoke ascended tranquilly into a shimmer of sunlight. - -Aymery was not to ride out of Battle town at his own pace; Dom Silvius -had seen to that. At the sound of a horn a crowd of figures seemed to -start from nowhere; men, women, and children came running together; the -whole wasps’ nest was on the wing. - -Aymery drew up sharply, for the crowd in front of him filled the street. -He did not grasp the meaning of it at first, but stared round at the -people as though he were but a chance actor in some chance scene. A -stone thrown from the crowd carried a rude hint, striking him upon the -shield that hung at his back. And with the throwing of the first stone -the whole mob sent up a sudden roar of anger. - -“Out, out, seducer!” - -“Pelt the sacrilegious dog!” - -“Here is Dame Denise’s man, neighbours.” - -“Drag him off.” - -“Roll him in the mud.” - -The uproar and the fury of the fools might have dazed any man for the -moment. The crowd came tossing about Aymery’s horse, keeping a coward’s -distance, content as yet with stones, and filth, and curses. -Thorn-in-the-Thumb and her women were there, obscene and violent, -howling like cats, and urging the men on. Some of them cut coarse -capers, leering up into the knight’s face. - -Aymery sat still in the saddle for a moment, looking neither to right -nor left. His lips were white and pressed hard together, his eyes full -of that shallow glare that fills the eyes of an angry dog. The yelling -and distorted faces began to close upon him. A stone thrown by a man -near struck Aymery upon the mouth. - -Blood showed, but with it a blaze of wrath so terrible and yet so -silent, that hands which were uplifted did not fling their stones. -Aymery’s sword was out. He struck his beast with the spurs, and rode -straight into the thick of the crowd. And though he smote only with the -flat of the blade, they tumbled over each other in their hurry to give -him room, while those who were safe stood open-mouthed, staring like -stupid sheep. - -Aymery rode through them as he would have ridden through a cornfield, -swinging his sword, and laughing, the terrible laughter of a man who has -no pity. No sooner did the rabble see his back, than their courage came -again, the courage of dogs that yap at a horse’s heels. They scampered -after him, shouting, screaming, pelting him as they ran. -Thorn-in-the-Thumb, with a bloody poll from the flat of Aymery’s sword, -panted along with the very first, her apron full of filth that she had -brought with her from her kitchen, and kept gloatingly until too late. -But Aymery never turned his head, and leaving the slobbering pack -behind, rode at a canter out of Battle town. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - -One day early in March when dust and dead leaves were whirling -everywhere, old Fulcon the baker, the meanest man—so it was said—in -Reigate town, went to and fro along the passage beside his house, -carrying in faggots that had been unloaded from a tumbril in the street. -The carter had thrown the wood against the wall, knowing that Fulcon -would not give him so much as a mug of water for helping to carry the -faggots into the shed behind the bakehouse. - -Fulcon went to and fro along the passage like a brown crab, a man whose -back seemed built for burdens, and whose bowed legs and hairy chest gave -promise of great strength. He carried the faggots two at a time, and -neighbours who loitered to watch him at work saw nothing but the sheaves -of wood crawling along upon a knotty pair of legs. The boys of Reigate, -who hated the baker because he had good apple trees and used a stick -vigorously in defending the fruit, called him “tortoise,” and “snail in -the shell.” Sometimes a boy would make a dash and pretend to try the -snatching of a loaf from the stone counter of the little shop. But -Fulcon had a dog who was as surly and as wide awake as his master. Nor -was it to be wondered at that dog Ban had a sour temper, since the -number of stones that were surreptitiously thrown at him would have -paved the path in old Fulcon’s garden. - -The baker had come near the end of the load, and had disappeared up the -passage, leaving the last two faggots lying on the footway. He came -back, picking up the odd bits of stick that littered the stones. A bent -body seemed such a habit with Fulcon that his eyes often saw nothing -more than the two yards of mother earth before his feet. Hence he had -already laid a hand to one of the remaining faggots before he saw the -grey folds of a cloak spread out under his very nose. - -Fulcon straightened up, and showed his natural attitude towards the -world by closing a big brown fist. He saw a woman sitting upon one of -the faggots, a woman in a grey cloak with the hood drawn over her head. -The woman’s back was turned to him, and by the stoop of her shoulders -she seemed very tired. - -Fulcon took her for a beggar, and Fulcon hated beggars even more than -boys. - -“Get up,” said he. - -And since she did not stir he repeated the command. - -“Get up, there,” and he reached out to take her by the cloak. - -The woman rose, and overtopped Fulcon by some five inches. She turned -and looked at him with great brown eyes that seemed tired with the dust -and the wind. The baker stared hard at her, catching the gleam of -splendid hair drawn back under the grey hood. The woman’s face had a -silence such as one sees on the face of a statue. - -“The wood’s mine,” he said, grumbling into his beard, and pointing a -very obvious finger. - -The woman looked at him, and then at the shop. - -“I want bread,” she answered. - -Fulcon’s eyes retorted “pay for it.” - -The woman had a leather bag in her hand. She felt in it, and brought out -money. Fulcon’s frown relaxed instantly. He stooped under the wooden -shutter propped up by its bar, picked up a loaf, and handed it to her. - -To his astonishment she sat down again on the faggot, as though she had -a right there now that she had bought the loaf. Fulcon opened his shrewd -but rather sleepy eyes wider, and stared. The words “get up” were again -on the tip of his tongue. But he smothered them, picked up the other -faggot, and giving a warning whistle to the dog Ban who was lying in the -shop, went away up the narrow passage. - -When Fulcon returned, he stared still harder, for the dog Ban was -sitting with his muzzle resting on the woman’s knee, and looking up -steadily into her face. She was breaking the bread slowly, and giving -the dog a crust from time to time. Fulcon might have reasoned with her -over such extravagance, had he not been the creature of a strong -affection with regard to the big brown dog, one of the two living things -in the world to whom he grudged nothing. - -The baker stood by, scratching his beard, something very much like a -smile glimmering in his eyes. Then he gave a half audible chuckle as -though the scene seemed peculiarly quaint. - -The woman turned her head, but Fulcon’s face was as blank as a piece of -brown sandstone. He looked indeed as though he had never uttered a sound -in his life. Dog Ban lifted his head and stared at his master as though -it was unusual for Fulcon to chuckle. - -The woman asked a question. - -“How far is it to Guildford?” - -Fulcon jerked his head like a wooden doll worked by string. - -“Guildford? It may be eighteen miles,” and he reconsidered the number -carefully as though he were handing out loaves. - -The woman laid a hand on the dog’s head. - -“I am tired,” she said suddenly. “I want a lodging.” - -“A lodging.” - -Fulcon always echoed a neighbour’s sentences, a trick that suggested -caution, and a desire to gain time for reflection. - -“There are hostels in the town,” he said. - -“No.” - -“There are hostels in the town.” - -“No,” and yet again she repeated the blunt monosyllable “no.” - -Fulcon echoed the “no,” and stared hard at the opposite wall. - -Ban opened his mouth suddenly, and laughed as a dog can laugh on -occasions. It was as though the matter was so absurdly simple that he -was tickled by the way these humans bungled it. - -Fulcon caught the dog’s eye. Ban’s laughter had been silent, his -master’s came with a human gurgle. - -“You want a lodging?” and he approached the question as something wholly -new and astonishing, a matter that had never been previously mentioned. - -“I can pay.” - -“You can pay.” - -The woman put back her hood, and gave Fulcon a full view of her face. -Perhaps he felt what Ban had felt, for there was something in the -woman’s eyes that made both these surly dogs quite debonair. - -“I should give you no trouble,” she said simply. “I have had trouble -enough to teach me to be contented.” - -Fulcon nodded. - -“Trouble,” he agreed. “There are many things that bring trouble, more -especially such a thing as a King.” - -“My trouble began with the King,” she said. - -“Ah, to be sure; his men took all my bread one day last year, and I had -not so much as a farthing.” - -His voice grumbled down in the bass notes, and Ban sympathised with a -growl. - -The woman felt in her bag. - -“I can pay you,” she said, “a little. I can work, too, if you wish it.” - -Fulcon narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and looked at Ban as though for -advice. The dog wagged his tail. That wag of the tail decided it. - -“Come up and see,” he said. “I have a little room under the roof.” - -And all three went in together, Fulcon, the dog, and Denise. - -Whether it was Ban’s friendship, or Fulcon’s complacency in turning a -good penny by letting his attic, Denise tarried there in the baker’s -house, glad to find a corner in the world where she could rest awhile in -peace. Fulcon lived quite alone, though an old woman came in now and -again to cook, clean, and sew. The house was of stone, and roofed also -with flags of stone, because of sparks from the bakehouse furnace. The -upper room where Denise lodged was reached by an outside stairway from -the yard. There was a small garden and orchard shut in by the walls and -gable ends of other houses. As for Fulcon he lived in his bakery behind -the shop, he and Ban sleeping together in one corner like two brown dogs -curled up in a heap. Often there was baking to be done at night, and -then Fulcon dozed in the shop by day, the dog keeping an eye open for -customers, boys, and thieves. - -It is one of the facts of life that gruff and surly people are more to -be trusted than those with burnished faces and ready tongues, and so it -turned out with old Fulcon. For Denise found him steady and honest. The -neighbours declared that Fulcon was a miser. True, he worked like a -brown gnome, round-backed, laborious, and silent. No man baked bread -better than Fulcon; nor had he ever sold short weight. - -So Denise found herself tarrying day after day in the town under the -chalk hills, where the beech woods clambered against the sky, and life -seemed still and quiet. Though Earl Simon had taken Reigate the year -before, no memory of violence and of bloodshed seemed to linger there, -and the valley amid the hills waited peacefully for the spring. - -Denise had come very near to death that year, and the heart in her still -carried a deep and open wound. She had changed, too, in those few weeks. -Her glorious hair was growing long again, and her eyes had a more -miraculous sadness. She was thinner in face, yet plumper at the bosom. -Some people might have discovered an indefinable air about her, a -subtle, human something that was not to be seen on the face of a nun. - -A great gulf had opened for Denise between the present and the past, and -what her thoughts and emotions were, only a woman could understand. She -had lost something of herself, and there was a void of tenderness and -yearning in her that hungered to be filled. A chance touch of kindness -could melt her almost to tears. She was very silent, and very gentle. -Even the dog Ban was something to be loved and fondled, and in winning -Ban she won old Fulcon, that brown gnome who toiled and hoarded, hoarded -and toiled. - -One day he called Denise from her upper room, and showed her the door -that led into the garden. Within were herb beds, brown soil turned for -planting vegetables, and a stretch of grass where the apple and pear -trees grew. - -“Grass turns white under a stone,” he said in his grumbling way. “You -will see more of the sun here.” - -And Denise was grateful to the old man, and she went down into the -orchard of an evening, and heard the blackbirds sing. - -Old Fulcon had taken a fancy to Denise. He began to look upon her as a -house chattel that was familiar, and even as a possession to be -treasured. She was silent and gentle, and Fulcon was silent and gentle -under that gruff, ugly, and laborious surface. Denise paid him her -money, and though Fulcon took it, he kept it apart from the hoard he had -in a secret hole in the wall. - -“Times are hard, dog Ban,” he would say sulkily. “Only a priest takes a -child’s last pence.” - -Ban would approve, knowing that his master was less mean than he seemed. - -“Be sure, it is no common wench, dog Ban. Noble folk fall into the -ditch, as well as beggars. She may be a great lady, who knows? No -kitchen girl ever had such hands.” - -So Denise tarried there, and old Fulcon seemed quite content that she -should tarry, and even began to show less reticence and caution. Old men -are often like children; they turn to some people, and run from others. -Nor was it long before Denise discovered why the baker toiled and -hoarded as he did. - -Fulcon had an idol, an idol that fed upon the father’s gold, and that -idol was a son. Denise heard of him as a big, black-eyed, tan-faced -sworder who had run away to the wars before the down was on his chin. -Fulcon’s boy had swaggered, fought, and shouldered his way up hill. He -rode a great horse now, wore mail, and carried a long spear. He earned -good pay in the service of those who hired such gentlemen, even had men -under him, and was a great captain in his father’s eyes. - -“God of me, child,” he would say, “the boy was a giant from the day his -mother bore him! I can stand under his arm, so,” and he would show -Denise how his head did not reach to his son’s shoulder. - -“The handsome dog, he must have money,” and Fulcon chuckled and rubbed -his hands, “there is not a finer man at his arms in the whole kingdom -than Hervé. He has fought as champion often, and no man can stand up to -him. Lord, child, and the way some of the ladies have shown him -kindness, but that is not a matter for your ears. Hervé must have money, -the handsome dog! A lad of such promise must live like the gentleman he -may be.” - -Then Fulcon waxed mysterious, and looked at Denise with cunning pride. - -“I have not given him all my money, oh no, I am wiser than that, I bide -my time. For though I have never dreamt it, my dear, I know that some -day Hervé will win the spurs. Lesser men have fought their way to it. -And then, child, the old baker of Reigate will come out with a store of -gold. Arms, and rings, and rich clothes shall the lad have. He shall not -be put to shame for lack of the proper gear.” - -Denise was touched by the old man’s love for his son, and also by the -trust he showed her in telling her such a thing. For to one who had been -driven out into the world with shame and ignominy, such human faith is -very dear. Denise might be touched by old Fulcon’s pride, but whether -she believed Messire Hervé worthy of it was quite another matter. The -fellow was probably a gallant rogue, with wit enough to possess himself -of the old man’s gold. It seemed strange to her that Fulcon, who was so -shrewd and grim, should be dazzled by gaudy trappings, a loud presence, -and a handsome face. - -Denise had at least found peace in the little town, a time of -tranquillity that stood between her and despair. She had space there for -quiet breathing, and no fear for the moment but the fear of a chance -betrayal. She needed sleep and strength before the march into the -future, that future that seemed as dim and formless as a strange and -distant land. Her heart seemed doomed to lose the very memory of a most -dear dream. If she thought of Aymery she thought of him as a man who had -made her soul thrill in past years, and was dead. Her vows were broken, -but what did that avail? The past was dead also, after what had -happened. - -One evening late in March, Fulcon came to her in the garden, and she -could tell that he was troubled. - -“The bloody sword is out again,” he said. “Bah, I thought they would let -us have peace awhile. The accursed Frenchman has thrown poison into the -pot.” - -Denise was ignorant of much that had passed in the world around. She -knew nothing of the Mise, and of the blight that had fallen on the -Barons’ cause. Pope Urban, good man, upheld King Henry in the breaking -of oaths and the casual selfishness of misrule. Time-servers and -waverers were going over to the King, because of the award St. Louis had -made. Yet Simon had carried his head high, and acted in all honour, he -and the chief lords who were with him. They had surrendered Dover, and -prepared to treat loyally with Henry about the Mise. - -Now news had come into the town that the firebrands on either side were -flaming in arms. Roger Mortimer had ravaged De Montfort’s estates on the -Welsh marches. There had been skirmishes in the west country. The Earl -of Derby had hoisted his banner against the King. Henry himself had -issued writs calling his followers to arms on the last day of March. The -peacemaking of Louis of France seemed likely to bring on a yet bitterer -war. - -Fulcon shook his head over it, and grumbled. - -“The King pipes the tune, and poor John pays. There will be bloody work -again. God give Earl Simon a heavy hand.” - -And then, as is always the case, he discovered compensations. - -“Hervé will have his chance,” he said; “how can a soldier show himself -without a battle!” - -Two days passed, and news came suddenly that Simon the Younger was near -at hand, and likely to pass through Reigate on the way. The news set -Fulcon all agog, for Hervé followed the Earl of Gloucester’s banner, and -some said the earl was with young Simon, and Fulcon was as eager as any -woman to see his lad. He went out into the town, leaving Denise and Ban -to look to the loaves in the shop. And while Fulcon was away De -Montfort’s son marched into Reigate with a following of knights and -men-at-arms. - -Denise saw the people running to and fro like ants in a nest that have -been stirred up with a stick. A crowd began to gather, an anxious, -whispering, restless crowd, uneasy as a wood under the first puffs of a -threatening storm. For armed men in a town were too often the devil’s -retainers, were they friends or foes. - -The sound of shouting came from one of the gates, with the blare of -trumpets. - -“Simon is here!” - -The news spread, and men who had wives and daughters, pushed them within -doors, bidding them look through cracks in the shutters if they must -look at all. A knight came riding by, carrying a black banner with a -white cross thereon. A few stray dogs ran hither and thither, to be -hooted, and pelted by the boys in the crowd. Then suddenly, with the -thunder of hoofs along the street, came the clangour of young Simon’s -company, their spears set close together like black masts in a haven. - -Denise stood at the door of Fulcon’s shop, with Ban bristling and -snarling beside her. A splendid knight on a white horse rode in the van. -His helmet was off, and he laughed, and looked about him as he rode with -a certain good-humoured vanity. Beside him, mounted on a black mare, -Denise saw a woman in silks of blue and green, and a cloak of sables -over her shoulders. - -The way was narrow, and the crowd greatest just by the baker’s shop. -Simon the Younger reined in his horse, holding his spear at arms length -as a sign to those behind him to halt. - -“Room, good people,” he said, gracious and debonair. “We are not here to -trample on honest men’s toes.” - -Denise’s eyes met the eyes of the woman who rode at young De Montfort’s -side. And in that look the shame of the near past leapt up into Denise’s -face, for the lady in the cloak of sables was the woman who had ridden -with Gaillard and Peter of Savoy the day they dragged Aymery from her -cell. - -Etoile’s black eyes had flashed as they stared at Denise’s face. She -also had not forgotten. And once again she looked down upon Denise, and -mocked her with lifted chin, and laughing mouth. - -The street had cleared, and Simon and Etoile went riding on together, -with spear and shield following along the narrow street. Denise had -drawn back into the shadow of the shop, her face still hot with Etoile’s -sneer. Her shame seemed to have been flung at her like a torch out of -the darkness. Denise felt as though it had scorched her flesh. And while -she hid herself there, Aymery rode by among young Simon’s gentlemen, but -Denise neither saw him, nor he her. - -Soon Fulcon came back panting, having pushed his way through the crowd -in the street. He blessed God and Denise when he saw his bread -untouched. - -“Five score loaves for Simon’s men,” he said gloating. “I had the order -yonder up at the Cross. Simon is a lord who pays.” - -Fulcon was very happy, but Denise went to her room above, sorrowful and -sad at heart. The peace seemed to have gone suddenly from the place. - -Aymery, who had passed so near to her for whom he would have pledged his -spurs, served as knight of the guard that evening at De Montfort’s -lodging. Young Simon and Dame Etoile were very merry together, drinking -and laughing into each other’s eyes. Aymery distrusted the woman, and -feared her power over the earl’s son. It always seemed to him that he -had seen her face before that night in Southwark, but where, for the -life of him, he could not remember. - -And as he kept guard in Reigate town that night, he thought of Denise, -and of that dolorous thing that had befallen her. The shame of it had -not driven her out of Aymery’s heart. Little did he guess that he had -been so near to her that day. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - -Simon the Younger went on his way, and Aymery with him, Aymery whose -face had lost some of its youthfulness and caught in its stead the -intensity of the life that stirred the passions of those about him. All -who had kept troth with Earl Simon after the Mise were men whose hearts -were in their cause, and who set their teeth the harder when the odds -grew greater against them day by day. Earl Simon’s spirit seemed like -light reflected from the faces of the stern, strong men who rallied to -him. De Montfort had no use for time-servers, or the half-hearted. - -“Let them go,” he would say; “we want no rotten timber in our house.” - -When Prince Henry, Richard of Cornwall’s son, sought the earl’s leave -not to bear arms against his father and his uncle, Simon bade him go, -and return in arms. - -“For,” said he with scorn, “I would rather have a bold enemy, than a -cock that will crow on neither dunghill.” - -Then Hugh de Bigot, and Henry de Percy left him, but Simon would not be -daunted. - -“I, and my sons will stand for England, and the Charter,” he said. “I -will not go back from my purpose, though I sacrifice my blood, and the -blood of my children.” - -Such was Simon the Earl when fate seemed against him, and such were the -men who gathered about him with grim and silent faces, and the -determination to go through to the end. Ardour and high purpose were -theirs those months. The Mise had purged the cause of slackness and mere -self-seeking. The people of England were to read the King a lesson that -was never to be forgotten by his masterful and more kingly son. - -Some days after Simon the Younger had passed through Reigate, a party of -the King’s men came riding into the town. They were very insolent and -high-handed gentlemen who swore that Reigate was a nest of rebels -because the townsmen had lodged Young Simon and his following, and given -them food. None other than Gaillard commanded this company, Gaillard who -was furious over the news that a spy had brought him, the news that -Etoile had won young Simon as a lover. Gaillard spared neither tongue -nor fist in Reigate. These fat pigs of English should be bled in return -for the way De Montfort had trampled on Gascony. - -Gaillard was never so happy as when he could tease and bully. He and his -men, who were mostly mercenaries from over the sea, took possession of -Reigate, and established themselves strongly there. They terrorised the -place, doing much as their passions pleased, taking all they needed, and -robbing even the churches. So many of them were drunk at night that had -the townsmen showed some enterprise, they could have risen and rid -themselves of the whole pack. - -Old Fulcon had shut up his shop, and baked only such bread as he could -serve out secretly to his neighbours. But Gaillard soon heard of -Fulcon’s frowardness, and came riding down one morning to see such -impudence properly chastened. His men beat in the shutterflap of the -shop with their spear staves, and found Fulcon waiting sulkily within. - -The baker had shut Ban up in an outhouse, knowing that the dog would -show fight, and have a sword thrust through him for his pains. -Gaillard’s men dragged Fulcon out into the street, and brought him -beside the Gascon’s horse. - -“Hullo, you rogue, how is it that you bake no bread?” - -“Because I have no sticks,” said Fulcon surlily. - -“We will give you the stick, dog, unless you send us thirty loaves -daily.” - -Fulcon shrugged his shoulders. - -“I have no flour left,” he said, “and no fool will send flour into the -town,” and he grinned from ear to ear. - -Gaillard cursed him. - -“What, you goat, you horned scullion, are we to be starved! I will see -to it that you have flour and faggots. You shall bake us bread, you dog, -or we will bake you in your own oven.” - -Denise was in her room when Gaillard’s men broke into Fulcon’s shop. -There was no window looking upon the street, and since Denise was no -coward and wished to see what was happening to Fulcon, she opened the -door and came out upon the stairway. As she stood there, two of -Gaillard’s men caught sight of her, and began to call to her from the -street. - -“See there, the old dog has a pretty daughter.” - -“Hallo, my dear, come down and be kissed.” - -Gaillard himself turned his horse, and looked up at Denise. And Gaillard -knew her, and she, him. - -Denise would have fled in and closed the door, but she seemed unable to -move, held there by Gaillard’s eyes. The man’s face had flushed at -first, but he covered a moment’s sheepishness with a smile like the -glitter of sunlight upon brass. Perhaps he saw how Denise shrank from -him, and for a woman to shrink from him made Gaillard the more insolent. - -“Sweet saint,” said he, laughing and looking up at her, “what do we -here? Have we grown tired of the beech wood, and Gaffer Aymery, and the -Sussex pigs?” - -Denise closed her eyes, and stood holding the hand-rail of the stair. -She heard Gaillard laugh, and the sound of his horse trampling the -flints of the street. When she opened her eyes, he was still there below -her. And the sight of the man filled her with such sickness and loathing -that she turned her head away as she would have turned her head from -some brutal deed. - -“Courage, Sanctissima,” said he, “only ugly women have no friends. -Master Flour and Faggots shall be treated gently for your sake. Speak -for me in your prayers.” - -And he called his men about him, and rode away up the street. - -Denise went into her room, and barred the door, and sitting down on the -bed, looked with blank eyes at the walls of the room. A sense of utter -helplessness possessed her, so that she could neither pray nor think. - -So great was her loathing of the man, so poignant her repulsion, that -she fell into a fever of unrest that night, and could not sleep because -of Gaillard. Denise knew how much pity to expect from a man of -Gaillard’s nature; bolts and bars would not avail in the town if the -Gascon’s whim sought her out. She felt driven out again into the world, -to hide herself, to escape from the very thought of the touch of -Gaillard’s hands. - -By dawn Denise had made up her mind. She would slip out of the town, and -throw herself once more into the unknown. Life had so little promise for -her, nor was it in her heart to turn nun after what had passed. She was -ready to work as a servant for the sake of a home. - -Denise was not destined to leave Reigate town that day, for Fulcon came -climbing up the stairs soon after dawn, and knocked softly at her door. -He had been at work that night, perforce, baking bread for Gaillard’s -men, but Fulcon had heard news, news that made him grunt exultingly as -he laboured. - -“Child,” he said, “come down into the garden. I have a word for you.” - -Denise unbarred her door, and followed Fulcon down the stair. He saw -that she was fully dressed, but he said nothing, for Fulcon made a habit -of sleeping in his clothes. - -When they had gained the garden the baker shook his fist at some -invisible figure, but looked very sly and cheerful. - -“The Gascon dog, the bully, the thief! They are coming with whips to -whip him out of the town.” - -He went close to Denise, and touched her on the bosom with a thick -forefinger. - -“Sweeting, I was afraid last night because of that hot-eyed wolf. But -last night we had news, we English pigs. Tell me now, can you hear a -bell ringing?” - -Denise could not. - -“No, child, it is Paul’s Bell in London City. They are up, the men of -London, and have flung the Frenchman’s judgment back into his face. -‘King stands by King, and cobbler by cobbler. No Mise for us, but the -sword of Earl Simon.’ Bold lads, let them shout that! London City has -risen. Hear the wasps humming. They are on the wing everywhere, stinging -fire into Richard the Roman’s manors.” - -Denise had never seen the little brown man so excited before. His -taciturnity had become voluble. Dog Ban, sympathetic cur, set up a -militant barking. - -“This pig of a Gascon knows nothing. We were sick of his wallowings, and -we sent out our messengers. To-night the men of London will be here. The -Gascon and his fools will be full of mead and wine. We shall open a -gate. Then let these foreign dogs die in the gutter.” - -So Denise said nothing to Fulcon of her intended flight, but chose to -bide her time on the chance that Gaillard would be driven out of -Reigate. She had found a refuge in the town, and she loved dog Ban, and -trusted Fulcon. Where else could she find a surer shelter? - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - -Denise kept watch in her room that night, sitting at her window that -overlooked the garden. She could hear old Fulcon moving restlessly to -and fro below, opening the door of the shop from time to time, and going -out into the street to listen. There was a full moon that night, and -though the town gleamed white under the chalk hills, the narrow -passage-ways and streets were in deep shadow. - -About midnight a suggestion of secret stir and movement rose in the -town. Denise heard footsteps go stealthily by, as of people creeping -along under the shadow of the houses. Men stopped to whisper to one -another, and once she heard the sound of a sword dropped on the cobbles. -Fulcon had opened his shop door again, for she heard the creak of the -hinges. Then silence once more smothered the town, save for an -occasional flutter of sound, like the flicker of leaves on a still night -in summer. - -Half an hour had passed, and Denise had begun to think that nothing was -to be done that night, when a burst of shouting rose in the very centre -of the town. So loud and sudden was it, that all the dead might have -risen with one great and exultant cry, a cry that set the moonlit night -vibrating with the thrill of a coming storm. - -Then a bell began to ring, quickly, volubly, with an angry clashing to -and fro. Denise heard men go rushing by with a clatter of arms, laughter -and loud oaths. Soon, the whole town was in an uproar, and old Fulcon, -standing in the doorway of his shop, shouted and clapped his hands -together. - -“Tear them, good lads, tear them.” - -The wave of war had broken over the town, and went splashing and -plunging into every court and corner. Denise opened the door at the top -of the outside stair, and stood listening to the roar of the fight, the -wall of the next house throwing a black shadow across her and the stair. -She could hear shouts and rallying cries, and a sullen under-chant that -seemed made up of blows, curses, and the trampling of many feet. -Confused and shadowy figures went tearing hither and thither, appearing -and disappearing in the moonlight. A wounded and riderless horse -galloped by, screaming with terror. Presently the glow of a fire -coloured the sky with a blur of yellow light. - -Denise was leaning against the jamb of the doorway when she saw a man -come running down the street, a naked sword in his hand, his shield held -up as though to hide his face. He stopped outside Fulcon’s shop, -dropping his shield arm, and looking about him cautiously, yet thanks to -the deep shadow he did not see Denise. She took him for Gaillard, and -was about to shut and bar the door, when she heard Fulcon’s voice shrill -and thin with an old man’s joy. - -“Hervé, Hervé!” - -The man had disappeared round the angle of the house, and Fulcon dropped -his voice to a cautious whisper. The door creaked and closed. Fulcon and -the soldier were together in the shop. Denise did not doubt that it was -Hervé his son who had come with the Londoners, and such of De Montfort’s -men who were with them that night. - -Denise heard them talking together, the younger man’s voice loud and -rather aggressive, Fulcon’s a mere gentle and deprecating grumble. The -son seemed to be asking the father something, Fulcon to be putting Hervé -off with reasons and excuses. Before long the younger man’s voice -changed its tone. It began to plead and to persuade with an insinuating -light-heartedness that Denise did not trust. Old Fulcon’s grumble became -more persuadable. Denise heard a door opened, and then the sound of a -man’s voice singing. - -The singing ceased. For some moments silence held, to be broken by a -sudden scuffling noise, and a voice, thick and choking, crying “Hervé, -Hervé!” A dog’s growl joined in, fierce and threatening, to end in a -piteous and wailing whimper. Something seemed to struggle to and fro -with inarticulate anguish and horror. Then silence fell. Nothing moved -in the room below. - -Denise was caught by an impulse that took no account of self and of -fear. She went down the stairway and into the street, only to find the -door of the shop barred. Her hand was still on the latch when the door -opened. The man Hervé came out, huddling something under his surcoat, -his sword in the moonlight showing a shadowy smear. He stopped dead on -the threshold, staring at Denise, and then pushed past her roughly, and -fled up the street. - -There was a light burning somewhere behind the shop, probably in the -bakehouse where Fulcon and dog Ban lived and slept. Denise went in, -wondering what she would find there, nor was she long in discovering -Messire Hervé’s handiwork. A candle was burning in a sconce on the wall, -and close to the great brick oven lay Fulcon, stretched upon his back, -one arm covering his face as though to shut out the sight of something, -or to break the force of a blow. Ban, in his death agony, had dragged -himself to his master, and crouched there with his forepaws on the -baker’s chest. They were dead, both of them, Fulcon and the dog. A black -hole in the wall showed above the place where Fulcon had fallen, and the -stone that had closed the hole lay close to the old man’s head. Fulcon -had hidden his hoard there, the money that he had scraped together with -infinite labour for the sake of Hervé his son. Denise could guess what -had happened. Fulcon had not been willing to part with the whole sum, -because of his dream that Hervé would need it when he came by -knighthood. And the son had watched the father go to the hiding-place in -the wall, and then had beaten him down, and taken all that he could -find. - -A great horror of the place seized on Denise, with the two dead things -lying there, and the brutal violence of the deed making old Fulcon’s end -seem pitiful and ugly. The horror of it drew her out into the night, as -though to escape the sickly odour of freshly shed blood. Shuddering, she -went up to her room, put on her cloak, and tied such money as she had -left into a corner of her tunic. The grossness of the deed had shocked -her, so that she fled away like a child from a haunted wood, forgetting -such a thing as justice, and the fact that her tongue might drop a noose -over Master Hervé’s head. - -Whither she was going, or what her plans were, Denise did not consider -for the moment. Blind panic carried her away from a thing that had -filled her with pity, and yet with disgust. She seemed hardly conscious -of the fact that fighting was still raging in the town. Houses were on -fire not fifty yards away, but the scattering sparks and the glare above -the house-tops seemed hardly to strike her senses. The burning houses -threw up a flare to match the horror that possessed her; such -surroundings seemed natural and to be expected after Hervé’s slaying and -robbing of his father. - -Denise found herself at last in an open space where many people were -gathered, and torches threw up tawny light under the white face of the -moon. Here was much shouting, much running to and fro, much uproar and -exultation. Now and again a sword or axe flashed above the black mass of -humanity. As Denise came out of the darkness a party of men went -charging through, carrying ladders, hatchets, and iron bars. “Room, -room,” they shouted, for they were bent on stopping the spread of the -fire by pulling down some of the flimsy houses. - -In the middle of the square sat a knight on horseback, a knot of torches -about him, and a pennon fluttering faintly above the smoke. The motion -of the crowd seemed towards the knight, as though he were Lord and King -of the Play. Denise was caught in the crowd and carried slowly towards -the knight on the horse. - -He sat there bareheaded, calm and a little grim, the torchlight -flickering on his face, and on the harness that glittered under his -tawny surcoat. Men went to and fro carrying his commands, figures in -red, blue, and green, going and coming through the crowd. He spoke so -quietly that at a little distance no one heard his voice, but saw only -the lips move in his stern and watchful face. - -It was Aymery, lord of Goldspur, Knight of the Hawk’s Claw, who had the -command of the Londoners who had rushed on Reigate. The crowd carried -Denise close to him, within an arm’s length of the circle of torches. -And with her nearness she seemed suddenly to awake with a great cry of -the heart that did not reach her lips. - -“Aymery, Aymery!” - -Her utter loneliness in the midst of that crowd seemed to her symbolical -of the past and of the future. She was just a child that moment, with -the passionate and pathetic longing of a child, touched with the deeper -instinct of the woman. And by chance Aymery looked straight at Denise, -so that it seemed to her that he was looking at her, and at her alone. -She did not realise that Aymery could see nothing but a moving mist of -faces because of the torch flare and the smoke. His face was so grim and -intense, and his eyes so hard, that Denise shrank back, believing that -he had recognised her, and that he looked at her as a thing of shame. -She hid her face from him with bitterness and humiliation, and crept -away into the thick of the crowd. - -Of all that happened afterwards that night in Reigate town Denise had -but a confused memory. She remembered being hurried along by the crowd, -with shouting and tumult in the dark alleyways and streets. She had a -memory of being crushed against a group of panting and fiercely exultant -men who had blood upon their hot hands and faces. One of them had thrown -an arm round her and kissed her, laughing when she shuddered and broke -away. Once a couple of heads went dancing by on the points of spears, -heads that seemed to mock with dead, open mouths at the jeering crowd -below. Men were still fighting in one corner of the town, for Gaillard -had got the remnant of his followers together, and was struggling to -break through. Denise, still carried onwards, saw a black mass like the -mass of a town gate rising before her. She was pressed against a wall as -the crowd opened to let a file of mounted men ride through. She saw -Aymery in his surcoat of tawny gold go riding under the arch of the -gate, shield forward, sword swinging, his men crowding after him like -sheep through a gap. Then the rush of the people carried her through the -town gate into the space outside the barriers. And when the dawn came -she found herself a mile from Reigate town, sitting under a tree, with a -cold wind driving grey clouds across an April sky. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - -Said Marpasse to Isoult: - -“If the Lord had loved us he would have kept the King at Oxford until we -came there to drink wine.” - -And Isoult, a little woman, the colour of ivory, lithe and strong as a -snake, threw a handful of sand at Dame Marpasse, and laughed. - -“Since they have taken Young Simon prisoner,” she said, “there will be -no chance for the like of us under the banner of the Old Earl. God grant -that Simon be soon put under the sods. He would freeze all the young men -in the country. God prosper the King.” - -Marpasse had taken off one of her stockings, and was darning a hole in -the heel, and darning it very clumsily. - -“They have slaughtered the Jews in London, and the King should come -south again to see after the remnant of his flock. They say his host is -moving nearer the river. We must look to our manners, my dear; I will be -nothing under a great lady.” - -Isoult shot out a red tongue. - -“Supposing I look no lower than Prince Edward himself! We must fill our -purses soon. These cursed marchings to and fro have left us out in the -cold. Once in the King’s camp, I will sleep in a lord’s tent, and no -other. And I will have siclatouns and silks, for there will be London -and half the country to plunder.” - -Marpasse looked solemn. - -“They must beat Earl Simon out of the country first,” said she; “the old -watchdog keeps the meat from being stolen. Phew, I would give something -for a loaf of bread. We shall have to bide the night here, and chew -grass. What a curse it is sometimes to wear gay clothes, and to have no -gentleman near to take one up on his horse.” - -Great contrasts were these two; Isoult, black as midnight as to eyes and -hair, sharp, peevish, slim of body, red of mouth and white of skin; -Marpasse, with large handsome face brown as a berry, hard blue eyes -shining under a mop of tawny hair, and a mouth ready to break into -giggles. They were resting on the road, these excellent gentlewomen, in -the shelter of a sand-pit on the hills beyond Guildford, their baggage, -such as it was, spread about them in happy confusion. Isoult had a great -slit in her poppy-red tunic, a slit that showed the white shift beneath. -She was waiting till Marpasse, that tawny woman who loved bright -colours, should finish with the needle. But Marpasse’s darning was slow -and clumsy, and Isoult plucked grass and gnawed it, watching the sandy -track that went winding down into the valley. - -Marpasse finished her botching at last, and wiping the sand from between -her toes, pulled on her stocking. She stuck the needle into a wisp of -thread, and tossed it into Isoult’s lap. But Isoult was still gnawing -grass, and staring down the road with a brooding alertness in her eyes. - -“Here comes a grey goat,” she said suddenly, spitting out a blade of -grass, and wiping her chin, “maybe she is worth being gentle to. Who -knows! At all events, we are hungry.” - -Marpasse wriggled forward so that she had a view of the road. One stout -leg protruded from under the skirt of cornflower blue, and the Juno’s -limb betrayed a further need of the needle. - -“Hey, grey gull, but you are tired, my dear.” - -“Tired! Bah!” and Isoult bit her lips, “only married women walk so, as -though they had a stick laid across their shoulders each morning.” - -Marpasse held her ground. - -“You should know enough of the road, little cat, to tell when a padder -is footsore, and far spent. God a’ me, but she is good to look at, -though she be lame. And a bag, too. If she has bread in it, I will call -her dear sister.” - -The woman in grey whom Isoult had sighted, came to the mouth of the -sand-pit, and saw these two wenches in their bright clothes watching -her; and when one of them smiled and beckoned, Denise stood hesitating, -and then smiled in return. But the smile was so weary and so sad, that -Marpasse, that big woman with the head of a sunflower, jumped up, and -went out into the road. - -Marpasse looked Denise over from head to foot, yet behind the rude and -bold-eyed stare there was the instinctive good nature of a coarse, -generous, vagrant spirit. Marpasse’s self-introduction was like a -friendly slap of the hand. She spoke straight out, and did not stop to -parley. - -“The roads might be strawed with peppercorns in this dry weather. It is -hot in the sun too, on these hills.” - -She glanced at Denise’s feet. The shoes were dusty and worn, with the -pink toes showing. Marpasse laughed. She was a hardy soul, and her brown -feet were like leather. - -“If you are going to Guildford, you will not make the town to-night.” - -“I know the road, I travelled it only a week ago.” - -“God o’ me, mistress, so do I. Come in, and rest, we are two quiet -women. And we have wine and no bread. If you have bread, I will strike a -bargain.” - -Denise looked from Marpasse to Isoult, that slip of ivory swathed in -flaming red. The two women puzzled her. She had neither character nor -calling to give them, but Marpasse looked buxom, and good-tempered, and -Denise had no cause to trust people who pretended to great godliness. -Moreover she was very weary and very footsore, and very thirsty, as -Marpasse had hinted. - -The first thing she did was to give Marpasse the bag she carried. - -“There is bread there,” she said, “and some apples.” - -Marpasse stared, but took the bag. Isoult had crept up, and her eyes -were bright and greedy. She snatched at the bag, but Marpasse caught her -wrist, and gave her a slap across the cheek. - -“Play fair, little cat,” said she, “I cheat no one who does not try to -cheat.” - -Then she turned to Denise with a laugh, her hard eyes growing suddenly -soft and bright. - -“Take your share, sister, and welcome,” she said, “two mouthfuls of wine -for a crust of your bread. Come in. I will keep Dame Red Rose’s fingers -quiet. There are worse places to sleep in than a sand-pit.” - -Peaceable folk might have fought shy of these boldly coloured, and -bold-eyed women, but Denise had suffered so many things at the hands of -the world that she did not stand upon dignity or caution. Marpasse and -Isoult puzzled her, being so gaudy and yet so ragged, so broad and merry -in their talk. When they had drunk wine and broken bread together, -Marpasse came and sat herself at Denise’s feet. She unlaced the worn -shoes, and finding blood and chafed skin beneath, made a noise like a -clucking hen. - -“You are not used to the road yet, my dear,” said she, “it is time I -played the barber.” - -In her blunt and practical way she pulled off Denise’s stockings, doing -it gently enough, for the feet were chafed and sore. - -“Black cat, throw me the oil flask.” - -Isoult demurred, looking a little sullenly at Denise. For Isoult was -fond of oiling and smoothing her black hair, and there would be no oil -left for the toilet. - -Marpasse took it by force. - -“I understand these matters,” she said, “you are a selfish brat, -Isoult.” - -Marpasse’s broad face was so brown and kind, and her hands so motherly, -that a wet mist came into Denise’s eyes. She was astonished that the -woman should take so much trouble, and was touched by her great -gentleness. Isoult, who was watching, saw two tears gather in Denise’s -eyes, and she started up with an angry toss of the head, and a snap of -her white teeth. Marpasse, bending over Denise’s feet, saw those two -tears fall on to Denise’s skirt. She looked up suddenly, and for some -reason showed her roughness. Such women as Marpasse and Isoult had a -ferocious contempt for tears. - -“Bah, come now, no snivelling. I have not hurt you, don’t pretend that.” - -“You have not hurt me at all. It was not that.” - -“Oh, not that! Then what are you blubbering for?” - -“Not many people would have troubled about my feet,” said Denise, almost -humbly. - -“Bah, many people are fools.” - -The two women looked at each other, and Marpasse seemed to understand. -She went red under her brown skin, laughed at herself contemptuously, -and began to drop in the oil. - -“The Black Cat has prowled away,” she said, “and the cat is a selfish -beast. Now for some cool grass.” - -She scrambled aside, and tearing grass from some of the tussocks on the -bank, moulded the stuff about Denise’s feet, binding it in place with -pieces of rag. - -“You will walk easier to-morrow,” she said, smiling, “and you had better -buy new hose in Guildford town.” - -She was still smiling when Denise bent down and kissed the coarse, -laughing, good-natured mouth. - -“Bah, if you had a beard, it might please me,” quoth Marpasse. - -But from that moment she and Denise were friends. - -The three of them slept that night in the sand-pit, Marpasse showing -Denise how she could scoop a hole in the sand, and lie in comfort. And -Denise slept till after the dawn had broken. When she woke, the two were -packing their belongings into a sack. - -Denise felt that they had been talking about her while she slept, for -they eyed her a little curiously, but with no cunning or distrust. Nor -was Denise’s instinct at fault. “She is not one of us,” Marpasse had -said, “not yet, at all events, poor baggage.” And Marpasse had looked -almost pityingly at Denise, for her face was beautiful yet very sad in -sleep, bathed by its auburn hair. “She has had trouble,” Marpasse had -gone on to declare; “curses, I was more like that myself once.” Whereat -Isoult had jeered. - -Marpasse came over, and unbound Denise’s feet, and in the doing of it, -asked a few blunt questions. - -“Maybe you would not be seen with us on the road?” she asked. - -Denise’s brown eyes answered “why?” Marpasse looked at her and smiled. - -“Where may you be going?” - -This time Denise’s eyes were troubled, they had no answer. - -“Nowhere, and anywhere? God o’ me. I learnt that road long ago, and a -rough road it is. Come with us, if it pleases you. I am a wise crow.” - -Denise looked puzzled. She liked Marpasse, and human sympathy was -something, but she could make nothing either of her or of Isoult, save -that Isoult had a jealous temper. They were so very gay for beggars, nor -had they the air of being upon a pilgrimage. - -“Perhaps you are for Canterbury?” she asked. - -Marpasse sat back on her heels, and opened her mouth wide to laugh. - -“No, my dear, we are not for St. Thomas’s shrine. We are in search of -service, Isoult and I. Isoult is travelling to find service in the -household of some lord.” - -Denise’s eyes were innocent enough as she looked at Isoult, but the girl -bit her lips, and turned away. Marpasse had mastered her laughter. On -the contrary she was studying Denise with a questioning frown. - -“Are you after St. Thomas’s blessing, my dear?” she asked. - -Denise did not know how to answer her, and Marpasse, who was wondrous -quick for so big a woman, picked up Denise’s shoes and began to lace -them on. - -“You can come with us as far as you please, my sister,” she said, “and -when that body there is asleep some time, you and I can talk together. I -am called Marpasse, and I am a very wicked woman, and the good priests -curse me, and the bad priests curse me also, but look after me along the -road. I am so wicked that I shall certainly be claimed by the devil one -day. That is what I am, my dear; but a speckled apple is sometimes sweet -under the skin.” - -She laughed with a kind of fierce bravado, and Denise saw her eyes -flash. - -Isoult broke into a sharp and malicious giggle. - -“What a good girl you were once, Marpasse!” - -“I was that,” said the elder woman, looking at Denise’s feet; “men make, -men break, and good women prevent the mending. That is what life has -been to many.” - -They set out for Guildford that morning over the blue hills where the -gorse blazed, and a few solitary firs rose black against the sky. It was -a wild country, and Denise was in wild company had she known it, for -little Isoult had had blood on the knife she carried at her girdle, and -Marpasse could use a heavy hand. They trudged on over the heathlands, -Isoult walking a little ahead, sometimes humming a song, sometimes -glancing back sharply and impatiently at Denise. For Marpasse took her -time, remembering that Denise was footsore, and she talked to Denise -freely, telling her where she was born, and how she had lived, and how -she had come to the road. - -“For we are beggars, my dear,” she said, “though Madame Isoult there has -a red dress. We must live, and the good women turn up their noses. But -good women often have sharp tongues and sour faces, and the poor men run -to the mead butt and to us for comfort.” - -Marpasse was so frank that she could not but doubt that Denise knew what -company she was in. But Denise had taken a liking to Marpasse, and -perhaps for that reason she did not read very clearly the truth that the -woman put honestly upon her own forehead. It was not surprising that -Marpasse should draw her own conclusions, yet she was sorry in her heart -for Denise. - -The day passed, a day of blue haze, of blue distances, and of sunlight -shimmering over purple hills. Bees were on the wing, humming here and -there amid the gorse. At noon the women shared out the bread, wine, and -apples, and Marpasse looked at Denise’s feet. It was near evening when -they came over the last hill towards Guildford town, with the west a -pyre of peerless gold. - -Isoult, who walked ahead of the other two, turned suddenly, and waved to -them, and pointed towards the sky line. And against the deep blue of the -northern sky they saw a line of spears moving, with here and there the -black dot of a man’s head. A banner was displayed at the head of the -company, but neither Isoult nor Marpasse could decipher it at such a -distance. - -The line of spears went eastwards towards Guildford, and dropped slowly -out of view. Denise saw that Black Isoult’s nostrils had dilated and -that her eyes had the glitter seen in the eyes of a beast of prey. She -ran on ahead, light on her feet as a young lad, and they saw her stand -outlined against the sky line, and then turn and wave her arm. - -Below, towards the valley, dark masses of men were moving on Guildford -town. The faint braying of the trumpets came up on the evening breeze. -Isoult saw a part of the King’s host on the march. - -She tossed her head, laughed, and spread her arms. - -“The good saints have blessed us,” she said, and she looked at Denise -curiously under her black brows as though searching her inmost heart. - -Marpasse beamed. - -“Our grey sister has brought us luck. We must keep our wits sharp -to-night.” - -They went on down the hill, and Isoult, walking softly and lightly as a -cat, pointed out where a great baggage train lumbered with a crowd of -people like black ants about it. Already they were pitching tents and -pavilions in the meadows outside the town. The evening sunlight seemed -to strike upon water, for the glitter of the King’s host was like the -glitter of a river flowing in the valley. Everything looked so peaceful -and minute, so orderly, and yet so human. It was like the green grass -over a quagg, bright and rich at a distance, but covering rottenness -beneath. Up on the hills one did not smell the sweat of the horses nor -hear the men’s foul talk, nor see the savagery that was loose in their -eyes. - -Isoult turned, and looked sharply at Marpasse. - -“Shall we try the town?” - -Marpasse shook her head. Her face was hard now, and her eyes watchful. -Denise wondered at the change that had come over the two women. - -“A quick bargain is a bad one,” said Marpasse, “let us bide our time, -and listen. We are good enough to take our choice. I shall keep my knife -in my hand to-night.” - -And they went on down hill towards the camp that was being pitched about -the town. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - -Night came while Marpasse and Isoult were building a fire under the lee -of a grass bank in a meadow outside Guildford, for Marpasse, shrewd -woman, had no sooner heard the din that the King’s men were making in -the town, than she had chosen to pass the night in the open rather than -within the walls. - -“They will all be drunk as swine,” she said, “and a drunken man is no -bargain. Out with your knife, Black Cat, and run and cut some of that -furze yonder. Some lazy soul has left faggots in that ditch.” - -Marpasse made Denise sit down under the shelter of the bank, for the -grey sister’s feet had hurt her through the last two miles. So Denise -sat there in the dusk, lost in a kind of vacant wonder at life, and at -herself, and at the strange way that things happened. She felt tired, -even to stupidity, and the sounds that came up out of the town were not -more audible than the roar of a distant mill. - -Marpasse and Isoult made the fire, Isoult using the flint, steel and -tinder they carried with them, Marpasse playing the part of bellows. The -fire proved sulky, perhaps because of Isoult’s temper, and her muttering -of curses. Marpasse knelt and blew till her brown cheeks were like -bladders. The flames seemed pleased by her good-natured, strenuous face, -for they shot up, and began to lick the wood. - -Marpasse sat back suddenly on her heels, her face very red, and shading -her eyes with her hand, she looked out into the darkness. - -“Poof, is it the blood in my ears, or do I hear something?” - -Isoult was also on the alert, her eyes bright under a frowning forehead. - -“Horses,” she said. - -“What are they doing this time of the night?” - -From somewhere came the dull thunder of many horses at the trot. Nothing -was distinguishable but the fires that had been lit here and there about -the town, fires that shone like golden nails on the sable escutcheon of -the night. Isoult, who was very quick of hearing, swore that more than a -thousand horses must be moving yonder in the darkness. - -“Curses, but it must be the rear-guard,” said Marpasse; “God send them -clear of us, or we shall be over-crowded. The fire will save us from -being trampled on.” - -The thunder of hoofs came nearer, a sound that sent a vague shudder -through the darkness as though something infinitely strong and -infinitely savage were rushing on out of the gloom. The earth shook. A -sense of movement grew in the outer darkness, a sense of movement that -approached like a phosphorescent wave swinging in from a midnight sea. -Then a trumpet screamed. There was a rattling and chafing like the noise -made by the tackle of a great ship when she puts about in a high wind. A -shrill, faint voice from somewhere shouted an order. The belated -rear-guard of the host, for such it was, halted within a furlong of the -women’s fire. - -Marpasse shook her fist at the dark mass. - -“Fools, you should have been drunk down yonder in the town by now! We -can do very well without you. And as likely as not you will thieve our -fire.” - -Isoult laughed. - -“Some thieves might be welcome,” she said. - -And Denise, who had listened to it all with tired apathy, seemed to wake -suddenly and to feel the cold, for she shivered and drew nearer to the -fire. - -Despite the newcomers, Isoult, Marpasse and Denise sat round the burning -wood, breaking their bread, and listening to the shouts of the men, and -the trampling and snorting of horses. It was pitch dark beyond the -circle of light thrown by the fire, though torches began to go to and -fro like great moths with flaming wings. Marpasse and Isoult both had -their ears open. They were rough women in the midst of rough men, and -their instincts were as fierce and keen as the instincts of wild things -that hunt or are hunted at night. - -Voices seemed to rise everywhere in the darkness. A waggon went creaking -by, with the cracking of a whip, and the oaths of the driver. Mallets -began to ring on the polls of stout, ash pegs and Isoult pricked up her -ears at the sound. - -“They are pitching a tent yonder!” - -Marpasse nodded as she munched her bread. - -“Some of the lords must be near,” Isoult ran on, “we may be in good -company. The saints bring us luck.” - -Her eyes met Denise’s, and there was a startled something in Denise’s -glance that made Isoult flinch, and then burst into spiteful laughter. -Isoult had the wine flask in her hand, and she lifted it, and drank -deep. - -“Blood of mine, have we an unshorn lamb here?” - -She stared at Denise impudently as though challenging her. Denise looked -away. - -Isoult’s face sharpened, the face of a little vixen ever ready to snap -and bite. - -“Lord, how proud we are! Coarse sluts, that is what we are, Marpasse.” - -The big woman held up a brown hand. - -“Keep your claws in, cat,” she said, “you were born quarrelling. Curse -you, be quiet.” - -And Isoult obeyed, having felt the weight of Marpasse’s fist. - -It was not long before a couple of soldiers passed close to the fire, -and seeing the three women, red, blue, and grey, they stopped, and began -to talk banteringly to Marpasse and Isoult. The women returned the men -better than they gave, and showed them plainly that they had no need of -their company, for the fellows were rough boors, and sweeter at a -distance. Denise sat and shuddered, huddling into herself with -instinctive disgust, and understanding why Marpasse had a naked knife in -her sleeve. The men slunk off, sending back jeers out of the darkness, -for Marpasse had shown her knife. - -“The sting of a wasp keeps such flies from buzzing too near,” she said; -“we are great ladies on occasions, Isoult and I. We cherish our dignity -for the sake of the gold.” - -They went on with their meal, hearing movement everywhere about them in -the darkness. Isoult’s eyes were fixed upon a fire about a hundred yards -away, whose light seemed to play upon the rose-coloured canvas of a -tent. Men were going to and fro there, and Isoult guessed that it was -some great lord’s pavilion. As for Marpasse she ate, drank, and kept -eyes and ears upon the alert. - -Denise had nothing before her but the black half sphere of the night -chequered with the yellow flutter of the fires. Isoult and Marpasse sat -facing her and looking towards the town. Therefore they did not see what -Denise saw, the tall figure of a man in war harness, unhelmeted, and -wearing a blue surcoat blazoned over with golden suns. He came along the -bank out of the darkness, and stood looking down at the three women -round the fire. - -Now Denise’s hood was back, and the firelight shining on her hair and -face. Gaillard stood on the bank above, and stared at her, intently, -silently, and she at him. Denise felt stricken dumb, and the heart froze -in her, for Gaillard was near enough for her to recognise his face. It -seemed to Denise that he stood there and gloated over her, opening his -mouth wide to laugh, but making no sound. She saw him raise his hand, -touch his breast, and then make the sign of the cross in the air, -watching her as a ghost might watch the confused and half-stupefied -terror of one awakened out of sleep. - -Marpasse happened to raise her eyes to Denise’s face, and its bleak, -fixed stare put her upon the alert. - -“Heart alive, sister, is the devil at my back?” - -She twisted round in time to see a man moving off into the darkness, and -Marpasse caught a glimpse of the gold suns on the blue surcoat. She -jumped up, looked hard at Denise, and then went a few steps after -Gaillard into the darkness. But the man did not wait for her, and she -was recalled by a sharp cry from Isoult. - -Marpasse saw Denise climb the bank, and disappear into the darkness, and -in a moment Marpasse was after her, knowing more than Denise knew of a -camping ground at night. She still had view of the grey cloak, and -Denise fled like a blind thing, and like a blind thing she was soon in -trouble. She had run towards the place where the night seemed blackest, -but the passion of her flight carried her into nothing more sympathetic -than an old thorn hedge. It was here that Marpasse came up with her, -while she was tearing her cloak free from the clinging thorns and -brambles. - -She caught Denise and held her. - -“Fool, where are you running?” - -“Let me go, Marpasse.” - -Denise’s voice was fierce and eager, the eager fierceness of a grown -woman, not the petulance of a child. She struggled with Marpasse, but -the woman kept her hold. - -“Let me go, take your hands away!” - -Marpasse found Denise stronger than she had thought. - -“Fool, I am holding you for your own good. Strike me on the mouth, I am -used to it. I know what a camping ground is like at night. Some great, -fat spider will have you in a twinkling.” - -Denise struggled for breath. - -“I must go, Marpasse, take your hands away.” - -“Saints, don’t shout so, they are as thick here as flies on a dead -horse! Ssst, listen to that!” - -She dragged Denise close to the hedge, for they heard men stumbling and -calling in the darkness. - -“Hallo there, hallo!” - -“Come here, you squeakers, and keep us company.” - -“Find ’em, good dog, find ’em.” - -Marpasse laid a hand over Denise’s mouth, and they crouched there while -the men beat the hedge and shouted like boys bird hunting with clap nets -at night. They were on the wrong side of the hedge, however, and soon -grew tired of the game. The women heard them move off into the darkness. - -Marpasse took her hand from Denise’s mouth. - -“There, you grey pigeon, the night hawks would have had you!” - -“Help me, Marpasse. My God, I cannot stay here.” - -She was still in a fever for flight, but more reasonable towards -Marpasse. The woman sat down under the hedge, and pulling Denise after -her, held her in her arms. - -“Let me play mother,” quoth she gently, “keep to a whisper, my dear. I -know something about trouble.” - -So with the camp fires about them, and with the sound of trumpets blown -madly and at random in the town below, these two women opened their -hearts to one another. Denise told Marpasse how Gaillard had served her, -how she had seen him that night, how she loathed and feared the man, and -Marpasse understood. She was wise, poor wench, in the ways of the world, -and Denise’s tale might have been her own in measure. But Marpasse had -not been wholly hardened and brutalised by the life she had led. She had -the instinct of generosity left in her, and she could be superlatively -honest when she was not rebuffed by sneers. - -Marpasse had an honest fit that night. She told Denise the truth about -herself, and knew by Denise’s silence and a certain stiffening of her -body that the truth had roused a counter-shock of repulsion. Denise’s -instincts recoiled from Marpasse. The woman was sensitive to the change. -She drew aside from Denise, and sat with her knees drawn up, and her -arms clasped over them. - -“You are like the rest of the world, sister,” she said, with a laugh on -edge with bitterness; “even when we try to be honest, good people spit -on us, and draw aside their clothes.” - -Denise stretched out a hand and touched Marpasse’s shoulder. - -“It is not that,” she said. - -“Bah, I am used to it! We are never forgiven, and I want no forgiveness. -Fawn and cringe on the godly? To hell with their smug faces! But after -all, you and I, my dear——” - -She stopped, and began to pull at the grass with her hands. Denise’s -eyes were shining. - -“God forgive us both, Marpasse. Sometimes fate is stronger than we are. -We are sisters, in that.” - -Marpasse did not move. It was Denise now who played the comforter. -Marpasse did not repel her a second time. - -“Bah,” said she, “what is the use of talking? The good people will never -let me be other than I am, and even a pig must live. But you, you can -climb out of the quagmire, my dear. The Gascon devil, I would stick my -knife in him for nothing. Listen to me now, we must go back to the fire, -and wait till the morning. It will be easier to bolt then. You must not -risk it in the dark.” - -Denise still clung to the darkness, as though it could keep Gaillard at -arm’s length. Marpasse scolded her. - -“Why, you chicken, you have never learnt how to rule a man! Who is this -Gaillard, indeed? I tell you I am not afraid of him, Marpasse is a match -for any Gascon.” - -She held out her arms, and the Denise she held in them was white-faced, -and very earnest. - -“You have a knife, Marpasse,” she said, “you can strike me if needs be.” - -Marpasse held her close. - -“There, now, there, what mad things are you saying?” - -But Denise clung to her passionately, looking straight into Marpasse’s -eyes. - -“Promise to strike with the knife, Marpasse. Promise or I will run, and -take my chance.” - -And Marpasse promised so far as the knife was concerned, knowing that -she would strike Gaillard before she struck Denise. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - -When they returned to the fire Isoult was no longer there, but she had -left some sign behind her that Marpasse understood, for the elder woman -showed no concern. She was discreetly curt with Denise when the latter -began to wonder what had befallen Isoult. - -“Lie down and sleep, my dear,” she said, “and take care of your feet, -for you will want them on the morrow. The black cat can see in the dark, -she will come to no harm, will Isoult.” - -Marpasse might as well have told Denise to love Gaillard as to sleep. -Her brain was full of a listening wakefulness that started uneasily when -a stick cracked on the fire. So she and Marpasse kept vigil together, -while a gradual silence spread over the valley with its armed host and -its sombre town. Nor were Marpasse and Denise disturbed that night, for -the men of the rear-guard had been marched and counter-marched that day -owing to some mad rumour, and they were dead tired, and glad to snore -under any hedge. - -The dawn came listlessly, and without colour. The birds were awake and -singing, and with their song, bizarre and discordant came the blowing of -trumpets and the stupid curses of the stirring men. The dawn seemed -heavy, and full of a dull discontent. Yet the birds sang, and the men -cursed perfunctorily, sulkily, the creatures of a habit. So with the -voices of the morning thrilling from the throats of the choir invisible, -the camp of the King was one great oath. - -Denise was ready, and shivering to be gone. The fire was out, her body -stiff and cold, the dew heavy upon the grass. The dawn had shown Denise -how hemmed in she and Marpasse were. Horses stood tethered everywhere, -gaunt, clumsy waggons waited like patient mammoths, not a hundred yards -away a red pavilion had been pitched, its coloured canvas swelling and -falling lazily with the morning breeze. The babel of coarse, rough -voices that rose out of the green earth made Denise shudder and yearn to -be gone. - -But Marpasse held her ground. - -“Food and drink first,” she said. - -Denise’s restless eyes betrayed her desire. - -“Rest easy,” Marpasse assured her, “men are meek in the morning, though -they curse all heaven and earth. Eat and drink, and see that your shoes -sit comfortably.” - -Denise ate with such hurry and such artificial greed that Marpasse could -not help but laugh. - -“My teeth are not so good as yours,” she said; “if your legs are as -sound we shall not do amiss.” - -Denise’s eyes were on the red pavilion. The flap thereof was open, and -in the black slit that clove like a wedge into the colour, Denise -thought that she saw a man standing and looking towards where she and -Marpasse sat. Marpasse was still at her meal, when two men-at-arms came -out of the red pavilion, carrying their shields as servers carry dishes -to a table. They came over the grass towards the women, while a man in a -blue surcoat appeared at the door of the pavilion, and stood as though -to watch. - -Denise half rose, but Marpasse caught her, and pulled her back. - -“Sit still. You are far too simple.” - -“It is Gaillard, yonder!” - -“Yes, yes. Fool him first, my dear, and then run away when he is not -looking. That is what we women have to do when men are the stronger.” - -The two soldiers came up, and stood before Denise. One carried food and -a flask of wine in the hollow of his shield; the other, a red scarf and -a silver girdle. - -“Messire Gaillard, our lord, yonder, begs for the Lady Denise’s -good-will.” - -Marpasse beckoned with her arm. - -“Give them here, sirs, my good will is worth homage.” - -The men grinned, and inclined their heads with quaint accord towards -Denise. - -“It is the grey, not the blue,” said one. - -Denise stared at the grass, and did not catch Marpasse’s urgent nods and -winks. - -“I take no gifts from Messire Gaillard,” she said. - -Marpasse made an impatient clucking with her tongue. How prejudiced -people did bungle matters, to be sure! - -“Think twice, my dear,” she said meaningly. - -Denise repeated the same words. The men grinned, looked at one another, -and did not stir. - -“Messire Gaillard,” said they, “has set us at your service. It is proper -that you should be guarded when all men are not as honourable as our -lord.” - -Denise saw herself trapped, and went red, and then white. She looked at -Marpasse, but Marpasse stared obtusely into the distance, knowing that -they were in the Gascon’s hands, and that the men had been sent to see -that they did not flit. Marpasse remembered the promise of the knife, -but the morning was cold and grey, and Marpasse too practical and -hopeful to indulge in such heroics. Therefore she put the best face she -could upon it for Denise’s sake, and Marpasse knew how to deal with men. - -“Sit down, gentlemen,” said she, “I am sorry the fire is out, but we -shall be moving before long. You, there, with the beard, since my sister -is in the sulks, I will take some of that baked meat and wine you have -brought us. Now, good health to the King, and all soldiers.” - -Marpasse ate and drank with relish, a second breakfast not coming at all -amiss to her, and she talked and laughed with the men, and soon had them -at her service. Denise would touch nothing, though Marpasse smiled, -nodded and whispered in her ear. “Courage, girl,” she said, “leave it to -me, a laugh and a flash of the eyes work marvels, even with pigs. We -will spread our fingers at them before the day is old.” But Denise sat -like one stunned, and would not believe that Marpasse meant what she -said. The red tent had a fascination for Denise, and she saw Gaillard -and two other knights come out, sit down on cloaks their servants spread -for them, and make a meal. Then they were washed, barbered, and armed in -full view of the two women, while a boy stood near, and sang to the -sound of a lute. The whole camp was full of stir and movement. Already, -black columns were pouring out of Guildford town. In an hour the whole -host would be on the march. - -So it befell that Denise found herself walking beside Marpasse that -morning at the tail of Gaillard’s company of spears. The two men-at-arms -who had been set to guard them, walked their horses one on either side. -Marpasse trudged along, merry and insolent; Denise, with her thoughts -humbled into the dust. Gaillard had ridden up and spoken to her, not -mockingly, but with the arrogance of a man in power. “Sanctissima,” he -had said, “before long I will find you a palfrey, and you shall ride at -my side. Hold up your head, my dear, and be sensible; I have something -on my conscience, and by my sword, I am not unready to right a wrong.” -Denise had answered him nothing, for she was bitter with the humiliation -of it, and that Gaillard of all men should look at her as on one whom he -might graciously lift up out of the mire. Chance had joined her to these -two women, and she guessed that Isoult’s red gown had coloured -Gaillard’s vision. - -When they had gone a mile or more Denise asked Marpasse in an undertone -for her knife. But Marpasse shut her mouth firmly, and shook her head. - -“Have patience, my dear,” she said in a whisper, “I have my trick to -play. Be ready when I give the word.” - -And Marpasse trudged on cheerfully, mocking at herself in her heart. - -“Fool,” she said to herself, “what is the girl to you? Why burn your -fingers pulling cinders out of the fire? You may get kicks for it, and -no money. And you may lose your chance, too, of getting a lover. Fool! -You have had a heart of pap ever since you were born.” - -Yet though Marpasse talked to herself thus, her mind was set on cheating -Gaillard of Denise. - -The King’s host went winding through the green valleys that spring -morning, marching Kentwards, where Earl Simon had taken the town of -Rochester by assault, and pressed hard upon John de Warenne who held out -in the castle. Horse and foot, archers and camp-followers, -baggage-waggons, sumpter mules, and loose women, made up the stream of -steel and colour. It was a rough, careless, confident march, for had not -the first triumphs fallen to the King? Northampton had been taken, and -Simon the Younger made prisoner, with Madame Etoile, his lady. Leicester -and Nottingham had fallen, and Gifford’s seizure and destruction of -Warwick was all that the Barons could claim on their side. The Mise had -gilded Henry’s cause. Even the King of the Scots had sent aid to his -Brother of England; a Balliol, a Bruce, and a Comyn were among his -captains. John de Warenne should keep Earl Simon under Rochester’s -walls, until the King should come and crush him, or drive him headlong -over the sea. - -Henry, weak, persuadable, false, yet brilliant gentleman, might count -himself strong that spring, with his Poitevins and his adventurers, and -the rougher lords who preferred the licence of a weak King to the -justice of Earl Simon. But the old lion was not driven to bay yet, much -less cowed or beaten. De Montfort and his men were not asleep, nor over -confident like the King’s party. Rochester might be many miles away, but -Earl Simon had sent some of his most trusted men to watch the march of -the King’s army, to judge its strength, and keep him warned as to all -that passed. - -Waleran de Monceaux and Sir Aymery, woodlanders both of them, and wise -in woodland law, lay that morning in a coppice close to the road and -watched the King’s host go by. These Sussex men were men whom De -Montfort trusted to the death. And they lay on their bellies in the -thick of the dead bracken and the brambles, two wise dogs that saw and -were not seen. - -Aymery was stretched at full length, his chin upon his two fists, his -grey eyes at gaze, while Waleran, more restless and impetuous, carried -on a mumbling monologue, and chewed grass with hungry jaws. They were -counting the banners and the pennons, and marking as best they could the -lords and knights who were with the King. Aymery lay still enough till -Gaillard’s company came up, the Gascon riding bareheaded, his blue -surcoat ablaze with its golden suns. Gaillard had found favour with the -King, despite the happenings at Pevensey, and the anger of Peter of -Savoy. Aymery knew Gaillard at the first glance, and set his teeth hard -so that the muscles stood out about his jaw. - -Yet the tail of Gaillard’s company brought a far fiercer inspiration, -for Denise walked there beside Marpasse, Denise with her hair of red -gold shining like a torch against the green. She walked as one going to -the ordeal of fire, white-faced, mute, looking neither to the right hand -nor left. Her grey cloak went like a cloud beside Marpasse’s azure blue. -The two men-at-arms rode stolidly behind, while the men in the rear rank -of Gaillard’s troop were laughing and joking with Marpasse. - -Aymery stiffened as he lay, and his hand went to the sword in the dead -bracken beside him. He scrambled suddenly to his knees, with a fierce, -inarticulate cry deep down in his throat. Waleran seized him, and -dragged him back to cover, for they were so near the road that the -slightest movement might betray them. - -“God, man, are you mad!” - -Aymery lay there a moment with his face on his arms. He said nothing to -Waleran, but when he raised his head again his face was grim and full of -thought. He kept watch there in silence, but the road was empty now save -for a few camp-followers, women and beggars. Aymery rose on one elbow, -and looked towards the drifting dust that hung on the heels of the -King’s host. - -He turned suddenly to Waleran. - -“Brother, you and I must part company for a while. Go back to our men. I -must follow the march farther.” - -Waleran looked at him curiously out of half-closed eyes. - -“I know the man you are. Simon trusts us both.” - -They scrambled up out of their “forms,” and went back through the wood -till they came to a dell where they had left their horses. Aymery laid -his hands on Waleran’s shoulders. - -“Brother-in-arms,” he said, “trust me. I have a book to read, and a debt -to pay. There is nothing of the traitor in my heart.” - -Waleran hugged him like a bear. - -“Blood of my father, I know that! I can carry the news.” - -They parted there, two men who loved and trusted one another. Aymery -took spear, shield, and helmet, and mounted his horse to follow the -march of the King’s host, that splendid stream that seemed to gather and -to carry with it all the pomp and music, the violence and passion, and -the suffering sinfulness that the land held. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - -A halt was called at noon, and Denise, who had walked for four long -hours, felt that hopeless weariness that yearns only for some corner -where the body may lie relaxed. Her feet were burning, and she and -Marpasse had been trudging in the dust made by the horses, dust that had -clogged the air, and made the eyes tingle. Denise was glad to throw -herself on the grass beside Marpasse, who was much less weary, being -tougher, and more used to the road. - -Marpasse was very wide awake. She looked narrowly at Denise, and rolled -to the side on one elbow so as to be nearer. - -“We have our chance now, are you strong enough?” - -Denise’s dull eyes brightened, and she moistened her lips with her -tongue. - -“If we only had water! What can we do—here, Marpasse, with the men all -round us?” - -Marpasse gave her the stone bottle of wine that Gaillard had sent them -that morning. - -“Drink,” she said in a loud voice, “nothing like wine on a dusty road. -Heigh-ho, I shall soon be sleepy,” and she rolled on her back so that -she touched Denise, and stretched her arms and yawned. - -“Listen,” she said in a whisper, “there is that wood yonder, I have my -plan,” and she went on speaking softly to Denise, and still stretching -and yawning as though there was nothing hazardous to be considered. - -It was plodding along an endless road, with aching feet, and gloom in -her heart, that had made Denise’s courage droop for the moment. Above -all it was the hopelessness that had tired her. Marpasse’s words were as -warm and as heartening as strong wine. The spark fell on the tinder and -red life began to run again through Denise’s being. - -“I am strong enough, Marpasse.” - -Marpasse seized her hand, and pretended to bite it, like a dog at play. - -“Don’t look red and eager, my dear. Limp, as though you had worn your -feet to the bone. Now, good St. George, bless all fools!” - -Marpasse jumped up, and crossed the road to where the two men-at-arms -who had charge of them were making a meal. She spoke to them jauntily, -her hands on her hips, her brown face insolent and laughing, her eyes -unabashed. The men laughed in turn, and nodded. Marpasse recrossed the -road, held out a hand to Denise, and pulled her roughly to her feet. -Marpasse put an arm about Denise, and Denise, prompted by her comrade, -limped as she walked, and leant her weight upon Marpasse. - -Fifty yards from the road was a patch of scrub that jutted out like a -pointed beard from the broad chin of an oak wood. Marpasse and Denise -went slowly towards the trees, thinking each moment that they would hear -some voice calling them back roughly to the road. Marpasse felt Denise -straining forward instinctively upon her arm. She was breathing rapidly -like one in a fever. - -They reached the scrub, and skirting it, came to the ditch that bounded -the wood. Marpasse still kept her arm about Denise. - -“Gently, sister, gently; it would be a shame to spoil everything by -bolting like a hare. Be sure, our friends behind are watching us.” - -Marpasse turned her head to look. - -“Curses!” and the strain of the moment showed in her impatience, “one of -the fools is strolling after us. We cannot go far with only our shadows -for company. Over! No muddy shoes this time.” - -They were across the ditch, and on the edge of the wood, Marpasse still -holding Denise as they went in amid the trees. She kept looking back -till the open land and the sky were shut out by the dense lattice work -of the boughs. The men had not followed them across the ditch, and -Marpasse blessed their luck when she saw that the underwood had been cut -that winter so that it would be quicker running between the stubs. Only -the dead leaves troubled Marpasse, rustling and crackling under their -feet. - -“Now for it, run, run!” - -She let go of Denise, and they gathered up their skirts and started off, -scudding between the tree boles, never stopping to look back. Denise did -not feel her feet under her. The brown leaves, the coarse grass, and the -wild flowers were like so much water over which she seemed to skim, yet -not so swiftly as her fear fled. She was quicker than Marpasse, because -her passion to escape burnt at a greater heat. Marpasse had torn her -skirt on a stub and was panting when they came to the farther edge of -the wood. - -They paused a moment, and stood listening, and could hear the confused -hum of the host like the humming of bees. A meadow lay before them, -bounded by a second wood that towered up the steep slope of a hill. -Against the blue a lark hung with quivering wings, and quivering song. -As they stood listening a shout rose in the deeps of the wood behind -them. Denise was off like a deer, her whole soul quivering like the -wings of the lark overhead. Marpasse stayed a second to pull up a -stocking that had slipped to her ankle, and then ran on after Denise -across the meadow. - -They were close to the outstanding trees of the second wood, when Denise -looked back and saw that they were followed. The two men-at-arms who had -had the guarding of them had been too shrewd to go beating through the -trees on foot when they had begun to suspect Marpasse of playing a trick -on them. They had mounted their horses, and ridden different ways so as -to circle the wood and gain a view of the two vixens when they took to -the open. - -Marpasse cursed them for their pains. - -“Another minute, and we should have been out of sight,” she said; “we -may yet trick them in the wood.” - -They kept together now, labouring uphill with faces that began to betray -distress. Marpasse had a stitch in her side, her stockings were at her -ankles, and her hair over her shoulders. They could hear the men -shouting, but paid no heed to it, for if there were but thicker cover on -the other side of the hill, they might take to it and escape. - -As they topped the slope they heard the trampling of horses in the -valley behind them. Marpasse looked eagerly to right and left, and an -angry cry escaped her, for a wood of great forest trees dipped gently -away from them, the trunks pillaring broad aisles that were carpeted -with sleek and brilliant sward. A man could see through the wood as -though looking along the aisles of a church, where children could do no -more than play hide-and-seek round the piers and pillars. - -“No luck for us! They can ride us down here almost as well as in a -meadow.” - -Denise caught Marpasse’s arm. - -“The knife, Marpasse; give it me.” - -Marpasse was panting, one hand at her side. - -“No, no, not that, my dear!” - -“I will not be taken alive, Marpasse. Give me the knife, and run. They -will not trouble you when they find me here.” - -Marpasse drew Denise behind the trunk of a great tree, for she had seen -a helmet come up over the edge of the hill, to be followed by the -tossing mane of a horse. - -Marpasse took Denise in her arms. - -“My sister,” and she was greatly moved, “take it not to heart. In a -week, or a month, it may seem different.” - -But Denise was in earnest as her white face showed. - -“No, no, Marpasse, I cannot. Give me the knife.” - -Marpasse fumbled for it, great passionate tears rushing to her eyes. Had -she not once passed through the same pain, and shirked the crisis, only -to become a stroller and a courtesan! Denise had a more sensitive -surface, a deeper courage. Yet Marpasse’s heart cried out against the -thing. - -The two men were close upon them now, riding slowly and at some distance -from one another so that the two women should not play hide and seek -behind the trees. Marpasse turned her head away as she gave Denise the -knife. - -“My sister, am I wrong in this?” - -Denise caught her, and kissed her on the mouth. - -“Truest of friends, go, now. It will not be so hard to end it, for I am -very tired.” - -Marpasse broke away with a spasm of the throat. The thought seized her -suddenly that by running she might draw the men away from Denise. Yet -she had not gone three steps before her wet eyes saw something that made -her start, and then stand like a deer at gaze. - -What Marpasse saw was a knight on a black horse riding up furiously -through the wood. He was bending low in the saddle behind his shield, -with spear feutered, and the steel mass of his great helmet flashing in -the sunlight that sifted through the trees. His horse seemed to gallop -almost silently over the soft turf. Yet he came on like the wind, and -with no doubtful intent. - -Marpasse whipped round, and ran back to Denise. - -“Not death yet,” she said, “nor the devil either, pray God.” - -There was the thud of hoofs on the soft turf of the woodland rides, and -the two women saw the man on the black horse go by at the gallop, -bending low behind his shield. Marpasse stood out to watch him, her -mouth wide open as though howling a blessing. She saw one of Gaillard’s -men kicking his heels into his horse’s flanks as though to gather speed -against the shock of that feutered spear. The knight on the black horse -was on him before the fellow could gain much ground. Marpasse saw a -spear break in the middle, and a body go twisting over the grass like a -bird with an arrow through it, while the dead man’s horse went off at a -canter. - -Marpasse caught Denise by the hand, and drew her from behind the tree. - -“Glory of God, my dear,” and her eyes glistened, but not with tears, -“Lord, how I love a lusty fighter. Here is a man who can strike a blow. -And here are we like damoiselles in a French romance, my dear. Save us, -Sir Launcelot, or Sir Tristan of Lyonnesse, whatever your name may be! -La, I could kiss you for being so lusty!” - -The second of Gaillard’s men had ridden in to help his comrade. Swords -were out, and sweeping in gyres of light under the boughs of the oak -trees. But he of the black horse set about Gaillard’s man as though he -were thrashing corn. There was only one sword at work so far as the -issue was concerned. - -Denise looked on with dull eyes, and feverish face. It was like a -violent dream to her, those struggling figures, and the body lying there -thrust through with the broken spear. Marpasse was dancing from foot to -foot, her brown face flushed, her eyes flashing. - -She threw up her arms, and shouted in triumph. - -“He has it, he has it, in the throat. Oh, brave blow! Would I were a -man, and that I had an arm like that!” - -The man on the black horse had beaten Gaillard’s fellow out of the -saddle. He slid down his horse’s belly, a dishevelled figure with limp -arms and fallen sword. One foot had caught in the stirrup, and the horse -took fright, and cantered off through the wood, dragging the body after -it. - -The knight watched the body go sliding over the grass, tossing its arms -as though in grotesque terror. He turned his horse, and rode back slowly -towards the two women, and they saw that he carried a hawk’s claw in -gold upon a sable shield. His surcoat was a dull green, a colour that -was not too crude and conspicuous for forest tracks. The great helmet, -with its eye cleft in the shape of a cross, hid his face completely. - -Marpasse, impetuous wench, ran forward and kissed the black muzzle of -his horse. - -“Lording, good luck to you,” and her blue eyes laughed in her brown -face, “never were distressed damsels in greater need. King Arthur’s -gentlemen were never more welcome.” - -The man did not look at Marpasse, but at Denise. She was leaning against -the tree trunk, her hair hanging about her shoulders like red light, her -face a dead white by contrast. Her brown eyes had a feverish look, and -she still held Marpasse’s knife in her right hand. - -The man on the black horse waved Marpasse aside with his sword. And -there was something about the silent, massive figure with its iron mask -that made Marpasse move back. - -“Go yonder, and watch,” he said, pointing towards the outskirts of the -wood. - -“But, lording——?” - -“Go. Is my blood the blood of that dead thing yonder!” - -And Marpasse, who had obeyed very few people in her life, obeyed him -without a word. - -When she had gone the man put his sword up into its scabbard, -dismounted, and stood holding the bridle of his horse. Denise’s eyes -were fixed upon the helmet with its shadowy cleft in the shape of a -cross. The man saw her bosom rising and falling, and that her eyes were -troubled. Marpasse’s knife was half hidden by the grey folds of her -gown. - -The man put both hands to the helmet, lifted it, and let it fall upon -the grass. And it was Aymery whom Denise saw. - -She looked at him with wide, eloquent, and frightened eyes, a rush of -colour crimsoning her face, for Denise remembered the Aymery of Reigate -Town, the stern-faced captain hounding Gaillard into the night. And all -the shame and ignominy that she had suffered seemed to fall and break -upon her head. She stood speechless, her eyes looking at him like the -eyes of one who expects a blow. - -“Denise!” - -He held out his hands to her, but she covered her face, and leant -against the trunk of the tree. Yet she did not weep or make any sound. -It was a dry, frozen anguish with her that could neither move nor speak. -Aymery watched her as a man might watch one in bitter pain, knowing not -what to do to help or comfort. - -“Denise!” - -Perhaps the pity in his voice stung her. God, that it should have come -to this, for she had read the truth upon his face. Denise raised her -head, and their eyes met. Her mouth was quivering, but she looked at -Aymery as though challenging the whole world in that one man. Perhaps -Denise could not have told what made her do the thing she did. The fever -of fatalism was in her blood, and Marpasse’s knife was in her hand. And -Aymery, stupefied, watched the red stain start out against the grey -cloth of her gown. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI - - -Denise slipped slowly to her knees, still leaning the weight of her body -against the trunk of the tree. The languor of death seemed upon her, but -her eyes could still meet Aymery’s, brown eyes swimming with the death -mist, and growing blind to the sunlight. The man’s shocked face, and his -outstretched hands were the last things that she remembered. - -“Lord, it is better so.” - -Her head drooped, her hair falling about her face. The long lashes -flickered over the eyes like the flickering light of a taper before it -dies in the darkness. Aymery dropped on his knees beside her. He was -awed, shaken to the deeps, a man who looked upon the face of death, and -knew that the great silence was falling upon the mouth of the woman whom -he had kissed in dreams. - -“Denise.” - -He took her into his arms, for there was no power to gainsay him, and -death, dread lord, still watched and waited. They were heart to heart -for the moment, though life was melting within the span of the man’s -arms. Denise opened her eyes once, and smiled, but it was the ghost of a -smile that Aymery had. - -“Denise!” - -His mouth was close to hers. - -“Lord, it is the end; do not judge me hardly.” - -“Denise, my desire, am I here to judge?” - -“It was Gaillard’s doing,” she said, “and God deserted me. I am very -tired, so tired. Now, I am falling asleep.” - -She gave a great sigh, and let her head lie upon his shoulder, her skin -growing more white under the clouding of her hair. Aymery felt her hands -grow cold as he knelt there looking at her in a stupor of awe, and -wrath, and rebellious wonder. He believed that Denise would open her -eyes no more, that the eternal silence was falling upon her mouth. This -was death indeed, death that found him inarticulate and helpless. - -He let her lie there upon the grass with her head resting upon a mossy -root of the tree, and turned to call Marpasse back through the wood. And -Marpasse came running, to stare at the deed her knife had done, and then -to fall on her knees with a kind of blubbering fierceness, that was -combative in its grief. She laid her hand on Denise’s bosom, and bent -over her till her mouth nearly touched the silent lips. But Denise still -breathed, and Marpasse sat back on her heels and began to unlace -Denise’s tunic. - -Aymery was standing by, looking down at them as though stunned. His -helplessness maddened Marpasse, and she turned and stung him. - -“Fool, will you let her bleed to death?” - -She had laid bare the wound in Denise’s bosom, a narrow mouth from which -the red life was ebbing slowly. - -“Fool! Have you such things as hands? For God’s love, something to -staunch the flow!” - -Her words were like cold water dashed into his face. Aymery ripped his -surcoat, tore a great piece away, folded it, and gave the pad to -Marpasse. She pressed it to the wound with one hand, and with the other -beckoned Aymery to take her place. - -“Shall we give in without a fight?” she said, “you are better with a -sword than with a sponge, lording. I have some linen on me, though it -might have come white out of the wash.” - -She turned up her blue gown, and tore strips from the shift beneath. - -“Blood stops blood, they say,” and she ran back between the trees to -where the dead man lay with the spear through him. The stuff and her -hands were red when she returned. - -“Lift the pad, lording.” - -He obeyed her, and she pressed some of the linen into the wound. - -“A bandage, what shall we do for a bandage?” - -Aymery tore his surcoat into strips, and knotting them together, he gave -the end to Marpasse. - -“Raise her, gently, gently, my man.” - -While Aymery held Denise limp and still warm, with her head and her hair -upon his hauberk, Marpasse wound and rewound the bandage about her body, -drawing the swathings as tightly as she could. - -When she had ended it, she put her mouth to Denise’s mouth, and felt the -white throat with her fingers. - -“Life yet,” she said. - -Then she and Aymery looked into each other’s eyes. - -“What next?” - -That was what they asked each other. - -Now Marpasse knew the country in those parts, having lived near at one -time in the house of a lord’s verderer, and gone a-hawking, and -a-hunting in the woods. When she and Denise had started on their flight -from Gaillard and the King’s army, Marpasse had had a certain house of -Sempringham nuns in her mind’s eye. It was a little convent hid in a -valley, aloof from the world, and very peaceful. Marpasse told Aymery of -the place. They could carry Denise there, a forlorn venture, for both -felt that she would die upon the road. - -“The Prioress is named Ursula,” said Marpasse, “and she is a good woman, -though that may be worth little. They may know something of -leech-craft.” - -Aymery mounted his horse, and Marpasse lifted Denise, and gave her into -the man’s arms. - -“While the torch flickers there is light, lording,” she said; “God grant -that she may not die on the way.” - -They set off through the April woods, Aymery with Denise lying in his -arms, Marpasse walking beside the horse, a Marpasse who was solemn and -pensive, and unlike her ribald self. Aymery hardly glanced at the woman -who walked beside the horse, for his whole soul was with Denise, Denise -so white and silent, with the death shadows under her eyes. Her hair lay -tossed in a shining mass over Aymery’s neck and shoulder, and he held -her very gently as though afraid of stifling those feebly drawn breaths. -Sometimes he spoke to his horse, and the beast went very softly as -though understanding Denise’s need. - -They came out of the wood and found themselves on the edge of a valley, -a green trough threaded by a stream running between meadows. Marpasse -stood looking about her for some familiar tree or field or the outline -of a hill. They saw smoke rising in a blue column from a stone chimney -behind a knoll of trees. Marpasse’s eyes brightened. They had stumbled -on the very place that she sought. - -“The luck is with us, lording,” she said, “I will come with you as far -as the gate. But a devil’s child may not set foot on so godly and proper -a threshold.” - -She spoke a little scornfully, and Aymery looked down at Marpasse as -though he had hardly noticed her before. She had been a mere something -that had moved, and exclaimed, and acted. Of a sudden he seemed to touch -the humanism and the woman in her. - -He bent over Denise, and then looked again at Marpasse. - -“She is yet alive. How did you two come together?” - -Marpasse had not discovered yet why Denise had used the knife, though -Aymery had saved her from Gaillard’s men. But Marpasse had her -suspicions. - -“We met on the road, lording, where we wastrels drift. She was not one -of us. No. She told me her whole story. That was last night outside -Guildford Town.” - -Aymery’s eyes were on the priory beneath them amid its meadows. He kept -silence awhile, and when he spoke he did not look at Marpasse. - -“Part of the tale I know,” he said, “and God forgive me, I had an -innocent share in it.” - -His eyes were on Denise’s face again, and he smiled as a man smiles with -bitter tenderness at death. - -“Tell me what you know.” - -Marpasse plodded along, staring at the grass. And presently she had told -Aymery all that Denise had told her, and told it with the blunt pathos -of a rough woman telling the truth. - -They were nearing the convent now with its grey walls and trees, its -barns and outhouses with their dark hoods of thatch. Aymery’s face was -grim and thoughtful. He touched Denise’s hair with his lips, and -Marpasse saw the kiss and, being a woman, she understood. - -“The devil snatched at her lording,” she said, “but God knows that she -was not the devil’s, either in heart or in body.” - -Aymery rode on with bowed head. He was thinking of Gaillard, and how he -would follow that man to the end of the world, and kill him for the -death he had brought upon Denise. - -They came to the convent, and Marpasse sat down on a rough bench outside -the gate. The portress was waiting there, a very old woman with a dry, -wrinkled face, a harsh voice, and grey hairs on her chin. She screwed up -her eyes at the knight, and at the burden that he carried in his arms. -Aymery was blunt and speedy with her, a man not to be gainsaid. - -“Peace to you,” he said, “soul and body are hurt here. Go and tell your -Prioress that we are in need.” - -He rode into the court, though a most sensitive etiquette might have -forbidden an armed man to ride into such a place. The portress went her -way with a hobbling excitement that was very worldly. Presently Ursula -the Prioress came out, and two nuns with her and since Aymery held out -Denise to the women they could not let him drop her upon the stones. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII - - -Ursula the Prioress was a prim woman, a woman with a long, thin face, -and a small mouth. She had no knowledge of life, but being very devout -and religious, her devotion and her religiosity made her conceive -infallibility within herself. - -Ursula had seen nothing more in Denise than a young woman with gorgeous -hair, a deathly face, and blood upon her bosom, and Ursula’s nostrils -had caught a rank flavour of godlessness from the affair. The woman had -stabbed herself or been stabbed. She was probably nothing more than a -common courtesan, for Ursula had a vague knowledge that the sisterhood -of Rahab still existed. And like many religious women, Ursula was very -sure of her own cleanliness, and very suspicious of the cleanliness of -others. - -The woman could not be left to die, there was her “state of sin” to be -remembered; yet Ursula was conscious of great graciousness in suffering -Denise to be carried within her doors. Then there was the knight to be -dealt with, and the Prioress who knew nothing of men, minced before -Aymery with prim haughtiness, folding her hands over her lean body, -giving him to understand that it was no concern of hers to please him. -Aymery, in the deeps and on the heights in one and the same hour, and -stricken to the inmost humanism of his soul, had no eyes for Ursula’s -prinnickings and prancings. He was in the throes of a tragedy, a strong -and impassioned man whose thoughts and desires moved with the headlong -naturalness of a stream in flood. - -Ursula, half eager to be rid of the man, and yet equally curious, and -prying, received him, under a hinted protest, in her Prioress’ parlour. -To be sure, she had a couple of nuns outside the door, but some of her -prejudicial tartness vanished when she heard the name of Simon the Earl. -Even the pinpoint of the Prioress’ womanliness caught the gleam of -Aymery’s intensity that burnt at a white heat. She showed herself -old-maidishly ready to hear the truth about Denise, since a knight -trusted by Earl Simon could not be wholly a dissolute rogue. - -Aymery made a mistake that day, a mistake that many a generous and -impassioned man has made. Here was a devout woman, a mother of souls, -and Aymery took her for what her religion should have made her. Denise, -poor child, with the flicker of life still in her, was to be laid to -rest in Ursula’s lap. No woman could withhold pity in such a case, and -Aymery told Ursula some part of Denise’s tale, not seeing that he was -throwing a rose into a pot of sour wine. - -The Prioress’ starched figure looked lean and stiff. She was interested, -but, dear St. Agnes!—greatly shocked. Aymery’s words fell on an ass’s -hide like blows on an empty drum. The drum resounded, made some godly -stir, but held nothing more than air. - -Aymery had money in his purse. It was not much, but Ursula was a woman -whose skin had the colour of gold. She took the money, and his promises -of a bequest should the people’s cause prosper, thinking it easily -earned by burying a lost woman and putting up prayers for her soul. -Ursula would have prayed religiously. She was perfectly sincere in her -own corner of the world. - -“God give rest to all sinners,” she said sententiously, “we will do what -we can for the girl. It is a pity that she should not have been -shrived.” - -Aymery’s face would have made Marpasse weep. It had no meaning for -Madame Ursula. - -“I would see her, before I go,” he said. - -And his heart added: - -“Perhaps for the last time.” - -Ursula’s sympathy was purely perfunctory. They had carried Denise into -the little infirmary, and laid her upon a bed. She still breathed, and -two of the nuns who had some knowledge of leech-craft, had unwound the -swathings, but feared to touch the pad that Marpasse had forced into the -wound. They had poured oil and a decoction of astringent herbs thereon, -wiped the blood-stains from the bosom, and swathed Denise in clean -linen. Then they had given her into the hands of the saints, and sat -down to watch, whispering to each other across the bed. - -The slant of the late sunshine came into the room when Aymery entered at -the trail of Ursula’s gown. The sunlight struck upon the bed where -Denise lay white as a lily with the glory of her hair shining like -molten gold. And to Aymery it seemed that she smiled sadly like one -dreaming the end of some sad dream. - -Ursula’s starched wimple creaked in the still room. She stood looking -down from a pinnacle of righteousness; the two nuns rose and went to the -window, taking care to see all that passed. - -Their bodies shut off the sunlight from Denise’s face, and threw it into -shadow. Aymery was standing beside the bed. The two nuns glanced at one -another, and were ready to titter when he knelt down in his battle -harness as though praying, or taking some vow. - -Before he rose he touched one of Denise’s hands, and it was as cold as -snow when he laid it against his lips. Ursula made a sharp sound in her -throat. Such happenings were not discreet before women who were -celibates. - -Aymery rose and, looking at none of them, marched to the door. - -“If she lives,” he would have said, “be kind to her until I can return.” - -But death seemed to hover so close above Denise that he went out in -silence, putting all human hope aside. - -Ursula followed him, debonair by reason of her good birth, and -superficially courteous after the habit of such a gentlewoman. Would -Aymery take wine and meat? Aymery had the heart for neither, but he -remembered Marpasse. Ursula had his wallet filled for him, and he took -leave of her, finding little to say to show his gratitude. The old -portress had watered his horse, and given the beast a few handfuls of -corn. - -It was growing dusk when Aymery rode out of the gate, and found Marpasse -still sitting there on the bench. The figure looked lonely, with a -dejected droop of the shoulders, and a hanging of the head. Marpasse’s -worldliness was down in the dust that evening. - -She got up from the bench and made Aymery a reverence. A spirit of -bitter mockery possessed her, for the day’s tragedy had hurt Marpasse -more than she would confess. - -Aymery reined in. He said nothing concerning Denise, but held out the -wallet that the nuns had filled for him. - -“There is food there. You must be hungry.” - -Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him, and dropped into a hard and sidelong -stare. She took the wallet, and stood biting her lower lip. - -“How are things, yonder?” she blurted. - -Aymery’s fingers twisted themselves into his horse’s mane. - -“Still, a little breathing. They have put her to bed.” - -Marpasse nodded. - -“I have no great hope——” - -“The devil will make sure of that,” said Marpasse; “he loves a nunnery,” -and she grimaced. - -Aymery walked his horse along the track, but Marpasse did not follow -him. She stood there morosely, biting her lip, and holding Aymery’s -wallet in her hands. He glanced back, and finding that she had not -moved, he reined in again and waited. - -Marpasse came on slowly, one hand in the wallet, her eyes on the grass. -When she had rejoined Aymery she stopped and stood unsolicitous and -silent. The man appeared to be considering something. Yet he saw that -the woman’s face was hard and gloomy in the twilight. - -“What are your plans?” he asked suddenly. - -Marpasse stared. - -“A ditch has often served me well enough, lording. We strollers count -for little.” - -She laughed, fished a loaf out of the wallet, and broke off a crust. - -“Do not trouble your head about me, lording,” she said, “go your way. -One pull at the bottle, and you shall have your wallet back.” - -She took out the flask, drank, and replaced it in the leather bag. - -“Good-night to you, lording. We have our own ways to go. Mine is a -common track, and I know the tread of my own shoes.” - -Aymery still held his horse in hand. He had something to say to -Marpasse, and the words did not come to him easily. The woman was more -human than Ursula, and his heart went out to her because of Denise. But -before he had spoken twenty words, Marpasse broke in with a rough and -bitter laugh. - -“Lording,” said she, “you cannot make silk out of sackcloth, however -much you try. Go your way, I am safe enough on the road. I have a bit of -bread here, and I shall sleep soundly under a bush. And to-morrow and -the next day, I shall be, just what I have been these five years.” - -Aymery’s eyes were still troubled on her behalf. Marpasse shook her -hair, and shrugged her shoulders. - -“The mule must carry its load, and be given the stick if it kicks, or -turns aside. Bah, I know what I am! Denise, there, that was a piece of -gold to be picked up out of the dust. Go your way, lording, and do not -waste your words. I should only laugh in your face to-morrow, and call -you a fool.” - -She sat down in the grass and began to eat her bread, ignoring the man -on the horse, as though that were the surest way of answering him. There -was nothing for Aymery to do but to go, and leave Marpasse to her own -road. - -“God’s speed, lording,” she said as he turned his horse. - -“God’s speed to you, sister.” - -“Ah, that would be too slow for me, sir!” and her laughter rang out with -forced audacity. - -So the night came, and these two solitary ones took up the strands of -their several lives, strands that had been tangled by the martyrdom of -Denise. Earl Simon’s trumpets called Aymery into the east, whither the -King’s host went marching with dust and din. No sword could stay in the -scabbard those days, and Aymery had pledged his to Earl Simon, who -needed every sword. - -Marpasse had watched Aymery ride away into the gathering darkness. She -sat there in the grass, sullen, brooding, yet touched by what he had -said. - -“Bah!” said she, “what would be the use? Brave heart, go your way, and -God bless you, for being brave, and honest. Wake up, fool! What, thick -in the throat, and ready to blubber like a sot in his cups! Marpasse, my -dear, you are a slut and a fool! This is what comes of letting your -heart run away with your heels. You will be back to-morrow on the old -devil-may-care road.” - -But for all her self-scorn—Marpasse could not conjure her own emotion. -Her heart hurt her and was troubled, nor could she sleep that night, -though she huddled close under the forlorn remnant of a haystack that -she found in a meadow. Marpasse felt alone, utterly alone in the world, -and conscious of the raw night and the darkness. Who would have cared, -she thought, if she had used her knife as Denise had used it? Strangers -would have kicked her into a hole, and covered her with sods; that would -have been the end. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII - - -Rochester city had been stormed on the vigil of Good Friday, but De -Warenne still held the castle, and two great Sussex lords, William de -Braose of Bramber, and John Fitzallan of Arundel were with him. They -knew that the King was on the march; nor was Earl Simon to remain much -longer before the walls, for Henry forced him to raise the siege by -threatening London with his host. It was Waleran de Monceaux who brought -the news of the King’s march, and Aymery, who rode into Rochester but a -day behind his brother-in-arms, found De Montfort preparing for a -retreat. Their spears were rolling on London when the next dawn came up -behind the great tower of the castle, for London was the heart of -England that year, and a sudden stab from the King’s sword might have -let the life-blood out of the cause. - -Earl Simon and the Barons’ men marched through Kent, and pushed in -between the King’s host and the city. The Londoners rang their bells, -and came shouting over the bridge to bring the Great Earl in. The -burghers had been busy since the rejection of King Louis’ award. They -had imprisoned some of the King’s creatures on whom they had been able -to lay their hands, and sacked and devastated the royalist lands in -Surrey and Kent. The week before Palm Sunday the Jewry had been stormed, -its inmates massacred, and great treasure taken. London had pledged -itself in blood, and De Montfort tarried there, waiting for men to -gather to him from the four quarters of the land. - -While the roads smoked with these marchings and counter-marchings, and -while spears shone on the hill-tops, and steel trickled through the -green, Denise cheated death in that quiet valley amid the Surrey hills. -Marpasse’s knife had turned between the ribs, missed the heart by the -breadth of a finger nail, and let Denise’s blood flow, but not her life. -Marpasse’s rough sense had saved her, Marpasse who had saved the body, -while Aymery had been busy with the soul. And yet to the nuns Denise’s -return out of the valley of the shadows had seemed nothing short of a -miracle. Ursula, true to her belief, had seized the first glimmer of -consciousness and sent for the priest who served the convent as -confessor. But Denise had put the good man off, pleading that she would -not die, and that she was too weak to tell him so long a tale. - -The first few days Denise lay in her bed, very white and very silent, -taking the wine and food they brought her, and speaking hardly a word. -She was like one half awakened from sleep, able to feel and think, but -with the languor of sleep still on her. She felt that it was good to lie -there in peace, aloof from the world, with the quiet figures gliding in -and out, and the sunlight moving in a golden beam with the floor of the -little room for a dial. The ringing of the convent bells came to her, -and the singing of the nuns in the chapel. Denise lay very still through -the long hours in a haze of dreamy thought. - -How much did she remember? Enough to inspire her with a new desire to -live, enough to make her realise how mad had been the impulse that had -set Marpasse’s knife a-flashing. They seemed so far away, and yet so -near and intimate, those happenings in the April woodland. In moments of -deep passion the human heart seizes on what is vital and utterly true, -even as those who are dying sometimes seem to see beyond the bounds of -the material earth. So Denise remembered that which a woman’s heart -would choose to cherish. It had been no mere golden mist of pity glazing -the cold truth. She had lain in Aymery’s arms, arms that had held her -with something stronger than compassion. - -Thus as Denise lay there abed, a slow, sweet faith revived within her, a -belief in things that had seemed dry and dead. Her woman’s pride had -been in the dust, and she had given up hope, save the hope of hiding in -some far place. It might have been that Aymery’s arms had closed an -inward wound, and that the strength of his manhood had given her new -life. - -What had the “afterwards” been? What had happened after she had lost -consciousness, and what had become of Aymery and Marpasse. She longed to -ask the nuns these things, and yet a sensitive pride tied her tongue. -The women were kind to her, and yet, as Denise’s consciousness became -more clear, she could not but feel that the eyes that looked at her were -inquisitive and watchful. Now and again came a note of pitying tolerance -that jarred the rhythm of her more sacred thoughts; and as the woman in -her grew more wakeful she became aware of the shadows that stole across -her mind. - -On the third day the nuns unswathed her body, soaked the clotted pad -away, and looked at the wound. It was healing miraculously with nothing -but a blush of redness about its lips. There had been no fever, no -inward bleeding. Denise could sit up while they reswathed her in clean -linen. - -“There is cause for thankfulness here,” said the elder of the two nuns -who had the nursing of her; “you will have many prayers to say, and many -candles to burn to Our Lady and the Queen Helena, our Saint.” - -She spoke with brisk patronage, but Denise took it for the spirit of -motherliness in the woman. - -“I owe you also a debt,” she said, looking up into the nun’s face. - -The sister licked her lips as she smoothed the linen about Denise’s -breast. - -“The man and the horse are also to be remembered,” she said, a little -tartly, “you have much to be thankful for; even I can tell you that.” - -There was a sharpness in her voice, and a certain insinuating and -inquisitive look on her face that made Denise colour. The woman was -watching her out of the corners of her eyes, as though she were quite -ready to listen if she could persuade Denise to talk. Minds that are -cooped up in sexless isolation are often afflicted with morbid -imaginings, and an unhealthy curiosity with regard to the more human -world. The monastic folk were prone to a disease that they called -“accidia.” The life was very dull, very narrow, and led to -introspection. What wonder that a woman should sometimes hanker to dip -her spoon into the world’s pot, and smell the stew, though she was not -suffered to taste it. - -Denise was thankful, and at peace, but she had no desire to open her -heart like a French tale for these women to pore over. The nun won no -confession from her, and therefore thought the worse of Denise’s soul. -People who were silent had much to conceal, and the religious sometimes -prefer a vivid and garrulous sinner to one who cherishes a reserve of -pride. - -The two nuns were but mead and water when compared with their Prioress, -who was sharp and biting wine. The miraculous swiftness with which -Denise had been healed flattered St. Helena, and the piety of her -convent. Ursula the Prioress was an earnest woman, cold, bigoted, well -satisfied with her own spirit of inspiration. She began to see in Denise -a brand to be snatched from the eternal fire, a soul to be humbled and -chastened, and purified of its sin. - -On the fifth day of Denise’s sojourn there, one of the nuns bent over -her, and told her in an impressive whisper that the Prioress was coming -to sit beside her bed. - -“Be very meek with her, my dear,” said the nun, “and if she speaks -sharply to you, remember that it is for the good of your soul.” - -So Ursula came, white wimple about yellow face, severe, admonitory, -stooping very stiffly towards the level of this mere woman. She sat down -on the stool beside Denise’s bed, and began at once to catechise her as -she would have catechised a forward child. - -Denise went scarlet at the first question. It was flashed upon her -without delicacy that Ursula knew her secret, and that either Aymery or -Marpasse had told her something of what they knew. And Denise’s pride -was not so frail and weak that she could suffer Ursula to take her heart -and handle it. - -“Madame,” she said, “I have much to thank you for. Yet I would ask you -not to speak of what is past. Being wise in the matter, you will know -what my thoughts must be.” - -Ursula was not to be repulsed in such easy fashion, for she knew a part -of Denise’s tale, and had decided in her own mind that Aymery had -treated the subject with too much chivalry. Compassion had softened the -harsher outlines, and Ursula had no doubt that Denise was less innocent -than she may have pretended. - -“My daughter,” said she, “for the good of your soul, I cannot let such -things pass unheeded.” - -Denise lay motionless, staring at the timbers of the roof. Ursula talked -on. - -“Our Mother in Heaven knows that we are frail creatures, and that sin is -in the world, but it is the hiding of sin that brings us into perdition. -It is meet for your penitence that I should speak to you of these -infirmities. There is no shame so great that it may not be retrieved. -But you must own your sin, my daughter, and humble yourself before -Heaven.” - -Denise’s hands moved restlessly over the coverlet. - -“I have confessed it,” she said, “though it was not of my own seeking. -God himself cannot condemn that as a lie.” - -Ursula’s face grew more austere and forbidding. She detected hardness -and obstinacy in Denise, and overlooked that sensitive pride that may -seem reticent and cold. - -“You speak too boastfully,” she said. “It may be that God wills it that -I should bring you to humbleness and a sense of shame.” - -“It is the truth, that I have suffered,” said Denise. - -“Not yet perhaps, have you suffered sufficiently, for the proper -chastening of the spirit. Think, girl, of God’s great goodness, and the -compassion of Our Mother, and St. Helena, in snatching you from death, -and the flames, you—one who had fallen, a broken vessel by the -roadside, the companion of low women——” - -Again Denise’s face flashed scarlet, but this time there was anger in -the colour. - -“Madame,” she said, “hard words do not bring us into Heaven. I have -never been what you would have me pretend to be. And the woman, -Marpasse, stood by me, and was my friend. She has a good heart, and for -me, that covers a multitude of sins.” - -Ursula, cold fool, was instantly affronted. - -“What!” and she seemed to smack her lips with unction, “you, who have -worn the scarlet, speak thus insolently to me! It is plain that you have -no sense of shame. Hard words indeed are what you need, young woman, the -bread of bitterness and the waters of affliction. Pity for your soul -moves me to speak the truth.” - -The flush had faded from Denise’s face. She lay there very pale and -still, as though suffering Ursula’s harsh words to pass over her like -the wind. - -“How is it, madame,” she said at last, “that you believe so much that is -bad of me?” - -Ursula had her answer ready, the answer such a woman was destined to -produce. - -“Earl Simon’s knight warned me, as was but right and honest.” - -“Aymery!” - -“Sir Aymery, would be more fitting. It was he who besought me to take -you in, knowing your misery, and the madness that sin must create in the -mind. Pray to God that he may be blessed for snatching you from the -devil, and for bringing you here, where, Heaven being willing, we will -humble and chasten you.” - -Denise lay there as though Ursula had taken Marpasse’s knife and -stricken her, this time to the heart. She had nothing to say to the -Prioress. The woman’s hard morality had broken and bruised her re-born -pride and hope. - -Ursula rose, and stood beside the bed. - -“Let the knowledge of sin and of humiliation sink into your heart,” she -said. - -And never did woman speak truer or more brutal words. - -When Ursula had gone, Denise lay in a kind of stupor, mute, wondering, -like one who has been wounded and knows not why. All her dreams were in -the dust. Ursula, the iconoclast, had broken the frail images of -tenderness, mystery, and compassion. Aymery had said this of her? Denise -had no strength for the moment to believe it otherwise. - -And so she lay there, humiliated indeed, very lonely, and without hope. -There was no bitterness in her at first, for the shock that had -destroyed her vision of a new world, had left her weak and weary. She -thought of Aymery with pitiful yearning and wounded wonder, and with the -wish that he had suffered her to die. Marpasse alone might have -comforted Denise in that hour of her defeat. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIV - - -Denise soon found that the frost of Ursula’s displeasure had fallen on -her, and that she was to be humiliated and chilled into a proper state -of penitence. The temper of the nuns changed to her; they came and went -without speaking, their impassive faces making her feel like a child -that is in disgrace. It was Ursula’s wish that Denise should be -mortified in soul and body. Her food and drink were water and bread, and -lest the devil of comfort should remain to tempt her to be obstinate, -they took the straw and sheets from the bed, and let her lie upon the -boards. - -Moral frost at such a season was like a severe night in the late spring. -Denise’s need was to lie in the sun, and to be smiled upon by kind eyes. -It was the warm humanism of life that she needed, sympathy, and a clasp -of the hand. The utter injustice of the humiliation that they thrust -upon her began to awake in her a spirit of revolt. Had she not suffered -because of her innocence, and borne what these women had never had to -bear? - -Why should she fall at Ursula’s feet, and pretend to a penitence that -she did not feel? And Aymery, too, was she to believe that he had spoken -as Ursula had said? If that was the truth, and why should Ursula lie, -she, Denise, would pray that she should never be driven to look upon his -face again. - -Yet her bodily strength increased despite her spiritual unhappiness. The -wound in the breast had healed, and she had been able to leave her bed, -and move slowly round the room, steadying herself against the wall. And -as her strength increased the instinct of revolt grew in her till she -began to understand the mocking spirit of Marpasse. To be reviled, -humiliated, made to crawl in the dust, to regain a little grudging -respect by cringing to her sister women, and by pretending to emotions -that she did not feel! These good souls seemed set upon making the -re-ascent to cleanliness hard and unlovely. And Denise, like Marpasse, -felt a passionate impatience carrying her away. - -Meanwhile Ursula, magnanimous lady, had taken pains to spread Denise’s -story through the convent, and the two nuns who had nursed her had been -women enough to know that Denise had borne a child. Ursula had issued -her commands; the contumacious devil was to be driven out of Denise; she -was to be humbled, and taught to pray for penitence and grace. The nuns -who served Denise now opened their mouths once more, and became oracles -whose inspiration had been caught from Ursula’s lips. - -One would enter with the water-jar, set it under the window, and retreat -without so much as glancing at Denise. She would pause at the door, and -let fall some pious platitude that might act like yeast upon the -perverse one’s apathy. - -“Flames of fire shall subdue those who are stubborn in sin.” - -“While the vile flesh lives, the soul is in peril. Mortify the body -therefore, that the soul may be saved.” - -“A proud heart means death. Let your pride be trampled under your feet.” - -“Live, repent, and sin no more.” - -Such exhortations spaced out Denise’s day, but her obstinacy and her -bitterness of heart increased till she was nauseated by their piety, and -filled with a gradual scorn. Twice Ursula visited her, to depart with -the impatience of one whose words were wasted. Had Ursula suffered but -once in life, it might have been so humanly simple for her to understand -Denise. On the contrary, she found the victim less ductile than at -first. Nearly three weeks had passed, and Ursula decided that the woman -was well in body, but utterly diseased in heart. The Prioress began to -bethink herself of sharper measures. Ursula believed that she had the -devil in arms against her, and that the battle was for Denise’s soul. - -It was the night of May-day, the day of green boughs and garlands, and -Denise had stood at her window and watched the sun go down, thinking of -the May a year ago, and of her cell in the beech wood above Goldspur -manor. The sun had set about an hour when Denise heard footsteps in the -gallery, and saw the light of a lamp shining under the door. Ursula came -in to the dusk of the room, shielding the lamp from the draught with the -hollow of her hand. Her austere face was hard and white, and from one -wrist hung a scourge set with burs of wire. - -Ursula had brought two of her strongest nuns with her. She set the lamp -on a sconce, and was as abrupt and practical as any pedagogue. She bade -the women close the door, and commanded Denise to strip and stand naked -for a scourging. - -“Since words will not move the evil spirit in you,” she said, “we must -try sharper measures.” - -Denise put her back against the wall. - -“Have a care how you touch me. I am not a dog to be whipped.” - -Ursula told the two nuns to take her by force, and to strip her of her -clothes. But Denise was no longer the patient saint bowing her head -before her destiny. She did what Marpasse would have done in such a -storm, and taking the water-jar that stood by her, held Ursula and the -nuns at bay. - -“Off!” she said, “I have some pride left in me. I have eaten your bread, -but I will not bear your blows.” - -She was so tall and fierce, and untamable, that Ursula was the more -convinced that Denise had a devil in her, and a devil that was not to be -treated with disrespect. She called the nuns off, not relishing an -unseemly scuffle, and having some reverence for a stone water-pot that -was not to be softened by formulæ. It would be easier to catch Denise -asleep, tie her wrists, and scourge her till she showed some penitence. - -“Woman,” she said, “the evil spirit is very strong in you. But God and -my Saint helping me, I will subdue it in due season.” - -But Ursula, whose piety was given to stumbling rather ridiculously over -the hem of her own gown, had no second chance of scourging the devil out -of Denise. For Denise had suffered St. Helena’s hospitality -sufficiently, and she made her escape that night after losing herself in -dark passage-ways and listening at doors which she hardly dared to open. -She made her way into the court at last, and found the old portress -sleeping in her cell beside the gate. The key hung on a nail behind the -door, and Denise, who had brought a lighted taper that she had found -burning in the chapel, took the key and let herself out into the night. - -Denise had made her escape not long before dawn, choosing the time when -she knew that the nuns would be in their cells between the chapel -services. She waited for the grey dusk of the coming day, sitting under -an oak tree on the hill above the convent. And when the birds awoke and -set the woodlands thrilling, Denise sat counting the last of the money -Abbot Reginald had thrown down at her that winter night, and which -Marpasse had sewn up for her in her tunic. Denise thought of Marpasse as -she broke the threads and counted out the money into her lap, for -Marpasse seemed the one human thing in the wide world that morning. - -Life stirred everywhere when Denise started on her way with half a loaf, -some beggarly coins, and her old clothes for worldly gear. Brown things -darted and rustled in the underwood and grass. A herd of deer went by in -the dimness of the dawn, and melted like magic shapes into the woodland -as the great globe of fire came topping the eastern hills. The light -fell on a dewy world, a world of well-woven tapestry dyed with diverse -and rich colours. And Denise saw bluebells in the woods, and thought -again of Marpasse and her blue gown. Marpasse would understand. She -tried not to think of Aymery that morning. - -Denise struck a track that came from nowhere, and led nowhere so far as -she was concerned. She went on aimlessly till noon, meeting a few -peasant folk who took her for a pilgrim or a beggar. And by noon her -body that had lain so many days in bed, cried loudly for a truce under -the May sun, and Denise, finding a pool by the roadside, knelt down -there and drank water from her palms. The sun had dried the grass, and -lying at full length she was soon asleep, with the brown bread held in -one white hand. - -The bank hid Denise from anyone who passed along the road, and a knight -on a black horse came by as she slept. The sound of his horse’s hoofs -woke Denise. She raised herself upon one elbow, looked over the bank to -see who passed, and then sank down again out of sight. The clatter of -hoofs died in the distance, but Denise lay there and stared at the -clouds in the sky. It was Aymery who had ridden past to hear from Ursula -of Denise’s life or death. But Denise let him go, hardening her heart -against the thought of any man’s pity. She would not be beholden to -Aymery after the words that Ursula had spoken. - -So the Knight of the Hawk’s Claw came to the convent that day in May, -hardening himself against all possible hope, and prepared to hear -nothing but the tale of Denise’s death. Ursula received him in her -parlour, Ursula who had set her final condemnation upon Denise because -of the perversity and ingratitude she had shown in escaping like a thief -in the night. And Ursula cursed Denise before Aymery’s face, pouring out -her indignation against the woman, as though Aymery would sympathise -with her over Denise’s “contumacy and corruption.” - -Ursula had no eyes to see the change that had come over the face of the -man before her. She was so busy with her denunciations that she did not -mark the wrath rising like a cloud on the horizon. Aymery’s silence may -have deceived her, for he heard her to the end. - -He looked hard at Ursula, and the gleam in his eyes would have made a -less confident woman wince. - -“So you thought that she needed scourging!” - -Ursula was very dense that day, refusing to see what a tangle she was -weaving. - -“The scourge is an excellent weapon, messire,” she babbled, “my own back -has borne it often, and to the betterment of my soul. But this girl had -no gratitude, and no sense of shame. She was obstinately blind, and -would not see. I sought to move her by forcing your compassion upon her, -and showing her that it was your desire that she should mend her life.” - -Aymery looked at Ursula as though tempted to strangle the consequential -voice in that thin, austere throat. - -“You told her that, madame!” - -“I held her shame before her eyes, for the tale of her innocence was not -to be believed. Her whole character contradicted it.” - -“And she has fled from you.” - -“With ingratitude, and cunning.” - -“Before God, I do not blame her.” - -He stood motionless a moment, looking down on Ursula with such fierce -contempt, that, like many stupid people, she wondered how the offence -had risen. Her eyes dilated when Aymery drew his sword. Her mouth opened -to call the nuns who waited in the passage, but his laugh reassured her, -the laugh that a man bestows on a thing beneath his strength. - -“Madame,” he said, “you have nothing to fear from me but the truth. You -see this sword of mine”—and he held the hilt towards her, grasping it -by the blade. - -Ursula stared at him as a timid gentlewoman might stare at a rat. - -“That hilt is in the form of a cross, madame; I would beg you to look at -it. You may have heard that the Cross has some significance for -Christians.” - -Ursula began to recover her dignity. It was borne in upon her suddenly -that this man had stern eyes, and an ironical, mocking mouth. And Ursula -began to dislike those eyes of his. - -“Your words are beyond me, messire,” and her normal frostiness struggled -to pervade the atmosphere. - -Aymery looked at her as a man might look at something that was very -repulsive and very ugly. - -“Madame,” he said quietly, “if you have slain a soul, God forgive you; -there are so many fools in the world, and so many of them are godly. -There was no sin in Denise that called for the sponge full of vinegar, -the scourge, and the spear.” - -Ursula opened her mouth, but no sound came. Aymery put up his sword, and -turned towards the door. - -“I would rather have left her,” he said, “in the hands of the woman you -have called an harlot. Nor need your zeal have put lies into my mouth. -Suffer me, madame, to recommend you a saint. St. Magdalene might give -you the religion that you lack.” - -And he went out from her, leaving Ursula speechless, and amazed at his -insolence. - -Yet Aymery’s wrath was a greater and nobler wrath than Ursula’s as he -mounted his horse and rode out into the world, that world for which -Christ had bled upon the cross. Bitterly plain to him was Denise’s -spirit of revolt, and her passionate discontent with Ursula’s morality. -What was more, this woman had put her taunts and her homilies into his -mouth, and made him harangue and edify Denise! Aymery cursed Ursula for -a meddlesome, cold, and self-righteous fool. He would rather have left -Denise in Marpasse’s hands, for Marpasse had a heart, and no belief in -her own great godliness. - -And Denise, what would befall her now that they had driven her like an -outcast into the world? He was gloomy and troubled because of her, -feeling that she had been wounded the more deeply than she had ever been -wounded by Marpasse’s knife. He remembered too how Denise had sought -death in the woods that day. The impulse now might be more powerful, -seeing that she had suffered more, and had no friend. - -Ride after her into the blind chance of the unknown he could not yet, -for Aymery was pledged to Earl Simon and his brethren-in-arms. The -Barons’ host had gathered at London; they were on the eve of marching -southwards into Sussex, for the King was threatening the Cinque Port -towns which were loyal to Earl Simon. Aymery had seized these two days -to ride and discover the truth about Denise. His knighthood was pledged -to the man who had knighted him, nor could he break the pledge to chase -a wandering shadow. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXV - - -Marpasse of the blue gown had fallen in with old friends on the way to -Tonbridge, where the King had taken the castle of Gilbert de Clare, and -these same friends, ragamuffins all of them, were following the -glittering chaos of the King’s host on the road to the sea. There would -be plunder to be had if St. Nicholas would only persuade King Henry to -take and sack the Cinque Port towns; and all the beggars, cut-throats -and strollers in the kingdom rolled in the wash of the King’s host, -terribly joyful over the happenings that might give them bones to pick. - -The passing of fifty thousand armed men, to say nothing of the baggage -rabble, was no blessing to the country folk whom it concerned. Lords, -knights, men-at-arms, bowmen, scullions, horse-boys, and harlots went -pouring southwards in the May sunshine, ready to thieve whatever came to -hand. King Paunch ruled the multitude, for the host ate up the land, and -called like a hungry rookery “more, more!” And since a hungry mob is an -ill-tempered one when once its patience has leaked out of its tired -toes, the King’s followers began to grow very rough and cruel before -they had marched five leagues. Hunger does not stand on ceremony, and -such brutal things were done that the country folk took to the woods and -swore death to any straggler. Bludgeon, and axe, and bow took toll of -the King’s host, and many a rowdy was caught and left grinning at the -heavens, with his stiff toes in the air. - -Now Marpasse and her friends were as hungry as the rest, and coming as -they did, like fowls late for feeding time, their genius for theft was -developed by necessity. Yet it is not so easy to steal when everything -eatable has been stolen, and when a crossbow bolt may come burring from -behind a wood-stack. None the less, Marpasse and her company were in -luck not ten miles from Tonbridge Town. They saw a sow feeding on the -edge of a beech wood close to the road. There was much pannage in the -neighbourhood, and Marpasse and her comrades tucked up their skirts, and -went a-hunting, and were blessed with the sight of the black backs of a -whole drove of swine. - -Great and grotesque was the joy that hounded and hunted through the -beech wood, a mob of men-at-arms, beggars, boys, and women trampling the -bluebells and the brown and crackling bracken. They shouted, laughed, -and cursed as they rounded up the swine, and chased them hither and -thither amid the trees. God Pan and his minions went tumbling over tree -roots after the black beasts that bolted, and squealed, and flickered -like grotesque shadows under the boughs of the beeches. - -Marpasse, her skirts tucked up, and her knife flashing, shouted and ran -with the lustiest till the sweat rolled into her eyes. As she stood to -get her breath, a fat sow came labouring by with a young pig close to -her haunches. Chasing them came a long, loose-limbed boy, his hair over -his face, his mouth a-gape, his thin legs bounding, striding, and -ripping through the bracken. He came up with the chase close to -Marpasse, and threw himself on the young porker as a leopard might leap -upon a deer. Brown boy and black hog rolled in a tangle into a clump of -rotting bracken, and Marpasse, holding her sides, laughed at the tussle, -and then ran on after the sow. - -The sow, grunting and labouring, led Marpasse away from the rout, and -back towards the road. Marpasse, intent on bringing the dame to book for -supper, ran on till she came suddenly into a glade with a slant of -sunshine pouring through it, and the open land and the road showing at -one end thereof. Marpasse followed the sow no farther, for she had -stumbled on another adventure that showed more importunity. - -Marpasse saw a woman in grey leaning against the trunk of a tree. Not -ten paces from her stood an old black boar, with the broken shaft of a -spear protruding from one shoulder, and a broad trickle of blood running -down his left fore-leg into the grass. The beast tottered as he stood, -swinging his head from side to side, his little eyes malevolent, his -wiry tail twisting with savage spite. - -Marpasse gave a whistle, and looked like one who has run against a -ghost. She saw the boar make a dash at Denise, Denise, who was playing -hide-and-seek for her life with him round the tree. The beast missed -her, and came to earth, only to struggle up, lurch round, and charge -once more. - -Marpasse clutched her knife, and made a dash for the tree. The boar had -missed his blow again, and stood, resting, still dangerous despite the -spear head in his side. Marpasse gained the tree with its roots clawing -the soil. She gasped out a few words to Denise like a breathless swimmer -joining a comrade on a rock in the thick of a boiling sea. - -“May marvels never cease! You, child, you, as I shall live to kill pigs! -Lord, now, keep an eye on this limb of a black satan!” - -She peered round the tree trunk, and pushed Denise round it as the boar -charged again, white tusks showing, snout bloody, his little eyes like -two live coals. He swerved and missed Marpasse, but she was on him -before he could recover and turn. The knife went home where six inches -of steel might reach the heart, and Marpasse, springing aside to escape -the mad side slash of the tusks, saw that the gentleman had the _coup de -grâce_. He rolled over, struggled up again on his belly, scraped the -earth with his fore trotters, and then wallowed amid the beech leaves. -Marpasse sat down at the foot of the tree, panting and laughing, her -brown face red and healthy. She threw the knife aside, caught Denise by -the skirt, and pulled her down lovingly into her lap. - -“God alive,” she gasped, “what a girl it is! Am I always to be rescuing -you from Gascons, and from pigs?” - -Marpasse was quite joyous. She kissed Denise on the mouth, and then held -her away from her, and looked at her with blue eyes that shone. - -“Heart of mine, is it you in the flesh, my dear? Why, we left you for -dead, Sir Aymery and I! And mightily gloomy he was too, poor lording. To -think of it, that I should fall on you in the middle of a wood, while I -was chasing an old sow!” - -Though she was very voluble, Marpasse’s eyes were scanning Denise as one -looks at a friend after a long sickness. Marpasse’s eyes were very -quick. She could have told the number of wrinkles on Denise’s face, had -there been any. But Marpasse saw something there much more sinister than -wrinkles. - -“Well, sister,” said she, “here is indeed a miracle. But I am not so -strong as the lord on the black horse, so please to sit on the grass and -let me get my breath. Now for the story. How did St. Helena and all the -saints heal you, and how do you come to be here?” - -Denise slipped aside from Marpasse, and sat down at the foot of the -tree. It was a hard, brooding look about her eyes that had struck -Marpasse. Things had not gone with pious facility. Marpasse could tell -that by Denise’s silence, and by the half-sullen expression of her face. - -“Your knife turned between my ribs, Marpasse,” she said, “I was a fool -to bungle so easy a stroke; I had only to lie still, eat and sleep.” - -Marpasse clapped her hands. - -“This is gratitude, and I swaddled you up like a baby! How is it that -you are not still lying abed, and eating and sleeping? You look thin, -eh, and what does Sir Black Horse know about it all? Lord, but what a -lot of running away you have done in your life! So you fell out with the -pious folk, was that it? I could never abide the smell of a nun.” - -She pinched Denise’s cheek, watching her narrowly, for Marpasse had -learnt to use her wits, and the philosophy that she had learnt upon the -road. - -“Well, my dear, what happened?” - -“I ran away.” - -“What a soldier you would make! Madame Ursula was too good a woman. They -are all too good for us, my dear; that is where the mischief comes, they -tread on us, and expect us to be meek and grateful.” - -Marpasse grew serious and intent. She looked steadily at Denise, and -then reached out and caught her hands. - -“No more jesting,” she said, “look in my face, sister. I have learnt to -read a face.” - -She held both Denise’s hands, and drew her a little towards her. For a -moment they were silent. Then Marpasse pressed Denise’s hands, sighed, -and allowed herself a bluff round oath. - -“Curse them,” she said, “curse their godliness. So you told them the -whole tale.” - -Denise hung her head. - -“Messire Aymery told Ursula.” - -“The fool! Too much in love to be wise, I warrant. Come now, my dear, -love is great of heart, but love is blind, and love talks when it should -shut its mouth. Show me the way out of the wood.” - -She drew Denise close to her, so that her head was on her shoulder. Yet -for the moment Denise seemed cold and mute. Marpasse kissed her on the -mouth, and the one woman’s lips unsealed the other’s soul. Before long -Marpasse had drawn the whole tale from her, and Marpasse looked fierce -over it, and yet more fierce when Denise betrayed the bitterness that -had poisoned her heart. - -“God in Heaven, child,” she broke in suddenly, “do you know what you are -saying?” - -“I know what you are, Marpasse. They were ready to whip me; I had no -pity.” - -Marpasse set her teeth. - -“This life, the devil pity you! For me, yes, but you! I have a brazen -face, a conscience like leather, and talons that can tear. But you! Bah, -you would kill yourself in a month.” - -She thrust Denise away from her, as though thrusting her from some -influence that was dangerous and to be feared. Denise did not resist -her, but sat hanging her head, mute and obstinate, her eyes sweeping up -now and again to the face of the woman beside her. - -“I am weary of it all,” she said, “they made the soul sick and bitter in -me.” - -Marpasse sat with her chin on her fists, her forehead one great frown. - -“Ssh, and you thought of me, and the road! Am I such a damned witch as -that!” - -“You do not curse, and preach.” - -Marpasse turned on her with sudden, fierce sincerity. - -“Yes, I do not preach, because I am down in the ditch, but I know what -the mud is like, and I do not want you with me. Bah, let me think. What -shall I tell you, that you had better be as dead as the black boar -there, before you take to the road.” - -Marpasse hugged her knees with her arms, staring straight before her, -and working her teeth against her lower lip. Denise kept silence, -hanging her head, and flying in the face of her own bitterness like a -bird that dashes itself against a window at night. - -Marpasse awoke suddenly from her musings, and caught Denise by the hood -of her cloak. She twisted her hand into the grey cloth, held Denise at -arm’s length, and threw one word straight into her face. - -Denise’s eyes flashed. She reddened from throat to forehead, while -Marpasse watched her as a physician might watch the workings of some -violent drug. Presently the brown eyes faltered, and grew clouded with -the infinite consciousness of self. Marpasse burst into a loud, harsh -laugh. The next moment she had her arms about Denise. - -“Soft fool, the word stings, eh? You are innocent enough; it is all -temper, and anger and discontent. Your conscience answered to the sting. -I throw your own word in your face, and you redden like an Agnes. No, -no, you are not made to be one of us, thank God!” - -Denise felt this big woman’s brown arms tightly about her. A great spasm -of emotion had gathered in Marpasse’s throat. She held Denise with a -straining, inarticulate tenderness, as a mother might hold a child. - -“Heart of mine,” said she, “God forgive me for throwing that word in -your face. It was the slap of a wet cloth on the cheek of one about to -faint. Look up, sister, listen to me, by the Holy Blood, I have the -truth to tell.” - -Marpasse was trembling with the passion in her. - -“Take my knife again, Denise, before that! Do I not know, stroller and -slut that I am! No, no, not that, not the dregs of other folks’ cups, -not the shame and the sneers, and the curses thrown back in defiance. -Why should these good folk drive us down to hell, why should their fat -faces make cowards of us? There, I have been the coward, take the truth -from me, and be warned, heart of mine. Better death, I say, before the -ditch, for it is death in a ditch that we wretches come to. Brave it -out, sister, and for God’s love keep your heart from bitterness, and -from poisoning its own good blood.” - -She still held Denise close to her. - -“What did the woman St. Aguecheek say? Bah, all lies, I tell you. Such -cow-eyed women lie for the sake of piety. The man say that of you? I -know better. Come, Denise, listen to me; I know a man when I have looked -him in the eyes.” - -She turned Denise’s face to hers and kissed her. - -“That was a clean kiss,” she said, “and by its cleanness I’ll swear that -beldam Ursula lied. What of Messire Aymery? A man, child, a rock man -with an arm that can smite. Grace be with me, but he would have given -you his own heart to mend your broken one. I spoke with him, and I -know.” - -Denise lay at rest in Marpasse’s lap. - -“Why should Ursula have lied?” she asked. - -“Why do dogs eat grass, and vomit? What! I know the woman, eyes that see -the point of a pin and miss the moon, and a tongue like a clacker in a -cherry tree. Love is lord of all, my dear, and what does that beldam -know of love? Messire Aymery had his heart in his mouth that night. I -judge that he let the old crow peck at it, and she took the pieces and -poisoned them, and pushed them into your mouth. Go to now! Have a little -faith.” - -She looked into Denise’s eyes and saw a change in them. A more dewy and -credulous April had followed a dry and stormy March. Marpasse’s hand had -stopped the former wound. She was healing the wound now in Denise’s -soul. - -“God grant that you are right, Marpasse.” - -“Better, my dear, better. Lie in my arms and think them a man’s, and -that man as honest as ever loved a woman. May I die in a ditch if I am -mistaken! And now, what’s to do, as the sluggard says when all the rest -have been three hours a-mowing.” - -Denise slipped out of Marpasse’s lap, and sat down close to her, but not -so close that their bodies touched. This act of hers seemed to betray -that she had come by her stronger self again. Marpasse’s scolding had -set her upon her feet. - -“I shall stay with you,” she said simply. - -Marpasse opened her mouth wide, a black circle of mute expostulation. - -Denise looked in her eyes. - -“Why not both of us?” she asked. - -Marpasse’s mouth still stood open as though to scoff at her own -redemption. Denise closed it with her own. - -“There is a clean kiss,” she said, “let us keep it for each other.” - -And Marpasse caught her to her, and was a long while silent. - -Whatever these two women may have said to one another, the fact was -proven that Marpasse did not rejoin her band of vagabonds that night, -for she and Denise sat on under the tree, and counted up the money that -they could boast between them. They were like a couple of girls talking -over some new dress, their heads close together, and their hearts -lighter than they had been for many a day. But Marpasse had her whims. -She would not mix her money with Denise’s, but kept it apart with a sort -of scorn, handling it gingerly as though the coins were hot. - -Moreover Marpasse had a practical nature, and an attitude towards the -ways and means of life that betokened that they were the accursed -riddles that gods put to men each inevitable day. In truth Marpasse’s -life had been one long riddle, and she had grown sick of seeking to -solve it, and had put the enigma out of her mind. - -“Heart of mine,” said she, “we are very much on a dust heap, so far as I -can gather. My mouth was made to eat and drink! I cannot turn beast like -the king did and eat grass. I have a little bread here in my bag,” and -she brought out the small sack that she carried slung to her girdle -under her cloak. - -Denise was drinking in new hope. - -“We have the money,” she said, “we can buy food, and I have enough for -to-night.” - -“Innocent, there is not a loaf to be bought for miles round. The King’s -paunch would have made short work of the very trees, only they are too -tough. And a word in your ear, treasure your money as though it were -your blood. For when a woman is starving, and her pocket is empty, the -devil comes in with a grin, and offers to pay for a meal.” - -“How can we get more money?” - -Marpasse grimaced. - -“We must go as mendicants,” she said. “I will thieve an old cloak, and -cover up my colour. At all events, here is our Lord the Pig. We will -make some use of him. If you are dainty, go and sit on the far side of -the tree.” - -Marpasse turned butcher that night, nor was it the first time that she -had used a knife on a carcase, for people who live by their wits go -poaching at times, even after the King’s deer. Marpasse had no intimate -knowledge of The Charter, or the Forest Laws, save that she had known -men who had been caught, and mutilated. Being strong and skilful she had -a good skinful of meat beside her before the dusk came down. Then she -cut a hazel stake, slung the skin with the meat on it, and going down to -a stream that crossed the road, washed the boar’s blood from her hands -and arms, and came back clean and smiling. - -“Silver John will soon be up,” she said, nodding towards the east; “if -he would only drop us a few coins the colour of his face, I should feel -the happiest beggar in the kingdom. Come along with you. We will tramp a -little farther from my gossips. If you fell in with them you might not -like their tongues.” - -Denise and Marpasse set out together, keeping a little distance from the -road, and walking under the shadows of the trees. Soon the moon came up, -and made the May woods magical, and full of a mystery that was clean and -pure. Nightingales sang in the thickets, and the scent of the dew on the -grass and dead leaves came with the perfume of wild flowers out of the -dusk. - -Marpasse was in a happy mood despite a day’s tramp, and the adventure -with the boar. - -“I have a feeling in me,” she said, “that Silver John looks at us kindly -out of the sky. Throw us a penny, good Lord Moon, or some hair out of -your silver beard. Hear how the birds are singing. They shall sing a -merry jingle into our pockets.” - -Denise walked beside Marpasse with a smile of peace and of human -nearness stealing upon her heart. And the Moon who looked down on the -world must have been as wise as the breadth of his solemn face. -“Strange,” he may have thought, “here are a saint and a stroller hand in -hand, comforting one another, and making the night mellow!” But they -were both women who had suffered as only women suffer, and the wise Moon -may have understood life, and sped them on with a glimmer of good luck. - -Marpasse’s sense of a blessing that was to be, saw its fulfilment as in -the magic of an Eastern tale. They had walked a mile or more, and were -looking about them for shelter for the night, when Marpasse stood still -to listen, with one hand at her ear. - -“Ssh,” said she, “what’s in the wind?” - -It was the sound of a bell that she and Denise heard, a faint melancholy -ripple like the sound of falling water in the stillness of the night. -Sometimes it ceased and then broke out again, coming no nearer, nor -dwindling into the distance. - -“A chapel bell?” - -Marpasse shook her head. - -“No, nor a cow bell either. Poor soul, I know the sound of it. That bell -has a voice if ever a bell had.” - -She listened awhile, and then touched Denise’s arm. - -“It comes from yonder, there, by that black clump of yews. A leper’s -bell, or I have never been a sinner.” - -They went towards the thicket of yews that stood there as though a black -cloud covered the face of the moon. The sound of the bell grew more -importunate and human. Marpasse whispered to Denise. - -“It is the death toll,” she said, “I have heard such a sound before at -night. The poor souls do not like to die alone in the dark. And those -who hear the bell sometimes take pity.” - -Stretched at the foot of the yew tree with the black plumes curving -overhead, Marpasse and Denise found an old man whose face was as white -as the cloak he wore. A hand was rocking to and fro ringing the leper -bell, whose melancholy sound seemed to die away with the moonlight into -the midnight of the yews. - -Marpasse bent over him, she had seen too much of the rougher aspects of -life to be greatly afraid of a leper. - -“Hallo, father,” she said, “here is company for you, you can stop your -ringing.” - -The man’s arm fell like a snapped bough, and the bell came to the earth -with a dull, metallic rattle. The skull face, unmasked now that the end -was near, betrayed that the bell carrier had been starved by the famine -that the King’s host had left behind them in those parts. He was blind -and deaf with the death fog, nor did he know that Marpasse was near him -till she spoke. - -“Good soul, have pity.” - -He turned his blind face towards Marpasse. - -“I am going yonder out of the world, and it is bad to be alone when the -evil spirits are abroad, and to hear no prayer spoken. I rang my bell, -good soul, for St. Chrysostom, he of the golden mouth, promised me that -I should not die alone in the dark.” - -Marpasse sat down beside him, and beckoned Denise to her. - -“Rest in peace, brother. What would comfort you?” - -The man lay very still, with a face like ivory. He scarcely seemed to -breathe. - -“A Pater Noster,” he said presently, “I cannot come by a prayer, for the -words run to and fro in my head like rabbits in a warren.” - -Marpasse looked at Denise. - -“Here is a Sister who knows all the prayers,” she said. - -“Ah, there is the smell of good meat a-cooking in a prayer. I saw the -Host through a leper squint not a month ago. Pray, good souls, and I -will ask the Lord Christ to shrive me.” - -Denise knelt in the grass, with Marpasse huddled close to her, and spoke -prayers for the leper’s lips, and found comfort and sweetness for her -own soul in the praying. Presently the man held up a shaking hand, and -made the sign of the Cross in the air. - -“Good souls,” he asked them, speaking as though he had a bone in his -throat, “unfasten my girdle from about my body.” - -Marpasse’s hands answered his desire. The girdle had a leather pouch -fastened to it, and the pouch was heavy. Marpasse gave it into his -hands, and he laid it against his mouth, and then held it towards -Denise. - -“I would rather you had it, Sister, than some begging friar. There is -money in it, the alms of five years, and God bless the charitable. Take -it, good souls. Dead men want no gold, though you will have candles -burnt, and prayers put up for Peter the Leper.” - -He felt for his bell and they heard a great sigh come out of his body -like the sound of a spirit soaring away on invisible wings. The bell -gave a last spasmodic tinkle that was muffled and smothered by the -grass. Then all was still, save for a light breeze that stirred the -black boughs of the yews. - -Denise knelt there awhile in prayer. Marpasse had gone aside and had cut -down a yew bough with her knife, and was shaping the end thereof into -the shape of a narrow spade. She began to turn the sods up clear of the -roots of the trees, and Denise came and watched her, holding the dead -man’s girdle in her hands. - -It took Marpasse till midnight to scratch a shallow grave. They laid the -leper in it, with his bell in his hand, and his staff beside him, and -covered him with sods and boughs. - -Then Marpasse and Denise lay down under a tree and slept in each other’s -arms. They did not look into the pouch that night, for the nearness of -death and the infinite pathos thereof possessed them. - -And when Denise opened the pouch next morning, a rattle of silver came -tumbling out, with here and there a piece of gold that shone like the -yellow flower of the silverweed in the midst of its dusty foliage. -Marpasse’s blue eyes stared hard at the money. Both she and Denise were -silent for a minute. - -“Poor soul! We will put up prayers for him.” - -Marpasse hugged her bosom. - -“God see to it,” she said. “The tide turned when the old man’s ship put -out over the dark sea.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVI - - -The King and his lords marched southwards through Sussex, boasting -themselves lords of the land, and very much doubting whether Earl Simon -would dare to follow them, and meet them in the open field. At Flimwell -the King put to death certain of the country folk who had surprised and -slain some of his people in the woods. Already many of the rough troops -in Henry’s service had begun to grumble at the emptiness of the land -through which they marched, for they had had but little pillaging to -keep them in a good humour, no great cellars to drain dry, no towns to -trifle with. The King, being a generous man where other folks’ coffers -were concerned, as he had proved in the Sicilian farce, turned royal -pimp and purveyor to his army. The Abbey of Robertsbridge lay in their -path, and Henry let his men loose to plunder the place, and despoiled -the monks still further by making them pay heavy ransom for their lives. - -The news of the sacking of Robertsbridge came to Abbot Reginald five -miles away at Battle, and though he may have rejoiced over the humbling -of a rival, he was warned by his brother Abbot’s flaying, and made haste -to appear loyal. The Cistercians of Robertsbridge had been shrewd and -greedy neighbours, and had snatched manors and land that might have -fallen to the children of St. Benedict. Grants in Pett, Guestling, -Icklesham, Playden, and Iden, and also lands in Snargate, Worth, -Combden, Sedlescombe, and Ewhurst, showed that there had been cause for -jealousy between the two. Reginald of Brecon may have had some thought -of a possible transference of land from the Cistercians to his own -“house.” To show his loyalty he called out his tenants, and marched out -in state as a war lord to meet the King, carrying presents with him, and -wearing a mild and pliant manner. Riding back beside the King he spoke -sadly of the poverty of St. Martin, and how the Pope’s perquisitions and -pilferings had emptied his treasure-chest. The King should have had it, -had he not pledged much of the Abbey plate to the Jews, but his sweet -lord was wholly welcome to such food and drink as could be got together. - -Abbot Reginald’s presents were perilously mean, and were not to be -bulked out by pompous language. Even then, his discretion might not have -miscarried but for the over anxious zeal of that cunning fox, Dom -Silvius. The almoner had bleated a “gaudeamus” over the humbling of the -Cistercian upstarts at Robertsbridge. He had sought an audience of Abbot -Reginald before the monks met in the chapter house, and had put forward -the plan that his superior actually accepted. It might be possible to -follow the middle path, pay little, and make some profits, and at least -escape from being robbed. Silvius took upon himself the secret burying -of the Abbey treasure, and Silvius’s zeal for St. Martin was so -notorious that none of the brethren quarrelled with his energy. - -Battle that night was like a garden smothered in locusts, so thick was -the swarm of armed men, servants, vagabonds, mules and horses. Henry, -Prince Edward, the King of the Romans, and the great lords were lodged -in the Abbey, and dined in state in the abbot’s hall. Swarthy, -swaggering men were everywhere, crowding and jostling, poking their -noses into every corner of the five boroughs, kissing the women, and -taking the food and drink that the monks and burghers surrendered to -them for the blessing of peace and piety. Troops crowded the gardens, -the orchards, and the Abbot’s park. And though some measure of order -reigned, the atmosphere was surcharged with thunder, Reginald and his -people feeling themselves like Roman provincials at the mercy of a host -of Huns. - -In the thick of all this sultriness Dom Silvius must needs discover that -some of the reliquaries had been left in the Abbey church. Silvius soon -had the sacristan by the girdle, protesting fervently that the -reliquaries must be saved from possible sacrilege, and buried with the -rest of the Abbey treasure. Silvius played the part of a mad miser and -busybody that night. He had spades brought, and sneaked out into the -darkness with the sacristan and two of the younger brothers at his -heels. - -It so happened that Dom Silvius spoilt the whole plot by being over -anxious for the property of St. Martin. Some of Comyn’s Scotch soldiers, -slinking about for anything to thieve, caught the monks burying the -reliquaries in a piece of garden ground beyond the great _garde-robe_. -The Scotchmen were quick to scent a trick, collared Silvius and his -comrades, brought torches and tools, and set to work on their own -authority. Not only did they discover two of the reliquaries that had -been buried, but struck their spades on the whole of the Abbey treasure -that had been hidden in a pit. Scotchmen, monks, treasure, torches, and -all went in a whirl to the great hall where the King was dining. And -Abbot Reginald hid his face in a flagon when he saw Silvius dragged in, -spitting like a furious cat. - -The King’s eyes were not pleasant to behold. He had the “merry-thought” -of a chicken in his hand, and was scraping the flesh from it with a -silver knife. He looked attentively at the treasure that Comyn’s men -tumbled on the floor below the dais. Then he broke the “merry-thought” -in two, and folding the pieces in his fist, bade Reginald choose his -lot. - -Reginald of Brecon pulled out the shorter of the two. The King laughed, -a dry cackle that was ominous. - -“The shorter the bone, the shorter the shrift, gentlemen,” he said. “We -will take care of this treasure for you, my lord Abbot. As for the -cellars, storehouses, burgher tenements, and all such belongings, we -make a night’s gift of them to those who thirst and hunger.” - -There was loud laughter, and a babel of voices. The flushed gentry at -the table shouted “God strengthen the King.” One monk alone was mad -enough to throw himself between St. Martin and the pleasantry of the -royal spite, and that monk was Dom Silvius. - -He broke loose, and rushed with furious and stuttering face to the high -table, brandishing his cross, fanatical as any Egyptian hermit out of -the desert. - -“Spoiler of the houses of God!” - -The bacon was following the fat into the fire. Abbot Reginald, good man, -lost patience, and threw his platter in Silvius’s face. - -Silvius, with a gobbet of gravy on his nose, looked comic enough, but -still burnt like a Telemachus. - -“God shall revenge sacrilege! Let the curse of St. Martin——” - -Someone from behind took him by the collar, and twisted a fist into the -folds till Silvius was in danger of being choked. - -The King lay back in his chair and laughed. - -“Take the prophet away, and let him be washed,” he said. “By the heart -of King Richard, I have no use to-night for an Elijah!” - -In this way it came about that Dom Silvius took a ride on the back of an -ass, with his feet lashed under the beast’s belly, and a dirty pot -forced down over his ears. The mob pelted Silvius with stones and offal -till he was a mere image covered with blood and dirt. Comyn’s Scots had -the privilege of bringing the martyrdom to an end. They took Silvius -from the back of the ass, and carrying him into the place where the -treasure had been buried, pitched him into the _garde-robe_ drain, and -so left him. - -Silvius’s blundering had, however, a grimmer significance, for it -brought upon the Abbey and the town that straggled about it the same -fate that had befallen the despised Cistercians. The King had given the -place over to plunder, and it was at the mercy of the rough soldiery who -were doubly insolent with the fumes of mead and wine. The folk of the -borough of Battle might well have cursed Silvius and the Abbey treasure, -for the devil was let loose among them that May night. - -Nor did the darkness hide the violence and the horror, for the very -furniture was thrown out into the street and piled up amid the faggots -to help the bonfires that lit the sport of war. Women and children fled -like frightened birds into the darkness, and were thrice blessed if they -were not caught, and held. The gaudy queans who had followed the army -played King of the Castle on the high altar of the church, pulling each -other down by the skirts, shouting, and tumbling over one another on the -steps. Drunken men burst in the door of the bell tower, and set all the -bells clanging in huge discords. Others caught the monks, and made them -race naked round the cloisters, whipping them with their girdles to make -them nimble. - -Gaillard and some of his fellows had come by a cask of wine, and -Gaillard had Black Isoult, Marpasse’s comrade, under his arm, and was -well content with the lady. They needed a house for a night’s revel, and -chose one in the main street, a stone house that joined a forge. -Gaillard’s men broke down the door, while their captain held a torch, -and Isoult sat on the wine cask, laughing. - -When the door gave way they were met in the dark entry by a virago with -a hatchet, none other than Bridget, the smith’s wife, who had stormed -against Denise. The men fell back from her, but Isoult showed herself -more valiant, and quite a match for the lady. - -“Make way, Gammer Goodbody,” she said, “make way for the red gown.” - -Bridget answered her with an oath, and a word that was too familiar to -Isoult’s ears. - -The little woman’s black eyes sparkled with spite. - -“Here is a respectable slut,” she said, “who has not learnt to kiss the -foot of a lady.” - -And she cut Bridget across the forearm with her knife, so that the -smith’s wife dropped her hatchet. - -Gaillard sent his men in, and they overpowered the woman. But Isoult -would not let them harm her. Her own spirit of wickedness was equal to -taming the big shrew. - -She made them cut off Bridget’s hair, dress her in some of her man’s -clothes, tie a lamb’s skin under her chin, and truss her with her hands -fastened to her ankles. Then while she drank wine with Gaillard and made -merry, seated on a bench, her red gown the colour of freshly shed blood, -she had Bridget rolled across the floor and propped up near her like a -sick duck. Isoult made a mock of the smith’s wife that night because of -the thing she had called her, asking her where her marriage lines were, -and why her man had not come home. Sometimes she threw the dregs from -her ale horn into Bridget’s face, and called her a she-goat and a -rabbit. Bridget still had the courage to curse back again, though her -tongue was less clever than Isoult’s. But when Isoult took a burning -stick from the fire, and began to singe Dame Bridget’s stockings, the -woman took to screaming, and pleaded for pity. - -So Dom Silvius let the devil loose in Battle, and the memory of that -night lingered for many a long day. - -As for Isoult’s comrade Marpasse, she and Denise had come to Grinstead -amid the woods, and were lodged in the house of a woman who fed swine -and kept a wayside inn. At Grinstead they heard the news that Earl Simon -and the Barons’ host had left London with fifteen thousand burghers to -swell their ranks, and were on the march to deal with the King. The army -would pass not far from Grinstead, so said the woman of the inn, and -Marpasse and Denise took counsel together and put their plans in order. - -“Love carries the sword,” said Marpasse, and laughed and kissed Denise. - -“I can never look him in the face again.” - -“Bah, grey goose! There will be wounds to be healed. A woman’s hands are -useful when the trumpets are hoarse and tired.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVII - - -On the evening of Tuesday, the 13th of May, the Barons lay amid the -woods about Fletching, knowing that they were to march on the morrow to -offer the King battle outside Lewes town. All hope of peace had gone, -and both parties had thrown away the scabbard. Henry believed that he -had Earl Simon at his mercy, for the royal host far outnumbered the -Earl’s, and where De Montfort could count in part only on burgher -levies, the King and his favourites had the flower of the foreign -mercenaries in their pay. Henry had refused to listen to the Bishops of -London and Worcester, who had come from the Earl. God was delivering -Simon and his turbulent following into the royal hands, and the King was -not to be cheated of his opportunity by the tongues of meddlesome -priests. - -As the evening sun sank towards the west, the Barons’ host gathered and -stood to their arms with the fresh green of the May woods spreading a -virgin canopy above their spears. It was no gorgeous pageant so far as -pomp and circumstance were concerned. There were many banners and -pennons brilliant in the evening sunshine, but the bulk of De Montfort’s -army was made up of the lesser gentry, and their retainers, and the -burghers of the towns, plain men, but men who were in grim and sober -earnest. Many of them had never fought in their lives before, and -Gaillard, and such gallants in the King’s service, laughed when they -spoke of the herd of hogs they were to chase through the Sussex -woodlands. But the stocky, brown-faced men of the English towns, and the -English manors were not to be trampled on so easily. Men who could fell -timber, and handle the scythe, the bill and the hammer, were tough in -the arms, and sound and strong at heart. - -The Barons’ host went on its knees that evening, its lines of steel -seaming the green woods. Lords, knights, gentlemen, yeomen, burghers, -knelt with their shields before them, their swords naked in the grass, -their heads uncovered. Between the ranks of these silent, steel-clad -figures came the Bishop of Worcester, and many priests with him, -chanting as they came. The whole host was confessed, absolved, and -blessed under the oak trees of the Fletching woods. It was as though the -heart of England was shrived that day, before the national ordeal of -battle. - -“Holy Cross, Holy Cross.” - -Men came running and shouting through the ranks, carrying bales of white -cloth which they spread on the grass, and tore into hundreds of strips. -Every fighting man was to carry the White Cross on his breast. And in -the midst of it all Earl Simon and a great company of lords and -gentlemen came riding through, wearing the White Cross on their -surcoats. Swords and spears were tossed aloft, and the heart of the host -went up in sound like the long roar of a stormy sea. - -Under a great oak tree De Montfort knighted many of the younger lords -and gentlemen, among them Robert de Vere, John de Burgh the son of the -great justiciary, and young Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester. Then he and his -sons and his captains went everywhere, heartening their men, bidding -them rest and eat, and keep strong and lusty against the morrow. - -As De Montfort was riding back with young Gloucester, and a few knights -and gentlemen of his own household to the manor house where he had his -quarters, he came upon several women standing under the shade of an old -yew. It happened that Earl Simon had put abroad an order that no women -should be suffered to follow the army on the march. If the King and his -host had seven hundred courtesans in their camp, that was the King’s -affair; De Montfort would have none of it. - -Earl Simon ordered his gentlemen to halt, and turned aside alone towards -the yew tree. Two of the women had come forward, and were waiting as -though to speak with the Earl. De Montfort had a frown on his face. -Great soldier that he was, he had his rough and passionate moods; his -strong sincerity sometimes ran away with his tongue. - -The two women went on their knees before Earl Simon’s horse. - -“Sire,” said the elder of the two, “put your anger away. We are here for -love of the White Cross.” - -Straight speaking, and a straight look of the eyes were things that De -Montfort loved. The armed men who watched and waited, wondered why Earl -Simon tarried there talking, and did not send the women away. - -De Montfort’s face had begun to shine like the face of a saint. He -looked very thoughtfully at the two women as they laid their lives in -the hollow of his hand. The plan was Marpasse’s, but Denise would not -suffer her comrade to carry it out alone. Their plan was to go as spies -to Lewes that night, and bring back any news that they could gather as -to what the King purposed to do on the morrow. - -Earl Simon would have none of it at first. Perhaps he doubted their -honesty; yet the two women contrived to convince him, Marpasse sly and -valiant, Denise with the quiet eyes of one who has chosen a certain -part. - -De Montfort appeared puzzled by Denise. Marpasse saw the look, and broke -in in her blunt, bold way:— - -“She is not of my clay, sire, but we were baked in the same oven. She -has seized this trick of mine, and will not let it out of her hands.” - -“Is that so, child?” - -Denise’s eyes met his. - -“I am not afraid, sire,” she answered. - -The Earl still shirked accepting a possible sacrifice. Marpasse put in a -final word. - -“Though it be to my shame, lord,” she said, “I have learnt how to tread -among thorns. There is only one thing that I would ask, and that is the -right to choose the man who shall take us within two miles of Lewes -town.” - -She flashed a look at Denise as though to silence her, and went close to -De Montfort’s horse. A smile came over his face as he listened to -Marpasse, and there was sadness in the smile, and the quiet compassion -of a man who had held children in his arms. - -“God guard you both,” he said, “it shall be as you desire.” - -Aymery had command of the guard that evening at the manor house where -Simon, the Earl of Gloucester, and the great lords had their quarters. -Word was brought him by an esquire of De Montfort’s son Guy, that the -Earl was calling for him, and that Simon was to be found in the great -barn where the Bishop of Worcester was to preach to the lords and -gentlemen before sundown. Aymery found the Earl sitting on a barrow that -stood on the threshing floor, a knot of knights standing behind him, and -the evening sunlight that poured in striking silver burs from their -battle harness. - -Simon looked straight into Aymery’s eyes as he gave him his orders. - -“Go down to the yew tree near the pond where we water our horses, -messire. You will find two women waiting there. They have sworn to spy -out the land for us. Take a guide and ten spears, and see the women as -near to Lewes as you can without breaking cover.” - -Earl Simon always eyed his men as though he were looking into the brain -behind the eyes. Aymery saluted, and turned to obey. His face betrayed -no surprise, though it was a new thing for De Montfort to rely on the -wits of two women. - -Simon called him back. - -“Wait, and keep watch in the woods,” he said, “the women will try to -bring back news. We shall be on the move before dawn.” - -He rose from the barrow, and crossing the threshing floor, laid a hand -on Aymery’s shoulder. - -“It is in my heart to catch the King napping to-morrow,” he said. “I -trust England with you, in this, and some of us may have to suffer.” - -He stood considering something a moment, frowning a little, his hand -still on Aymery’s shoulder. - -“The two women yonder, brave hearts, have talked me into suffering this. -I would not put such work upon a woman, but then, my son, we all carry -the Cross. Hasten, and God speed you.” - -And Aymery went out from before him, thinking of the two women as women, -and nothing more. - -Marpasse, who had spun her net very cleverly, and whose hope had been to -catch and entangle a man and a woman therein, was bitterly disgusted at -the way things happened. She had made up her mind that she herself would -go to Lewes, but she had no intention of taking Denise into the hell of -the royal camp. She certainly caught these two people in her net, but -they broke the threads, and would not do as she desired. Yet Marpasse -might have seen how it would be had she not been too eager to sweep away -Denise’s pride. - -Denise was standing by her, with the sunlight on her hair and face, -waiting in all innocence for the escort that Earl Simon was to send for -them. A prophetic fore-gleam of self-sacrifice played in the deeps of -her brown eyes. She had seized on Marpasse’s plan and clasped it as -something precious and something actively alive. The solemn shriving of -that great host under the oaks of the Fletching woods had sent the blood -to Denise’s brain. She felt herself in the midst of strong men who held -their swords aloft and prayed. She was as one who saw a sacred fire -burning, and was driven to throw herself therein with the ardour of a -soul that seeks martyrdom in some great cause. - -Marpasse, who had a corner of each eye very wide awake for the coming of -the man on the black horse, began to wonder how Denise would meet the -truth. And Marpasse’s expectations came back limply to roost like birds -that had been drenched in a thunder shower. She had struck a spark into -Denise’s soul, and the spark blazed up into a beacon that Marpasse could -not smother. - -Aymery came riding down past the great pool where troopers were watering -their horses, the beasts trampling and splashing in the oozy shallows, -and sucking lustily despite the mud. Marpasse soon marked him down, and -watched his face as they came within his ken. Marpasse saw Aymery go red -as a boy, and being comforted by the man’s colour, she stole a glance at -Denise. Denise’s face had been shining like the face of one inspired. -Marpasse saw it cloud suddenly as though a shadow had fallen across it. - -So they met, with the women under the yew tree fifty paces away watching -them, and the splashing of the horses and the voices of the men merging -into the great murmur that seemed to fill the woods. For the moment -Aymery had nothing to say. Marpasse could have pricked him with the -point of her knife to make him leap out of that slough of silence. -Denise stood in the long grass, a whorl of golden flowers brushing her -grey gown, her face white and troubled in the sunlight. Marpasse might -have had a pair of dumb and irresponsive puppets on her hands. There was -nothing left for her but to pull the strings. - -“I am the brown woman who mended a wound, lording,” she began. - -Aymery remembered her well enough. His face resembled a grey sky through -which the sun was trying to shine and could not. He had his heart in his -mouth but Denise did not help him. She stood there, as though her -thoughts soared into some cold and brilliant corner of heaven. Yet only -the surface had the sheen of ice. The deeps beneath were full of flux -and tumult. - -Marpasse, being a plain and impetuous woman, could have nudged both of -them, and prompted both, at one and the same moment. Matters were not -moving as she had forecasted, and these two people looked afraid of one -another. - -“A kiss on the mouth, lording, and your arms round her,” that was what -she would have said. - -Her words were:— - -“Earl Simon may have told you the news.” - -By the sharp look that Aymery gave Denise, Marpasse guessed that he knew -the truth. - -“To Lewes?” he asked her, with the uneasy air of a man urging himself to -do something that seemed strangely difficult. - -“Oh, we women, lording, can be of use.” - -He repeated the words, looking at Denise. - -“To Lewes?” - -Marpasse grimaced. - -“God knows, we shall be walking on hot bricks,” she said; “but then, -this blue gown, and this face of mine, are better than passwords.” - -Aymery’s eyes were still upon Denise, as though waiting for one word or -look from her. He could not see that she was as passionately mute as he -was, and that a spasm of self-consciousness held her in thrall. - -Marpasse broke in, feeling the silence like thorns in her flesh. - -“I can do without her, lording. Listen to me, Golden-head. They shall -put me within a mile of Lewes town, and wait in the woods for any news -that I can gather. You need not play the moth to the candle.” - -Marpasse saw Aymery’s eyes flash something at her that made her less -uneasy. The judgment lay with Denise. They looked at her and waited. - -Denise looked at neither. She hid everything, nor was there a ripple of -emotion about her mouth. - -“I shall go with you, Marpasse,” she said. - -The big woman shrugged her shoulders. - -“Bah, I can as well take one of the others with me. They would play the -part better, and look less dangerous.” - -Denise kept her eyes from Aymery, as though her pride had set itself a -pilgrimage, and would not see anything that might hinder it. - -“Say what you please, I shall go with you, as I promised.” - -Marpasse nodded her head, and seemed to consider the situation. Biting -her lips, she looked from Aymery to Denise. Neither of them helped her, -and Marpasse could have stamped her foot at the man, and told him what -to do. “Fool, take her away from me, and hold her fast!” She shrugged -her broad shoulders, and laughed a little mockingly. - -“We are all talking so much,” she said, “that we shall get nowhere -to-night unless we tie up our tongues. You, lording, can find us a -couple of mules or asses.” - -Marpasse’s sarcasm sank into sand, for Denise turned and walked back -towards the rest of the women who were making a meal under the yew tree. -Some of them were using their needles, and sewing the white crosses on -to the surcoats of the men. - -“I will say good-bye to them.” - -Perhaps there was a set purpose in this act of hers, for Denise would -have Aymery see the comrades with whom she had travelled. - -Aymery was turning his horse when Marpasse caught his bridle. - -“Lording,” she said, “keep the fog out of your eyes. We, and the rest -yonder, followed the host to do what we could when men were knocked out -of the saddle. I have changed my cloth, if not the colour of it. She has -done that for me.” - -She looked up almost fiercely into Aymery’s eyes. - -“Speak to her on the way, lording. Women are not won by looking, charge -home, and let the trumpets blow, unless,” and she let go the bridle, -“unless my lord has changed.” - -The man’s eyes answered her that. - -“Marpasse, have you forgotten that night?” - -“No, not I, nor you, lording.” - -“It seemed death then, but now——” - -Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him. - -“Man, man, what makes the hills blaze, a wet fog, or the sunset?” - -Dusk was beginning to fall when they set off into the woods, Denise upon -a grey palfrey that a priest had lent them, Marpasse perched on a mule, -Aymery and his men in full battle harness, their spears trailing under -the trees. They had a guide with them, a swineherd who knew every path -and ride even by night, and though the sun was touching the horizon, -they had before them the long twilight of a clear evening in May. - -Aymery sent the guide on ahead with the men-at-arms, and Marpasse, -knowing what she knew, manœuvred her mule so as to leave Aymery with -Denise. But the priest’s palfrey seemed to have conceived a great -affection for Marpasse’s mule. Denise had hardly a word to say. She kept -close beside Marpasse and appeared blind to the glimmerings of that good -woman’s impatience. - -Marpasse could bear it out no longer. She struck her mule several -resounding smacks with her open hand, and the beast went away at a lazy -canter, leaving Denise and the man on the black horse together. - -“May God untie their tongues,” Marpasse said to herself; “it is a curse -to have too quick a conscience. I shall be hoisted on my own fire unless -the man can bring her to reason.” - -So Marpasse rode on behind the men-at-arms, leaving the two to work out -their own salvation. - -The woods were steeped in a green twilight, and a great stillness -reigned everywhere, save for the song of the birds. Here and there a -great tree stood tongued as with fire. The foliage grew black against -the golden glow in the west, while long slants of light still stole in -secretly along the solemn aisles. The birds were at their vespers, and a -cold dew was falling, drawing out the fresh perfume of the woods at -night. - -Aymery and Denise were riding side by side, the woman pale, sad-eyed, -yet resolute, the man sunk in that deep silence that follows some -ineffectual and passionate outburst of the heart. They seemed afraid of -one another, nor could they meet each other’s eyes. Denise’s white face -might have stood for the moon. And though the birds sang, their voices -gave the dusk a sadder and a stranger mystery. - -Aymery spoke at last, passing a hand over his horse’s mane. - -“Our Lady keep you,” he said, “I will not quarrel with your desire.” - -Denise’s lips were dry, and she felt as though the old wound had broken -over her heart. - -“If I have suffered,” she said simply, “I have learnt what life is.” - -“Self-martyrdom?” - -His voice woke echoes that she strove to smother. - -“It is God’s whim in me, perhaps, that I should prove myself. Marpasse -and I will go together.” - -Night had come and the glare of many fires lit the southern sky when -they reached the edge of the woodland and saw the great downs black, and -vague and ominous. The men were waiting under the woodshaw, and Marpasse -stood rubbing the nose of her mule. She could hear voices, slow, -suppressed, stricken into short, pregnant sentences like the disjointed -fragments of a song struck from untuned lutes. - -Denise had left her palfrey under a tree. She came out from the shadows, -and taking Marpasse in her arms, kissed her. - -“We go together, you and I,” she said. “No, no, say nothing to me, it is -my heart’s desire.” - -Marpasse held her, and was mute. She looked towards a shadowy figure on -a shadowy horse, and Denise understood the look. - -“I have told him, he will not hinder me in this.” - -“Heart of mine, stay here in the woods. I can go alone, my carcase is of -no account.” - -Denise would not be put away. - -“Marpasse,” she said, “this is our Lord’s true passion working in me. -Nor shall the cup from which He drank be snatched from me to-night.” - -Marpasse was silent, feeling a greatness near her that awed her -rebellious impulses. She kissed Denise, and was very humble, thinking -that she herself had brought this thing to pass. - -“Come then,” she said, “it may be that God goes with us to-night.” - -Aymery, standing with one arm over his horse’s neck, watched them -disappear into the darkness, the swineherd going with them to show them -the road to the town. The whole northern sky still burnt with a faint -glow of gold, and in the south a hundred fires flickered amid the black -folds of the downs. And Aymery watched these distant fires, thinking -with grim impatience of the King’s host that lay yonder like a great -dragon ready to tear and slay. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVIII - - -The King and Richard the Roman were lodged that night at the Priory of -St. Pancras, Prince Edward with De Warenne in the castle of Lewes. Nor -would it have been easy to choose between St. Pancras Priory and Lewes -Town in the matter of furious and indiscriminate drinking. Some said -that the King’s host mustered sixty thousand men. One thing was certain, -that a very great number of them were drunk that night, and that the -lords and captains were no better than the men. - -“The King will hunt swine to-morrow.” - -Such was the night’s apothegm, and men flung it with variations and with -a liberal garnishing of oaths into each other’s faces. The metaphor was -acceptable to those who were in their cups, and much repetition piled -assurance upon assurance. The great army of the King had its head full -of drunken insolence. Its mouth uttered one huge oath. It would only -have to show itself on the morrow, and De Montfort’s dirty burghers -would take to their heels and run. - -Bonfires had been lit everywhere, and round them were crowds of -grotesque faces that bawled, and gulped, and fed. There was no lack of -food and drink, sheep and oxen were roasted whole; men gorged themselves -like dogs about the carcases. Cressets flared upon the castle towers, -and Prince Edward had set twenty trumpeters to blow fanfares before the -gate. The Priory bells were jangling like fuddled men quarrelling with -one another. There was no discipline anywhere, no sign of a high -purpose, no forethought for the morrow. “The King will hunt swine!” Men -bellowed it to one another, and the superstition contented them. - -When Denise and Marpasse came near the west gate of the town, they saw a -huge fire burning there, the flames lighting the black battlements -above. A great crowd had gathered about the fire, and the noise might -have equalled the noise at Barnet Fair. Men were running about half -naked like hairy-legged satyrs mad with wine. The platform of the town -gate was crowded with a roaring, squealing mob that amused itself by -emptying nature upon the equally repulsive mob below. Mounted upon a -tub, a man with one eye, dressed like a Franciscan, spouted indecent -skits on the clergy, pretending the while to be zealously in earnest. -Elsewhere a crowd of excited and contorted figures made a ring round two -women who, stripped to the waist, were wrestling, their faces smeared -with the blood of a dead ox. Drunken rascals were scrambling about on -all fours, and pretending to be dogs. If any mad whim came into a man’s -head, he acted on it, and did not stop to think. - -Marpasse had taken Denise by the wrist, and they had melted back into -the darkness, holding their breath over the chance of being plunged into -that simmering human stew. Marpasse was no innocent, but her face went -hard and ugly with the sincerity of her disgust. - -“Drunken swine! We will keep away from your sty, I warrant you.” - -She spoke in a harsh whisper, her pupils contracting as she stared at -the gate and the bonfire that was half hidden by live things that -swarmed like beetles. Denise shuddered inwardly, and was silent. She -thought of the cool, dark woods over yonder, and of the grim and quiet -men who waited for the dawn. - -Marpasse waved an arm towards the town. - -“You see,” she seemed to say. - -“They are like wild beasts.” - -“What did you think to find, my dear; blessed banners and crosses, and -priests galore? Or perhaps so many Sir Tristans keeping watch under the -stars, and thinking of noble and great ladies. No, no, the King and Earl -Simon handle their hot coals differently. Come away, we shall do no good -yonder.” - -They retreated along the road, and hearing loud squeals of laughter near -them, drew aside, and hid themselves in a ditch. Marpasse could feel -Denise shivering. When the laughter had gone by them towards the town, -Marpasse stood up and looked about her in the darkness. - -“We were walking into the cattle market,” she said in an ironical -whisper. “The Priory lies yonder, most likely the King is lodged there. -Pick your feet up out of this mud.” - -They scrambled out of the ditch, and leaving the road, went on -cautiously hand in hand. Marpasse’s eyes seemed like the eyes of a cat. -Sometimes they stopped to listen, standing close together as though for -comfort. The darkness, rendered more weird and baffling by the glare of -the watch fires, seemed to threaten them with all manner of evil shapes. - -An overbearing desire to talk mastered Denise. The sound of her own -voice tended to smother the whisperings of panic. Marpasse let her run -on till the mass of the Priory began to blacken the clear sky. - -“Ssh,” she said, “we shall need our ears now, more than our tongues. If -we are stopped by any of these gentry, leave the talking to me.” - -Aymery’s face flashed up into Denise’s consciousness. Her hand -contracted convulsively upon Marpasse’s wrist. - -“If Earl Simon could have fallen on them to-night,” she whispered. - -“To-morrow will do, or I am no prophet,” answered Marpasse. - -The Priory of St. Pancras was shut in by its great precinct wall, but -Marpasse and Denise found it only too easy to make their way within. -There was a guard at the Priory gate, but the men were drinking and -dicing, letting the night look after itself. People did what they -pleased, and St. Pancras had no heavenly say in the matter. The men of -the sword had pushed the good saint into a corner, his monks, too, were -exceeding meek and docile, holding to the Christian doctrine that one -must suffer in the spirit of patience. Yet their patience was largely a -matter of discretion and of necessity, for put power in a priest’s hands -and he is a tyrant among tyrants. - -Booths had been set up inside the precinct wall, and there were clowns -who kept the crowd a-laughing, and minstrels who sang songs fit for the -lowest ear. Women in bright-coloured clothes went to and fro between the -bonfires, fierce, hawk-faced women who knew how to take care of their -own concerns. Marpasse and Denise kept in the shadow, though there were -things to stumble over in the darkness, as Marpasse found when she trod -on something that kicked out at her and cursed. They wandered into the -cloisters, and through the dark passage-ways and slypes; all doors were -open, and no one hindered them, for no one seemed to boast any authority -that night. Sometimes they stood in dark corners, and listened to what -was said by those who passed. St. Pancras might have stood with his -fingers in his ears, for the humour was very broad, and the language -primitive. “The King will hunt swine to-morrow.” The same snatch served -here as in Lewes town, and Marpasse understood the significance thereof. -The King meant to attack De Montfort on the morrow, and was letting his -men debauch themselves into reckless good humour. - -The great church was full of tawny light, all the doors stood open, and -Marpasse and Denise gliding from buttress to buttress, looked in through -the door of the north transept. Torches had been stuck about the walls, -the smoke pouring up, and filling the dim distance of the vaulting with -drifting vapour. The church was full of men and women in cloths and -silks of the brightest colours, men and women who danced and drank, and -sprawled about the flagged floors. Nor were the men from the common -crowd of the King’s army; they were the lords, the knights, and the -esquires, wild captains of free-lances who held a debauch before -to-morrow’s battle. The high altar was like a rostrum in old Rome, -seized upon by a drunken crowd, and covered with creatures that laughed -and howled, and clung to one another. Some of the women had put on the -men’s helmets, others wore garlands of half-withered flowers. A party of -young nobles had broken open the sacristy, and dressed themselves in -precious embroidered vestments. The scene was a scramble of colour, a -scene of perpetual movement, of flux and reflux, of strong sensual life -throbbing in and out of half-darkened sanctuaries. - -Marpasse had seen enough, and Denise too much. They were moving away, -when Marpasse started aside and drew Denise into the shadow of a -buttress. A blur of movement disentangled itself from the darkness, and -took shape in a knot of figures that approached the transept door. The -party halted, and the two women saw a man wearing a cloak of sables, and -a surcoat of some golden stuff, come forward alone and stand looking -into the church. - -The glare from the torches fell upon the face of the man who wore the -sable cloak. It was a handsome face, yet weak and troubled, the face of -a man without great self-restraint, a man who would attempt to be -violent when he should be patient, and who would betray his weakness -when he needed strength. There was something tragic about the figure -standing there alone, and looking in upon the wild night before the dawn -of the morrow. It might have been the figure of a magician gazing upon -the fierce and elemental things that he had brought into being, and who -had lost the power of holding them under his spell. - -Marpasse saw the man cross himself, and turn away with an air that -suggested foreshadowings of disaster. It was a figure full of infinite -significance, in that it had striven continually to strut upon the -world’s stage, and yet had never succeeded in being more than a puppet. - -Marpasse had whispered in Denise’s ear. - -“The King!” - -And then:— - -“The poor fool! He is not a shepherd like Earl Simon. Even his sheep -dogs are out of hand.” - -As he had come out of the darkness, so he disappeared, silently, almost -furtively, with no blare of trumpets and no tossing of torches. Men who -were wise saw in him a thing that was sometimes a saint, sometimes a -mean, contriving Jew, often a firebrand, more often still a -beauty-loving fool. Brave enough in battle, and a clean liver, yet the -grim, animal energy of his father might have served him better than his -own flickering and inconstant brilliancy. Henry could delight in the -colour of a painted window, and he had the heart of a sentimental woman. -In one thing alone he may have been of use, for his follies taught the -stronger son to be warned by the mistakes of a weak father. Henry made -war against the spirit of liberty stirring in the heart of a great -people. Edward the Strong was wiser in knowing the nature of his own -strength. - -Marpasse nudged Denise, and pulled her hood forward over her face. - -“We have seen enough,” she said; “they are to hunt swine to-morrow! -Good, very good, let them beware of the boar’s tusks.” - -They made their way back towards the gate, and St. Pancras, kind saint, -blessed them, for they escaped unscathed out of the place. And coming -out to the cool darkness that covered the downs, they sat down side by -side to wait for the dawn. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIX - - -Marpasse was up as soon as the first grey light began to spread above -the hills, and it was possible for them to see their way. Denise had -passed the night, lying with her head in Marpasse’s lap, and sleeping -soundly despite her promise to remain awake. Marpasse had smiled, and -let her sleep, trusting to her own ears and eyes to warn her of the -approach of any peril. - -They were on the move while the land was still half in shadow, for -Marpasse was as eager as any man to let Earl Simon know the truth about -the King. Standing and looking back on Lewes as the dawn increased, -Marpasse could gauge how cheaply the King and his captains held their -enemy. There were Gascons too with Henry, and the Gascons should have -known what manner of man they had to deal with in Earl Simon. Yet the -green slopes of the downs, gleaming with dew as the golden light of the -dawn began to play on them, were utterly deserted. The King’s host lay -snoring after its debauch, without a single troop of horse to patrol the -hills. Only on the hill that was afterwards called Mount Harry could -Marpasse distinguish what appeared to be a solitary sentinel. And he, -too, was lying like a grey stone on the hillside, asleep at his post -while the sun made the east splendid. - -Marpasse clapped her hands. - -“The fools!” she said; “come, there is no time to lose. We ought to bear -more yonder towards the west. They will be on the watch for us. I know -of one man who will have been awake all night.” - -She looked at Denise and saw her redden. - -“Give him one kiss, heart of mine,” she said, “for a man fights the -better with his woman’s kiss upon his mouth.” - -“Then, it will be the last, Marpasse,” she retorted. - -“Bah, have you had him killed already!” - -“It will be the last whatever happens,” said Denise sadly. “Do you think -that I would let him make so poor a bargain.” - -Marpasse would have taken her to task for showing such hypersensitive -self-consciousness, had not a horseman appeared above the crest of a low -hill, and come galloping down into the freshness of the May morning. -Marpasse looked at him as he came up, and the man’s face shone in the -sunlight. He was out of the saddle, and standing by Denise, as though it -was not easy for him to keep his hands from touching her. - -Marpasse laughed, and looked brown and joyous. - -“You see, lording,” she said, “I have brought her back fresh as a white -may bough.” - -None the less the may bough had a rich colour. Marpasse turned her back -on them, and looked intently towards Lewes. - -“Lording,” she said, “I give you while I count fifty. There is no time -to lose, for the King means to fight to-day.” - -Whether she wished it or not, Denise found her hands in Aymery’s. He -stood and looked into her eyes, and neither of them said a word. - -“Ten,” quoth Marpasse. - -Aymery’s face came nearer to Denise’s. - -“My desire,” he said, “if I live through it, I would have your heart for -mine.” - -Denise had gone red at first, but she was as white now as her shift. - -“Lord,” she said, “I cannot.” - -“Bah! Twenty!” called Marpasse. - -Aymery’s eyes were like the pleading eyes of a dog. He remembered what -Marpasse had said to him. Yet despite her vigorous counsel the great -love in him made him reverent. - -“Why _cannot_?” he asked her simply. - -She looked up at him and her eyes swam with tears. - -“Because of—of the pride in me, because of all that has happened.” - -“Fool, kiss her! Thirty!” murmured Marpasse. - -Aymery still held Denise’s hands. Yet he was looking beyond her towards -the town hazy with the golden mist of the morning. - -“It was I who brought it on you,” he said. - -He felt Denise shudder, and the impulse mastered him, he drew her to -him, and kissed her upon the mouth. She did not resist, but her mouth -was cold, and her eyes troubled. Gaillard’s shadow seemed to come -between them. - -“Forty,” called Marpasse, “and a buxom age for a woman.” - -Aymery let go of Denise’s hands. He stood with bowed head, looking into -her face. - -“Whatever God wills to-day,” he said, “remember the words that I have -spoken.” - -“Fifty,” trilled Marpasse. “I will see to it, lording. Up on your horse, -my gallant. They are all in a drunken sleep yonder at Lewes, and there -is not a man of them on the watch.” - -She turned, and glanced sharply from Aymery to Denise. And the wet, -passionate trouble in Denise’s eyes betrayed to Marpasse how things were -tending. It was best to leave the tenderness to ripen of itself that -day, for none but a woman understands a woman’s heart. - -Aymery was in the saddle. His man’s face had grown tense and keen, the -face of the strenuous fighter who puts softer things aside. And Marpasse -loved him for that hawk’s look of his, and the way he spread his pinions -to the wind. - -“Simon is marching through the Newick woods,” he said; “if he can but -come in time, he can seize and take the ground that pleases him.” - -He looked down at Denise, and Marpasse understood the look. - -“Ride, lording,” she said, “leave us to follow.” - -Aymery drew his sword, and kissed the blade. - -“Denise!” and wheeling his horse he went away at a gallop. - -De Montfort had the news soon after dawn that May morning as his host -came streaming through the woods of Newick. Sending forward a company of -knights and men-at-arms under young De Clare and William de Monchesny, -Simon followed on with the main body, climbing the narrow coombe that -led to the chalk ridge running westwards from Lewes town. The vanguard -had found Marpasse’s solitary sentinel still asleep on the hillside, and -they woke him roughly, and laughed at his gaping and astonished face. -Meanwhile the main host gained the ridge, and pouring on steadily in the -morning sunshine, did not halt their banners till they could see the -bell tower of the Priory of St. Pancras. - -Simon, who had been carried in a litter through the Newick woods because -of a wrenched tendon in the leg, mounted his horse, and rode out in -front of the ranks. Standing in the stirrups he spoke a few brave words -to hearten his men, pointed to the white cross he wore, and commended -himself and the host to God. - -“God, and the Cross,” the shout came back to him. - -Some knelt, others prostrated themselves, with arms outspread, and -kissed the earth. The King would have to fight an army of zealots that -morning. - -De Montfort soon had his battle in order. He divided his host into three -main bodies, each holding one of the promontories or spurs into which -the chalk ridge broke on the side towards Lewes. On the northern spur -that stretched towards the castle stood the Londoners under Nicholas de -Segrave. Young Gilbert de Clare had the centre, and with him were John -Fitz-John and William de Monchesny and the pick of the Barons’ host. On -the southern spur were De Montfort’s two sons, Guy and Henry, and with -them Humphrey de Bohun and John de Burgh. Simon himself remained with -the reserve, and he had called about him some of the men whom he could -trust to the last blow, men whom he could weld together, and hurl like -rock into the fight, to beat back a charge or to tear a passage. Aymery -and Waleran de Monceaux were with Earl Simon, knee to knee, and speaking -hardly at all. To deceive the King, De Montfort’s litter was packed with -certain London merchants who had plotted against the cause, and set with -the Earl’s standard on the higher ground towards the west. There also -was stationed the baggage. Young William le Blund had command of the -guard. - -The Barons’ men, resting in their places after a nine miles’ march, and -quietly making a meal, were able to watch at their leisure and to their -own comfort the scurry and alarm in the town and Priory below. The -King’s host ran to arms amid infinite confusion. Trumpets blew, bells -rang, banners went tossing hither and thither like bright clothes blown -abroad by the wind. Something suspiciously like a panic had seized some -of the less disciplined troops camped about the Priory. Knights and -captains who had scrambled into their battle harness, had to ride in -among their men and beat courage into them with the flat of the sword. -Prince Edward, who had the flower of knighthood with him in the castle, -was the first to take the field. They came pouring out from the town and -the castle, a gorgeous cataract of heavily-armed men, surcoats ablaze, -shields flashing gules and or, azure, argent, and vert; pennons jigging, -banners aslant from gilded banner staffs. Their van curled like a -brilliant billow carrying the masts of many ships, and flecked with -steel for foam. The great, grotesque war helmets were like the masks of -strange creatures called up by a magician’s wand. Their trumpets rang -out cheerily, sending a thrill through the hearts of Simon’s men. The -Londoners, who faced this mass of lords and knights, and burly -free-lances, began to talk too much, and to give each other orders. - -Denise and Marpasse were with the baggage behind De Montfort’s standard. -They had climbed into a waggon, and could see a great part of the field -stretched out before them. Dark columns were pouring up from the Priory, -and Marpasse, who was watching them, caught Denise by the arm. - -“Look yonder, they have hoisted the Red Dragon.” - -The whole of Simon’s host had seen it also, for a long sullen roar rose -like that of a wave breaking upon shingle. - -“What does the red banner mean?” - -“Mean!” and Marpasse bit her lips in her excitement; “death to all, no -prisoners, and no quarter if the King wins. That is the song of the Red -Dragon.” - -Denise said nothing. Marpasse glanced at her with a sudden, sidelong -stare. - -“You will not grudge him that one kiss,” she said, “for to-night we may -go a-searching for dead friends by torchlight.” - -The two dragons of war were trailing their coils nearer to one another. -The King’s red banner came tossing up the slope, he himself riding -before it, holding his shield aloft with the lions of gold thereon. - -“Simon, _je vous défie_!” - -That was his cry that morning, a cry that his men took up, and screamed -at the silent masses that watched and waited on the slopes above. The -royal host was flushed now and confident, trusting in their numbers and -in the great lords whose banners blew everywhere. - -Edward the Prince was the firebrand that morning. He was pricking his -horse to and fro like a mad boy, and his lips were bloody under his -great helmet. For he had the Londoners before him, those Londoners who -had thrown offal and foul words at his mother. The son had taken a vow -to wipe out those words with blood. - -Trumpets rang out on the King’s right. Edward threw his spear into the -air, caught it, and stood up in the stirrups. - -“Death to the dogs! At the gallop, sirs, come.” - -He was away, a splendid and furious figure, with many thousand horses -trampling at his heels. The iron ranks roared, and rocked and thundered. -Those who watched saw a tossing sea of horses’ heads, a whirl of hoofs -tearing the grass, a mist of slanted spears, a confusion of grotesque -heads bending behind painted shields. The mass plunged in on the -Londoners like a rock that falls with a deep sob into the sea. There was -no submerging of that mass of steel, and flesh, and leather. It went in -and through as a fire leaps through dry corn, terrible in its red ruin, -unquenchable and splendid. - -Marpasse, on her waggon, caught her breath, and held it. Simon’s left -wing was wavering. Its spears went down in long swathes, and did not -rise again. Black puffs of panic started out from the rear of the shaken -mass, and spread like smoke over the green hillside. - -“The Londoners have had enough! The fools always suffered from too much -tongue. Dirty dogs, run, run, the devil is at your heels.” - -She had hold of Denise’s arm, and Denise drew her breath in with a -short, sharp sound, for Marpasse’s nails had made blood marks under the -skin. But Marpasse never so much as noticed that she had hurt Denise. -Her heart was a man’s heart as she watched the Earl’s left wing -streaming away in rout with the mailed knights and men-at-arms scudding -through it, and spearing the burghers as they ran. Away down the slope -of Offham Hill, and across the level towards Hamsey and Barcombe went -the tide of slaughter. The flying Londoners trailed a fatal lure for -Edward the Prince that morning. The paradox proved true in the main, -that by running away they won Earl Simon the battle, for Edward hunted -them for a league and a half, wiping out the insults they had thrown at -his mother. And while he trampled the Londoners into the grass, and -drove many of them into the river, Earl Simon won the battle of Lewes, -and taught Prince Edward a lesson in the self-restraint of war. - -The reckless assurance that possessed the King’s army betrayed itself in -an incident that followed the routing of Simon’s left wing. A crowd of -women had followed on the heels of Edward’s lords and gentlemen, their -lovers of the night before. The women had come out prepared to enjoy the -battle as a spectacle, and perhaps to gain their share of the plunder. -Some of them were mounted on mules and palfreys, others went on foot. -And no sooner had the Londoners been driven off the field than these -bona-robas came laughing and shouting up the hill, waving their -kerchiefs and making a great to do. Most of them followed in the track -of Prince Edward’s victorious banners, though a few spread themselves -abroad to plunder the dead. - -Marpasse and Denise had a distant view of all that happened after the -flight of the Londoners down Offham Hill. They saw the massive centres -of the two hosts come to grips, and stand like two bulls with locked -horns, neither able to budge the other. Then Earl Simon’s genius gleamed -out. Reinforcing his right wing with the reserve, he fell upon the left -of the royal army under Richard, King of the Romans, crushed and -scattered it in rout. Turning, he fell furiously with his flushed troops -on the exposed flank of the King’s centre, broke through their ranks, -and gave Gloucester’s men their opportunity. - -From that wild mêlée the royal centre streamed away like ragged clouds -driven by the wind. The green hillsides were covered with savage and -furious figures, charging, and counter-charging with a riot of colour -and glittering harness that sank slowly towards Lewes town. Henry, who -had had his horse killed under him, and was wounded, was dragged away in -the thick of a knot of desperate men, and carried off at a gallop to the -Priory of St. Pancras. The battle was over as a struggle between two -great masses of men. It dwindled into a series of scattered episodes, -and of wild scuffles that rose suddenly like small dust storms, and then -dispersed. A few of the sturdier spirits fought it out before they -surrendered, happier in their valour than the King of the Romans who -took refuge in a windmill and was besieged by a mocking and exultant mob -till he delivered up his sword to Sir John de Befs. The fighting flowed -in scattered trickles down to Lewes town, the west gate was taken by -assault, though the King’s men held out in the castle and in the Priory -of St. Pancras. - -Now those about De Montfort’s standard were so taken up with watching -the rout of the King’s army that they were caught open-mouthed when one -of the last episodes burst on them like a thunderclap. There was a -shout, the scream of a trumpet, a quivering of the earth under the -thundering hoofs of galloping cavalry. Prince Edward was riding back -from the slaughter of the Londoners, assuming the battle won, having -spent precious hours in hunting down mere lads amid the windings of the -Ouse. He and his men burst in among the waggons and the baggage, hot and -bloody, their horses covered with sweat. And since Simon’s standard and -litter were there, they thought they had him in their hands. - -Young William le Blund was cut down under De Montfort’s banner, and his -men slain and scattered. The servants and camp-followers fluttered and -flew like frightened chickens in a farmyard. De Montfort’s litter was -overturned, and the London merchants dragged out by the heels, and put -to the sword despite their babblings and their protestations. It was -shouted abroad that Simon was hiding somewhere amid the baggage, and the -camp was turned into chaos, men tearing the loads out of the waggons, -thrusting their swords into trusses of fodder, yelping like dogs about a -fox’s hole. The women who had followed them shared in the scramble. And -since that traitor Simon was not to be found, the whole rout took to -plundering the baggage, not troubling to discover that the battle had -been lost down by Lewes town. - -Marpasse had dragged Denise out of the empty waggon, and set to at once -to pull bales out of a cart. - -“Play the game.” - -She had to scream at Denise because of the uproar. - -“Play the game. Swear, curse, be one of them.” - -Denise fell to, and helped Marpasse. The big woman had whipped out her -knife, and slit the sacking of the bale she had dragged down over the -tail board. The bale contained nothing more than rolls of white cloth. - -Marpasse spat on it, and swore, for other men and women were crowding -up. - -“White bibs for the fools, curse them! May Simon’s corpse be a bloodier -colour.” - -She seized Denise by the wrist, and dragged her off as though to hunt -for richer spoil. But in the thick of the scramble she ran against the -chest of a white horse that came out from behind one of the waggons. -Marpasse saved herself by holding to Denise. - -The rider on the white horse broke into a shout of laughter. - -“Great, fat sheep, where are you running?” - -And Marpasse stood open-mouthed, for it was Isoult, Isoult in a man’s -hauberk, and red surcoat, her black hair bundled up under a steel cap. - -“Black cat!” - -Isoult reached down, caught Marpasse by the cloak, drew her in, and -kissed her. - -“You big brown devil, how I love the smell of you. And sister Denise, -too, with all the fun of the fair.” - -She tossed her head and laughed, and shouted to a knight on horseback -who was watching his men scrambling over a coffer full of plate. - -“Lording, come you here. I have found your red head for you. Though you -will not be wanting her now, unless you would like a touch of my knife.” - -The knight turned in the saddle; he had taken off his great helmet, both -Denise and Marpasse knew him at the first glance. - -“Gaillard!” - -Marpasse took Denise by the hand, and kept very close to Isoult’s white -horse. - - - - - CHAPTER XL - - -Aymery had searched the hillsides that day for a blue surcoat shining -with golden suns, but since Gaillard had charged among Prince Edward’s -spears, he was miles away on the heels of the Londoners while the men of -the White Cross were driving the King back in rout upon Lewes town. - -But Simon had not forgotten to look for the return of the Prince. He had -gathered the pick of his knights and men-at-arms together, and when they -brought him news of the plundering of his camp, he smiled and bided his -time. Steady and motionless, a mass of steel half hidden by a rise in -the ground, De Montfort’s cavalry waited in the evening light for the -coming of the Prince. - -And a riotous and disordered troop it was that marched back towards -Lewes after plundering the Barons’ camp. Edward and his lords seemed to -have accepted their victory as assured, and never doubted but that the -White Cross had been trodden into the dust. The scene that stretched -before them, flooded by the evening sunlight, was deceptive in the -extreme. De Warenne’s banner still flew from the castle, and that of the -King from the bell tower of St. Pancras. There were scattered bodies of -armed men moving over the slopes and about the town, and the dead -strewing the field made no confession of victory or defeat. - -It was then that the most tragic thing of the day happened, for the mob -of fighting men under the Prince, marching as they pleased, had some -hundreds of women mingled with them, unfortunates who had thought of -nothing but making a joyous night of it after the great victory, and the -plunder that they had won. De Montfort’s mass of knights and -men-at-arms, rising suddenly like a grey sea out of the twilight, came -on at a gallop, fresh and lusty after a long rest. Isoult was one of -those gay queans, riding with Gaillard’s arm about her, chattering and -laughing to keep her man amused. Following these two, half as comrades, -half as prisoners, came Denise and Marpasse, mounted upon cart-horses, -that had been taken from the Barons’ camp. Luckily for them they were in -the rear of Prince Edward’s host or they would have been trampled down -at the first charge, as were many of the women. - -Marpasse and Denise were riding close together, watching Gaillard as -sheep might watch a dangerous dog, and waiting their chance to break -away in the gathering darkness. Although he had an arm about Isoult’s -body, Gaillard’s eyes wandered round towards Denise, stealing -half-furtive glances at her, as though he were already tired of Isoult, -and suffered his passions to embrace a contrast. Marpasse saw how it was -with Gaillard, and hated him for Denise’s sake, and because she could -tell what manner of man he was, insolent, lustful, ever ready to throw -aside things that had sated him. He was like a great lean spider with -his long legs and his sinewy arms, and Marpasse could have stabbed him -for the way he held Isoult. - -They were crowded together, and Marpasse and Denise saw nothing of the -storm that was tearing down upon the Prince’s following. A strange -silence fell suddenly on that mass of humanity, broken here and there by -a loud and querulous cry. A moment ago there had been nothing but -singing, shouting, and coarse jests. - -A shudder seemed to pass through the whole mob. It wavered, stood still, -swayed to and fro. Marpasse heard women shrieking. Then a roar of voices -rose, the furious voices of men caught at a disadvantage with death -rushing upon them like a flood. Utter confusion spread, trumpets -screaming like frightened beasts, spears swaying this way and that. Then -the shock came. The bodies of men were thrown in the air like stones -torn from a sea wall by a furious wave. - -Marpasse saw Gaillard rise in his stirrups, draw his sword, and turn a -bleak, wolf-like profile towards them. He caught his battle helmet from -the saddle bow, dipped his head into it, and came up a grotesque monster -with a face like a gaping frog. Marpasse had a vision of sloped spears -pouring down on them through the golden haze of the evening. Then chaos -seemed to come again, and the world crumbled with the rushing of many -waters and the rending of solid rock. - -Marpasse had a glimpse of Denise clinging to her horse that had reared -in terror. Gaillard had left Isoult, and was trying to clear a path with -his sword, making his horse swerve to and fro in the press. Then -Marpasse had no sense left in her, but the sense of falling, of being -thrown hither and thither, of being trampled on and hurt. A horse -crashed to the ground close to her and lay still, and with the blind -instinct of the moment, Marpasse flung herself down and huddled close -under the beast’s body as an Arab shelters behind a camel when a dust -storm sweeps the desert. Yet with swiftness and tumult and fierce -anguish the storm passed, and was gone. Marpasse found herself peering -up over the horse’s body, and looking at a splendid sky against which -dark figures struggled together as on the edge of an abyss. - -Marpasse scrambled up, wondering how she had come out of the storm so -easily, and stood and stared stupidly about her, dazed for the moment by -the violence of it all. A tempest of horsemen was rolling away over the -hillside like a grey cloud curling over a mountain. Broken bodies lay -everywhere, some still squirming like worms that have been trodden under -foot; others motionless, contorted, and grotesque, like bodies thrown at -random from a high tower. And where life and noise and movement had been -but a few minutes before, a slow silence seemed to ooze in and to -stagnate under the melancholy of the coming night. - -Marpasse’s wits came back to her, and she looked round for any sign of -those who had been with her a few moments ago. Gaillard had gone, Denise -also, like people swept off a rock by an ocean wave. - -Looking about her, Marpasse saw a white horse lying dead upon the -hillside, and something that moved half under and half beside it, with -the whimpering cry of a child. Marpasse stumbled forward, for one foot -had been bruised, and found Death sitting upon the carcase of the white -horse. Isoult lay there with the beast’s body upon her legs, and her -back broken. She could stretch out her hands to Marpasse, with a -shuddering spasm of cursing that was piteous and futile. - -“Curse Simon, and his bulls, curse Gaillard, the great coward! I am done -for, and this white hog, this devil’s bitch lies on my legs like a rock. -Hold off, great fool. Do I want to be pulled about when my back’s -broken, and my ribs are pricking my liver.” - -Marpasse tried to drag her clear of the horse, but Isoult’s screams and -curses sobered her. She saw that Isoult was near her end, crushed like a -wild cat in the steel jaws of a trap. The girl, too, had the spiteful -valour of a cat, and pushed Marpasse’s hands away when she tried to -fondle her. - -“None of your spittle,” she said, biting her lips with the anguish in -her; “it is jolly, I tell you, to be trampled into the dirt! Just the -sort of end I was made for. Who cares? Oh, yes, I shall go straight to -hell.” - -She chattered on at random, laughing, sneering, and biting her lips. -Marpasse sat by her, her heart full of inarticulate and half-angry pity. - -“What are you sitting there for, great fool? There is that red-headed -Denise of yours; you left me for her; I know, Gaillard told me the -story. Oh yes, you had what you wanted, Messire Gaillard, you held me in -your arms, devil; you saw me trampled on, and rode after the red head. -God curse you, my Gaillard, you bundle of burning straw in a body of -clay. Tell me, Marpasse, are not we women accursed fools?” - -She began to curse Gaillard bitterly under her breath. Marpasse saw a -change come over her, for she seemed to grow thinner and greyer in the -dusk. A great sob gathered in Marpasse’s throat. She fell a-weeping, and -hung dearly over Isoult. - -“There, child, what does it avail? Lie in my arms now, and fall asleep.” - -Isoult ceased her cursing suddenly, and shuddered a little as she felt -Marpasse’s tears falling upon her face. Her black eyes became dark, and -very wistful. - -“What are you weeping for, great fool?” - -Marpasse hung over her, and smoothed her hair. - -“You were a little slip of a thing when we first were friends,” she -said, “and you often slept in my bosom. We had rough days and rough -weather together. All the roads were rough for us, and so is the last -track.” - -Isoult lay very still, though her cold hands crept up, and rested in the -warmth between Marpasse’s breasts. She grew very grey and feeble, and -blood came into her mouth. Isoult spat it out, and looked up at -Marpasse. - -“What a fool of a world,” she said hoarsely; “but if I could work a -miracle, I would just mend you, and set you on your feet. And if God and -His saints are harder hearted, let them keep their pride, I would rather -sup with the devil.” - -Isoult gave a great sigh. - -“How could I help it all,” she said; “I was branded when I was born, and -I was no man’s child. No one ever taught me prayers, or fed me on white -bread. And when I was kicked, I learnt to scratch back.” - -Marpasse lay down beside her, and in a little while the end came. Nor -did Isoult die easily, but with pain and revolt, and blood choking her -throat. Marpasse put her arms about her, and held her till she died. And -with the passing of Isoult’s spirit, something seemed to break in the -heart of Marpasse. - -The dusk deepened, and the living woman was sitting there with her head -between her hands, and staring at the dead woman’s face, when a gaunt -man in the dress of a priest came by, and seeing them, turned aside. He -had a wooden cross in his hand, an axe thrust into his girdle, and a -buckler at his back. If Grimbald had served the White Cross with his axe -that day down amid the windings of the Ouse, he had put the iron aside -now, and taken to compassion. - -He spoke to Marpasse, but she did not hear him. Grimbald touched her on -the shoulder. - -“Peace, sister,” he said. - -Marpasse jumped up and looked Grimbald over in the dusk. Her glance -lighted on his cross. - -“What is the use of that,” she said; “bah, take it away, my brother!” - -Grimbald nodded his head. Marpasse spread her arms, and then pointed to -Isoult. - -“See, there, what has God to say to such a thing? When we are born in a -ditch, and kept in a ditch, and kicked into a ditch at the end, what has -the Cross to do with it?” - -Grimbald knelt down quite solemnly, and looked at Isoult. - -“What a child! Who said that she had sinned, sister?” - -Marpasse’s mouth was full of scoffing. - -“We have stones thrown at us. We are too black for the good folk to soil -their hands in washing us.” - -Grimbald turned his face to her, and his eyes shone. - -“The Lord said ‘let those who are without sin cast the first stone.’ -What do you make of those words, sister?” - -“That the devil must put his tongue in his cheek when the good people go -to church,” said Marpasse. - -Grimbald got up, and went and stood in front of Marpasse. They looked -each other in the eyes like two sturdy souls sure of hearing the truth. - -“Do you see her in eternal flames, sister?” asked the man. - -“On my oath, I do not. The child had good in her, when people did not -thrust thorns into her face.” - -Grimbald nodded his head solemnly. - -“I would have the flaying of all hypocrites,” he said, “as for such -lives, I would mend them in heaven.” - -“You will put up a prayer, Father. I have money.” - -Grimbald almost glowered at her. - -“Will my tongue do any better for the stuff! Help me to pull the child -away. We can find her a clean grave somewhere. As for my prayers, God -knows the ways of the world.” - -Marpasse had an impetuous heart. She took Grimbald by the girdle. - -“I could kiss that mouth of yours, Father,” she said, “because it talks -out straight, and is the mouth of a man.” - -The river Ouse took toll that evening from the King’s host, drawing many -a rider into its deeps, while the bogs and the morasses opened their -slimy mouths for food. The Prince had saved a portion of his following -from the rout upon the hillside, and breaking away he found the west -gate of Lewes held against him, and was compelled to gallop round the -town to join the King at the Priory of St. Pancras. The greater number -of the royalist leaders had fled, riding for the castle of Pevensey, -whence they could cross into France. The King’s brothers, William de -Valence and Guy de Lusignan, were galloping for their lives, and with -them a crowd of adventurers and free-lances who knew that they would be -hanged on the forest trees if the country folk could lay their hands on -them. Hugh Bigot and Earl de Warenne were with the fugitives. The King -of the Romans and his son, the Scotch nobles, many English lords, and a -crowd of lesser men had been taken by Earl Simon. - -Meanwhile Denise had been saved by the terror of her horse from being -trampled and crushed like Black Isoult. The beast had broken through, -and fled at a gallop, with Denise lying out like a child along his neck. -There were other horses galloping about her, some with riders, many with -empty saddles, and one common instinct seemed to shepherd the beasts -together, so that Denise found herself swept along in the thick of the -herd. - -Lying upon her nag’s neck, with her cheek laid against the coarse coat, -and her hair blowing in the wind, Denise became conscious at last of a -black horse galloping beside hers, stride for stride. At first she saw -only the beast’s head with its red nostrils, and ill-tempered ears laid -back, and the whites of its eyes showing. Then a man’s figure drew into -view, and she had a glimpse of a blue surcoat with a blur of gold -thereon, and a great iron helmet that gaped like a frog. Denise was no -longer a piece of wreckage carried along in the thick of the flood. The -black horse seemed to know his master’s mind, and began to guide -Denise’s nag as one beast will guide and rule another. - -The man, who had been sitting stiffly in the saddle, bent forward and -caught the trailing halter of Denise’s horse. - -“Hold fast, Sanctissima,” he said, “we shall soon be out of the mill -race.” - -Denise knew that it was Gaillard, but fate carried her at the gallop, -and she was too conscious of the wind in her ears and the way the ground -rushed under her. - -“If I can save you a broken neck,” he went on, shouting the words -through the black cleft in the great helmet, “I shall deserve your -forgiveness. The fools yonder are rushing like a drove of pigs for the -river. They will drown one another. We will take our own road.” - -Denise felt like one falling and falling in a dream. There was no end to -it, and she had not enough breath in her to feel the finer, spiritual -fear. It was impossible to so much as think in the rush and welter of -all those flying, thundering shapes. Her body was taken up with holding -to the body of her horse. - -They drew clear of the main torrent at last, and went cantering in the -dusk over the rolling grassland. Gaillard was sitting straight in the -saddle, and watching a gush of flame that had leapt up over Lewes town. -The King’s men who still held the castle, had thrown springalds of fire -down upon the houses, setting the thatch ablaze so that the houses -should not cover Simon’s men who were crowding to the assault. The glare -of the burning town seemed an echo from the red sunset above the western -hills. A distant uproar rose into the twilight, though the summits of -the downs were solemn and still. Denise felt her horse slacken under her -now that they had turned aside from the rush of the pursuit. - -The power to think and to feel came back to her. She escaped from the -chaos of things to a consciousness of self, and of that other self -beside her. The blind life-instinct that had carried her over the hills -into the twilight, gave place to a quick, spiritual dread of the man at -her side. She had not seen Gaillard desert Isoult, and leave the girl to -be trampled under foot. But her own being had a passionate loathing for -the man, a loathing so great that it tempted her to throw herself from -her horse. Her broken and unconscious body would be nothing to Gaillard, -and he would leave her as a drunkard would leave a broken and empty jar. - -Gaillard, alert and masterful, reined in suddenly as though to listen. -He had caught some sound following them out of the dusk, but the -trampling of their own horses had smothered it, and robbed it of -significance. Gaillard kept his hold of the halter of Denise’s horse, -and towered over her as he turned in the saddle to look back. - -The ridge of a hill ran bleak and sharp against a stretch of yellow sky. -And outlined against this streak of gold came the figure of a man riding -a black horse. He was not two hundred paces away, and Gaillard saw him -shake his sword. - -Denise also saw that solitary rider black against the sunset, and the -heart leapt in her, and beat more quickly. - -Gaillard kicked in the spurs, dragging Denise’s rough nag after him. - -“Hold fast,” he said, “if that fellow is after us, he will not rob a -Gascon of his supper.” - -They were galloping again, rushing on into a vague and dolorous dusk. -The wind swept Denise’s hair, and once a shout followed after them, but -Gaillard kept her horse at the gallop, and Denise was at the mercy of -the two strong beasts, and of that yet stronger beast, man. A streak of -dull silver parted the darkness in front of them. Before Denise had -understood the nature of the thing before them, water was splashed over -her, and their horses were swimming the river. - -Gaillard had not spoken a word. When they were out of the muddy shallows -and on the firm ground beyond, he reined in, turned the horses, and -looked back over the river. An indistinct figure loomed out of the dusk -with a scamper of hoofs, and the heavy breathing of a hard-ridden horse. - -Gaillard had drawn his sword. He lifted his helmet, and putting it on -the point of his sword, stood in the stirrups, holding sword and helmet -high above his head. Denise was near enough to see his face in the dusk. -It was half fierce, and half amused, yet wholly confident, the face of a -strong man and a libertine whose strength made him take a bully’s joy in -cheating weaker men of their women. - -“Hallo, there!” - -The pursuer had drawn in on the farther bank, with his horse’s hoofs -sucking the spongy grass. - -“Keep over there, my friend, if you value a sound skull. I am not to be -meddled with when I ride with a gay lady.” - -There was a splashing of hoofs in the shallows, and a voice came over -the river. - -“Denise!” it said, “is it Denise, yonder?” - -Gaillard looked down at her, and opened his mouth scoffingly when she -answered the man’s call. - -“Hallo, Golden-head, you would have a lover in your lap, eh! We will see -to it to-night, my desire. I promise you it shall not be the fool -yonder.” - -The water had broken into fresh ripples that came lapping among the -sedges. Aymery’s horse was swimming the river. - -Gaillard dropped his great helmet on to his shoulders, and holding the -halter in the same big hand as held his sword, turned the horses, and -rode off so close to Denise that his knee touched hers. - -“Grace before meat,” he said, laughing under his helmet, “your man is -probably clumsy enough. I know how to deal with such a windmill.” - -He dragged Denise’s horse to a canter, and turning in the saddle, saw -Aymery floundering up through the crackling shadows. - -“Some people are in a great hurry to get to heaven,” said Gaillard; “it -is a pity, Sanctissima, that you have such a head of hair, and such a -body. They are things that make a man cut other men’s throats.” - - - - - CHAPTER XLI - - -The plunge through the cold Ouse freshened Aymery’s horse, and Gaillard, -who rode only to put some miles between him and Simon’s host at Lewes, -heard the rhythm of the hoofs behind him drawing ever nearer. The -knowledge that he was chased by one man did not bustle the Gascon in the -least, for Gaillard knew his own strength, and had never taken a -thrashing. The day’s battle had beggared him, and his brother -adventurers, for the lords who had hired them would soon be scattered -over the sea. Moreover Gaillard remembered De Montfort in Gascony, and -that Earl Simon had dealt very roughly with hired gentlemen of the sword -who meddled where they had no cause. Yet Gaillard did not snap his jaws -at the chance that had beggared him. He felt in fettle, and ready for a -scrimmage, arrogantly confident in himself, and with sufficient animal -spite in the mood to put him in an excellent temper. He would thrash the -fool who followed them, have his way with Denise, and make Pevensey on -the morrow, and sail with some of the King’s lords who were seized with -a desire to visit France. - -Had Gaillard had a glimpse of the face of the man who followed him, he -might have taken the escapade more grimly, and talked less of “Sussex -boors who could better fix a spiggot in a barrel than handle a sword.” -The Gascon could not keep the froth from the surface. Loquacity was a -habit of his when he had anything strenuous in hand. He gabbled away to -Denise as they cantered on in the dusk, keeping a sharp eye however on -the ground before him, very wide awake in spite of his loquacity. - -“Come, now, Sanctissima,” he said, “tell me when you are tired of your -horse, and we will stop and talk to the gentleman behind us. A gallop at -night makes one sleep more soundly. We shall find a bed somewhere, and -no one shall wake you early if you would play the sluggard.” - -Denise, listening to the rhythm of hoofs behind them in the dusk, hated -Gaillard for his flamboyant spirit and his arrogance. She held her -breath for Aymery’s sake. If Gaillard should kill him! If she should see -him beaten, and crushed! She cast frightened brown eyes over Gaillard’s -figure, and hated him the more because he seemed so big and lusty. - -“Hallo, we are coming up fast behind there! The gentleman is very hot, -and in a great hurry, Sanctissima! Do you see a wood over yonder. We can -make a bed under the trees when we have had our talk with Messire -Mead-horn. Beer, Sanctissima, makes these boors hot in the head and -quarrelsome.” - -Denise felt the canter slacken, for Gaillard was drawing in. A swift and -inarticulate horror, a vivid sense of what was to follow, seized on her. -These two men would be at each other’s throats. And in the dusk and the -silence of that night in May she might see lust conquer and strangle -love. - -The dull plodding of hoofs behind them beat a measure in her brain. She -would have cried out to Aymery, and could not. And on that hard, brown -face under the helmet she imagined a callous and self-assured smile. - -They neared the trees, masses of fresh foliage hanging motionless under -the quiet sky. It would be peaceful, and odorous, and silent in among -those trees. Yet their black plumes had a sinister sadness for Denise. -They were so calm, and black, and motionless, with never the sound of a -night wind in them. - -Gaillard reined in abruptly, threw a sharp glance over his shoulder, and -then pushed Denise roughly from her horse. - -“Try to run, my minion, and I will ride over you,” he said, “no fool of -a mesne lord shall stand in the way of it.” - -He still had her horse by the halter, and Denise saw him jerk it, so -that the beast tossed its head. And the brutal thing that Gaillard did -sickened her to the heart, so that she stood still with wide eyes and -quivering mouth. For Gaillard had slashed the horse’s throat, and Denise -saw the poor beast rear, break free, and then sink on its knees with a -smothered sound that was all too human. - -Denise forgot even the maimed horse with the coming of Aymery out of the -dusk. Gaillard had circled round so that he stood between Denise and the -trees. He had begun to sing some southern song, throwing his sword from -hand to hand, his voice reverberating in his helmet. - -Denise stood and watched and waited as though her whole soul had -withdrawn into her eyes. Aymery was quite close to her, yet she neither -moved nor spoke to him. Perhaps she was dazed by the imminent dread of -what would follow. - -Gaillard broke off his song, drew his shield forward, and crowed like a -cock. - -“Good evening, my little gentleman,” he said; “there you are, white -cross and all. I will put a red mark on that cross of yours. Ladies are -always pleased by a red rose.” - -Aymery said nothing, but glanced aside at Denise. Then Gaillard came -cantering up, tossing his sword, and crowing in his helmet. - -“Up with your shield, my friend, I have a lady to love, and the night is -ready.” - -Denise watched them, half in a stupor. The men were sword to sword, -shield to shield, and horse to horse. Confusedly, like one half asleep, -she heard Gaillard prattling as they began the tussle, a grim and half -playful babble, like the chatter of a waterfall when men are struggling -in the pool beneath. - -Soon, however, Gaillard grew very silent, save for a sudden and -spasmodic oath. To Denise there seemed nothing in the world but two -strong men lashing at each other from the backs of two ever moving and -circling horses. Then in the thick of the clangour, and the heavy -breathing, she heard Gaillard give a sharp, fierce cry, the cry of a -strong man cut beneath his harness. A horse swerved, stumbled, and -rolled over. Whose, Denise could not tell for the moment, in the whirl -of the tussle, and the darkness. - -It was Gaillard’s horse, but he was free of the beast, up, and no longer -the complacent sworder, but a man fighting with the valour of a beast -that fights to live. He blundered against the other’s horse, grappled a -leg, and twisted Aymery out of the saddle. They were on foot now, still -close to her, dodging, striking, circling round and round. Denise could -hear the sound of their breathing above the rattle of blows, and the -dull rustling of feet. - -Then she saw a man stumble, jerk forward, and recover though cut across -the shoulders with a sword. A head was bare, the great helmet had -fallen, and a white face showed in its stead. Denise knew Gaillard by -his greater height. His shield was up, sure as a pent-house at the foot -of a wall, and Denise would have crushed that shield had the power of a -Greek goddess been hers that moment. - -Gaillard had blood on his face, she saw the dark smirch thereof above -the eyes and down one cheek. A broken shield was thrown aside, Aymery’s, -and fell like a dead crow with flapping wings into the grass. Gaillard -sprang on him. There was a meeting of swords, a moment’s locking of the -blades, a swift up-thrust by the one that first broke free. Again Denise -heard that great cry of Gaillard’s with more of the roar of the wild -beast in it than before. - -He rolled from side to side as though drunk, and then throwing aside his -shield, made a blind and blundering charge with an upheave of the sword. -Aymery sprang to the right with a twist of the body, using that swing of -the body for the sweep of the counter-blow. Gaillard sprawled, spun -round, caught Aymery’s ankle, and dragged him to earth. For a while -there was a confused struggle in the grass. Denise heard a man groaning, -and straining like a giant trying to lift a rock that is crushing him -into the ground. Then there was the sharp sound of steel wrenching its -way through steel. The end had come, and one of the men lay still. - -Why the horror of the thing should take possession of her as it did -Denise did not consider. She saw the wood, dark, cool, and still, before -her, and fled into it, seeing nothing but hearing ever Gaillard’s cry. -And though she fell often, stumbling against the great trees in the -darkness, she ran like one without reason, not noticing whether anyone -followed, and that the silence of the place closed on her like water -over a stone. - - - - - CHAPTER XLII - - -From a chance word that Marpasse let fall while they were burying -Isoult, Grimbald discovered all that she knew concerning Aymery and -Denise, and he made her tell the story. Marpasse had been breaking up -the ground with a sword, and Grimbald using a shield for a shovel, -scooped a shallow trough for the body wrapped in its scarlet surcoat. -That labour together over the grave, and the way Grimbald made her talk -of herself and Denise, brought Marpasse and the parish priest to a -sudden sense of comradeship. - -With Isoult laid to rest they trudged off together to Lewes town, but -could gain no sure news of Aymery there, though Grimbald found a Sussex -man, Geoffrey de St. Leger, who swore that the Knight of the Hawk’s Claw -had ridden in that last charge against Prince Edward’s company. Grimbald -and Marpasse had already searched the ground in the dusk without coming -upon Denise’s grey gown. A truce had been called, and torches were -moving to and fro over the battlefield like corpse candles in the -darkness. - -The parish priest and the bona-roba watched the night out under a hedge, -and Marpasse fell asleep while Grimbald watched. They were up before -dawn, however, and breaking bread as they went, they searched the -scarred track along which Simon’s knights had ridden in pursuit of the -flying royalists. Grimbald bent over many a body in the twilight, and -though there were women lying dead and stiff upon the grass, Denise was -not among them, nor did they find Aymery among the slain. - -The dawn was just breaking when they came to the river; grey fog hung -there; and it was very still. The dead were here also, horse and man, -and Grimbald saw that the richer bodies had been plundered, even -stripped naked and left upon the grass. Their search had lessened the -chances, save what the grey river might be hiding under its shroud. But -Grimbald chose to be an optimist that morning, and swore, as though he -had seen the thing in crystal, that neither Aymery nor Denise was under -the quiet water. He chose the simplest explanation, and put it forward -so confidently that Marpasse believed also, and fell in with his plan. -Aymery had found Denise, and taken her away with him out of reach of the -storm. - -“As sure as I live,” he said, “we shall find them at Goldspur. It is not -the first time that I have prophesied the truth.” - -And Marpasse accepted Grimbald as a prophet, and he looked the part with -his gaunt face and fiery eyes. - -They were walking towards the bridge when a splashing sound came up the -river, and a black boat glided out of the mist, driven along by a man -who wielded a long pole. A second man was drawing in a rope, and there -was something at the end thereof, for the rope was taut and straight, -with drops of water falling from it. The first man shipped his pole, and -went to help his comrade with the rope, nor had either of them noticed -Grimbald and Marpasse. - -A thing that glistened rose to the surface. The men reached over, and -between them, dragged the body of a man in gilded harness into the boat. -They grunted cheerfully over the catch, and disappeared below the -gunwale. The boat lay in mid-stream, and there was the plash of the -grapnel as one of the men heaved it out again into the river. - -Grimbald held up a hand to Marpasse, slipped down the bank, and dropped -quietly into the water. A few long strokes carried him under the boat’s -stern. And the great brown head that appeared suddenly over the gunwale -so scared the two spoilers of the dead that they gaped at Grimbald, and -lost the chance of knocking him back into the river. The bottom of the -boat was littered with plunder from the bodies along the bank; and one -of the men was cutting the rings from the hands of the knight they had -fished up with the grapnel. Grimbald scrambled in, axe in hand. But he -looked so huge, and fierce, and fateful in the grey of the morning that -the men jumped for it, and swam like water rats, leaving the parish -priest lord of the spoil. - -Grimbald poled the boat to the bank, lifted the dead man out, and laid -him on the grass. He knelt and said a prayer for him, while Marpasse -stood on guard with the axe, watching the two thieves who had crawled -out on the near bank and were skulking behind a bush. Grimbald ended his -prayer, and stood up and shook himself like a great dog. - -“Providence is at work here,” he said; “my prophecy will come true.” - -They climbed into the boat and ferried across, watched by the men who -were waiting to recover their spoil. But Grimbald cheated them of their -desire, for he stove out the planks with the end of the pole, and pushed -the boat out to sink in the deeper water. - -“Let it return to the dead,” he said. “Those rogues shall catch no more -fish to-day.” - -Grimbald and Marpasse set out on their five-league trudge to Goldspur, -both of them being stout walkers, and eager to come to the end of the -tale. These two warm, rough natures were quickly in sympathy, for -Grimbald discovered the “woman” in Marpasse, and being nothing of the -Pharisee he had no exquisite dread of soiling his robes. Marpasse talked -to him on the way as she had never talked to a man before. Grimbald was -so strong and so honest that the woman’s eyes gleamed out at him -approvingly. Isoult’s death had stirred her deeply, following as it had -on her comradeship with Denise. Marpasse put her life in its crude and -simple colours before Grimbald’s eyes, not justifying herself, but -talking as though it helped her to talk to a priest who understood. - -“It is just like climbing a ladder,” she said, “to get inside a castle. -The good people above throw stones, and potsherds, and boiling oil. And -if you get to the top—they try to pitch you down again. If I had my way -I would have a door in the side of the world, and the poor drabs should -be let in quietly, and put out to work to earn their bread.” - -“Sometimes it is very dull—being good,” said Grimbald with a twinkle. - -“It is often very dreary being sinful, Father. Give me a chance to -choose, and I would have a fire-side, and a bed, and a broom to use, and -a man to cuff me—at times—if he kissed me an hour afterwards. A smack -on the cheek does a woman a world of good.” - -“And a kiss on the mouth?” asked Grimbald. - -“Oh, that makes the puddings turn out well. And I have a taste for -puddings.” - -Grimbald’s prophetic instinct fulfilled itself that morning, for they -were not a mile from Goldspur village, and following a track that ran -over a stretch of heathland between the woods, when they saw a man ride -out from a woodland way. He was not a furlong from them, so near that -they could see the red stains on the white cross sewn to his surcoat, -and the way the reins were slack upon the horse’s neck. In fact, the -horse seemed to carry the man, and not the man to guide the horse. It -was Aymery himself, grey-faced, battered, forlorn as a ship struggling -home after a storm. - -Grimbald’s long legs left Marpasse far behind. Aymery smiled at him as a -sick man smiles at the face of a friend. He had grown gaunt and haggard -in a night, and the unshaven stubble on his chin showed black against -his pallor. - -“Victory at Lewes.” - -Grimbald took his bridle. - -“And a wound—somewhere,” he said. - -“Wounds—plenty of them. I am tired, Grimbald—tired as a dog.” - -Aymery left his horse to the priest, for it was as much as he could do -to steady himself in the saddle by holding to the pommel with both -hands. Marpasse came to meet them, and Aymery looked at her stupidly, as -though his brain were clouded. - -A faint gleam passed across his face as he recognised Marpasse. - -“I have killed him,” he said; “yes—it was on the edge of the -woods—over yonder.” - -He relapsed again into a half stupor, staring at Marpasse with eyes that -seemed heavy with sleep. - -“Denise?” she asked him. - -He echoed her, slowly. Marpasse nodded. - -“Denise was with Gaillard—I killed him. She had disappeared when we had -ended it,” and he looked at Marpasse as though it was she who was wise -in the matter, an appealing look like the appeal of a dumb child. - -Grimbald gave Marpasse a most unpriestly wink. - -“Bed and bread,” he said in a whisper, “and good wine to wash it down. -The oil is low in the lamp. Keep it burning.” - -Marpasse understood, and was all cheerfulness. - -“Never was I better pleased by the thought of a corpse,” she said; “as -for Denise, she was born to run away—as I always tell her. She knows -the woodways hereabouts, Father, eh? To be sure. Madame will not be long -on the road.” - -Aymery was at the end of himself, and lay along his horse’s neck, his -arms hanging down on either side. Grimbald looked fierce, being -combative where death, sickness, and the Devil were concerned. - -“Hum—white as a clean dish clout!” - -Marpasse touched Aymery’s cheek. - -“Asleep,” she said. - -“Speak out; no metaphors.” - -“I speak what I mean—and your long words can go to the eel pond, -Father. He is asleep. What could be better? Gaillard, Messire Gaillard, -you met your match! And Denise—the fool—ran away!” - -She went close, kissed Aymery’s neck, and then turned on Grimbald with a -defiant glare of the eyes. - -“Mayn’t I kiss a brave man?” she asked. - -Grimbald threw up his head and laughed. - -“Who said you ‘nay’?” he retorted; “you women are in such a hurry.” - -“Then I shall kiss you, Father!” - -“Will you!” quoth he grimly. - -Goldspur manor house was still a mute gathering of charred posts, though -some of the lodges and the barn had been rebuilt. Aymery was taken that -day to the priest’s house that stood on the edge of a glimmering birch -wood, whose boles rose like silver pillars above the brown wattle fence -about the church. Grimbald carried him in in his arms, and laid him on -his own bed. There was no _focaria_ or servant, and Marpasse was soon as -busy as any hearth-ward. She found the aumbry where Grimbald kept his -oil and wine, gathered sticks from the wood lodge, lit a fire, and hung -the iron pot on the hook. Grimbald was stripping Aymery of his harness, -unfastening the gorget and greaves, peeling the heavy hauberk off him -with much trouble, and unlacing the gambeson beneath. Marpasse came in -with the wine and the water-pot, for Grimbald had his bed in the little -room at the end of the great hall. She began to covet and handle some of -the parish priest’s vestments that hung on pegs along the wall. -Marpasse’s brown hands made a white alb scream into strips for bandages. -Grimbald glanced round at her with philosophic consent. - -“I shall never get such another,” he said. - -“Shall I put up an oath for you, Father?” - -“Quiet, fool! His mother gave it me—five years ago.” - -“It has washed well,” said Marpasse. - -And the alb was used to bind up Aymery’s wounds. - -Much loss of blood from a few deep flesh cuts, that was the main -mischief, and Grimbald and Marpasse soon had him under the coverlet. He -was half asleep all the while they were handling him, heavy and stupid -with long hours in the saddle, the death tussle with Gaillard, and lack -of food. There was no epic heroism in the episode. Aymery was put to bed -like a small boy, and the washing that Marpasse had given him had made -the illusion more complete. Beyond making him drink some wine they did -not trouble him, but left him to have his sleep out, and wake—if God -willed it—hungry. - -Marpasse’s thoughts turned to Denise, but she and Grimbald were -sufficiently carnal to rejoice in a good round meal of bread and mead -and bacon. They sat at the table with the door of the house wide open, -so that they had a glimpse of the green and mysterious world beyond. -Grimbald had little to say, and Marpasse was very hungry, and so little -overawed by a seat at a priest’s table that her hunger walked boldly, -and would not be abashed. And Grimbald was amused by it, and commended -the healthiness of the instinct, the more so because it proved its value -in the person of a very comely woman with a sunburnt face, clear eyes, -and a mass of tawny hair. - -They began at last to talk of Denise, and Marpasse made Grimbald take -her to the door, and point her out the way to the beech wood where -Denise had had her cell. Grimbald could show her the wood itself, a -green cloud adrift across the blue of the May sky. Marpasse saw to her -shoes, dropped half a loaf into her bag, and made it plain to Grimbald -whither she was going. - -“Birds fly back to the same haunts in the spring,” she said; “nor do I -see, Father, why you alone should be a prophet.” - -Grimbald looked at her as a wise man of five and forty looks at a -mischievous yet lovable girl. - -“Go—and prove it,” he said; “I shall get down to the village and send -the people out to search the woods. Not a word to them—mind you—of all -that has happened in the past.” - -Marpasse showed the curve of a strong brown chin. - -“Am I so much a fool?” she asked. - -Grimbald appeared to consider the question. He did not give his verdict -till Marpasse had reached the gate. - -“Death alone saves us from being fools,” he said, and his eyes had a -seriousness as he watched her go. - -Marpasse went down the hill, leaving the village on her left, and -crossing the valley, climbed the slope to the great beech wood. The -trunks were black and smooth under a splendour of green that shone in -the sunlight. The earth still seemed virginal, for the flowers that had -been touched by the bees were lost in the rich, rank lustiness of early -summer. The valleys rippled with gold, and the may trees were still in -bloom, and full of infinite fragrance. - -Marpasse made her way through the wood, and came at last to the place -where the beech boles stood like great pillars about an open court. -There was a blur of colour against the green, the pink blush of an early -rose that had run in riot over the wattle fence, and flowered like a -rose tree in a garden of Shiraz. The dark brown thatch of the cell -showed ragged holes where birds had burrowed in and built their nests. -The grass stood knee deep in the glade, grass that seemed asleep in the -warm sunlight, dreamed over by moon-faced daisies bewitched by the song -of the bees. - -Marpasse had taken cover behind the trunk of a beech tree. She had seen -a track in the long grass where someone had passed but a short while -ago. And Marpasse’s eyes beamed in her brown face. Her prophecy had also -been fulfilled, for there, under the shade of the rose tree she saw -Denise amid the grass, her knees drawn up, and her chin resting in the -palms of her two hands. - -Marpasse watched her awhile, indulging her own philosophy much like a -nurse commenting upon a child. - -“Heart of mine, but somebody should be here in my place. What a sad, -white face, to be sure, and what eyes—as though the whole world were on -its death bed! We will change all that, my dear. You shall be the colour -of the rose bush before the day is out.” - -She slipped from behind the tree, and crossed the grass, singing a song -that she had often sung upon the road. And she saw Denise’s face start -up into the sunlight out of its mood of mists and sadness. A tendril of -the rose tree caught Denise’s hair as Marpasse pushed open the rotting -gate. - -Marpasse laughed, happy, yet with a lovable shyness in her eyes. - -“See what it is to be desired,” said she, “even the rose tree must catch -at that hair of yours. Heart of mine—how you tremble!” - -She took Denise and held her, kissing her mouth. - -“So you ran away—for the last time, hey—when St. George had finished -slaying the dragon! That was a mad thing to do, my dear. You should have -stopped to succour him, should he have been wounded.” - -Denise’s brown eyes searched Marpasse’s face, looking beyond the other’s -playfulness. - -“Gaillard?” she asked. - -“Dead, heart of mine; the best thing that ever he did was to die. Those -brown eyes of yours need not look so frightened, St. George has been put -to bed to sleep till he is hungry.” - -Marpasse sat down under the rose tree, and drew Denise into her lap. - -“Try to smile a little, my dear,” she said, “for summer is coming in, -and the cuckoo is singing.” - -Denise did not rest long in Marpasse’s lap, nor would she touch any of -the bread that Marpasse had brought with her. She drew aside in the -grass, turned her face away, and sat staring into the shadowy spaces -under the trees. Marpasse watched her, and let the mood take its course. -She could be patient with Denise as yet, knowing that suffering and -sorrow leave the heart sore and easily hurt. - -Denise spoke at last in a low voice, still keeping her face hidden from -Marpasse. - -“Where is he?” she asked. - -“Down yonder—in the priest’s house.” - -“Wounded?” - -“He killed Gaillard, heart of mine, and Gaillard was a good man at his -weapons.” - -Her vagueness did not work as a lure. Denise did not swoop to it; so -Marpasse told the truth. - -“There is nothing to fear. Messire Aymery was not born to die a -bachelor.” - -“Does he know that I am here?” - -“How should he, heart of mine, when I left him asleep—tired out, and -came up here at a venture.” - -Denise fell again into a long silence. There was something in the poise -of her head—and in the way she sat motionless in the long grass that -betrayed troubled thoughts and deep self-questioning. Denise had the -mirror of her life before her, and found it full of shadows, and of -reflections that she could not smother. - -“Marpasse.” - -“Heart of mine.” - -“He must never see me again; no—I could not bear it.” - -“God help us now! Why, it is the month of May—and the sun is -shining——” - -“It is the truth, Marpasse. How can I—I——? Look; it all happened -here! How can I put that out of my heart?” - -Marpasse stretched out a hand and touched her. - -“Come, come, look at the sun, not at the shadows.” - -“It is not in me—to forget everything.” - -“Even that the man loves you?” - -Denise turned on her suddenly with eyes full of a fierce light. - -“Yes, and should I take his love, I—who cannot go to him as a woman -should! It is not in my heart, Marpasse, whatever you may say. God help -me, but I love him better than that!” - -Her passion spent itself, and she lay down in the grass, covering her -face, and trying to hide a rush of tears. Marpasse bent over her, moved -by great pity, and yet impatient with Denise for pulling so simple a -thread into a tangle. But Denise would not listen to Marpasse. She was -even angry with her own tears. - -“No, no—let me be; I am a fool; it will soon pass.” - -Marpasse grimaced. - -“Why will you walk on thorns?” she said; “some people can never satisfy -their consciences!” - -Denise still hid her face in the long grass. - -“It is for Aymery’s sake.” - -“Bah!” quoth Marpasse; “you will give him a stone, will you—when he is -hungry.” - -She got up from under the rose tree, and went towards the gate. - -“I have left you the bread,” she said, “and it is better to eat bread -and be contented than to look for rents in one’s own soul. Messire -Aymery shall not know that you are here, if you will promise me one -thing.” - -Denise raised herself upon her elbow. - -“Stay here till to-morrow. I will put it all before Father Grimbald. He -is a man with a head and a heart. For the rest, my dear, put that bread -into your body and sleep ten hours by the sun.” - - - - - CHAPTER XLIII - - -Aymery was still in a deep sleep when Marpasse returned to the priest’s -house an hour before sunset, and found Grimbald baking cakes on the -hearth. Marpasse might have laughed at his housewifeliness had she not -been in a very earnest temper about Denise. So she drew a stool up and -sat down as though to make sure that Grimbald did not burn the cakes -which he had made while she was away. - -“I have found her,” she said, and Grimbald had only to listen, for -Marpasse’s generous impatience had ample inspiration. - -“Never tell me women are not obstinate, Father, for I swear to you that -Denise was born to make misery for herself. A Jew hunting for a farthing -in the mud is not more careful than Denise to hunt out something to -grieve over. I should like to cut the conscience out of her, and bury -it.” - -Grimbald held up a hand, and rising from the stool, went to the doorway -of the inner room, and looked in to see that Aymery was asleep. He -closed the door softly, and came back to the hot cakes and Marpasse. - -“You are a great battle-horse, my child,” he said bluntly. “Denise’s -flanks are not for the same spur.” - -Marpasse took the rebuke with the best of tempers. - -“Dear Lord, but the pity of it. All this to-do, and blood-spilling, and -no marriage bed at the end of it. There is no law of the Church against -it, Father, surely? The monks clapped vows on her, and pulled them off -again with their own hands.” - -Grimbald bent forward, and methodically turned the cakes. - -His strong face shone like burnished copper in the firelight; a gaunt, -good face, honest and very shrewd. Marpasse watched him, and the thought -flashed on her from somewhere that it would be an excellent thing to -have the baking of such a man’s bread. And with a quaint impulsiveness -she put her hand up over her mouth, symbolising the smothering of so -scandalous a conceit. - -Having turned all the cakes, Grimbald gave his judgment. - -“I have no love for the convent women,” he said, “and there—I am out of -fashion.” - -Marpasse saw the worldly side of the picture, and smoothed away a smile. - -“Then you would make them man and wife, Father if the chance offered?” - -“Against all the monkish law in the kingdom,” he said stoutly; “we put -no vows on her when she had her cell up yonder. And some of the folk -here would have been burnt for her if she had asked it. Only that lewd -dog of a Gascon——Well, we broke their teeth at Lewes.” - -Marpasse stared solemnly into the fire as though looking for pictures -amid the blaze of the burning wood. - -“If Denise could only forget a year,” she said. - -Grimbald nodded wisely. - -“God wastes nothing,” he answered; “those who never suffer, never -learn.” - -Aymery slept the whole night, and woke soon after dawn with a rush of -memories like clouds over a March sky. He found Grimbald sitting by his -bed. Grimbald was dozing, but his eyes opened suddenly and looked -straight at Aymery like the eyes of an altar saint in the dimness of the -room. - -The first word that Aymery uttered was the name of Denise. - -Grimbald’s gaunt face remained thoughtful and placid. - -“Marpasse has found her,” he said. - -Aymery’s eyes asked more than Grimbald had the heart to tell. - -“She is safe,” was all that he would say, and acting as though there -were no secret to be concealed, he went out to lay the fire on the -hearth of the great room. - -Now Marpasse showed a most managing temper that May morning, and went -about as though she had some grave work on hand. She herself took food -in to Aymery, remained awhile with the door shut, and came out looking -very set about the mouth. - -“I have told him a lie,” she said to Grimbald in a whisper, “his eyes -asked for it. Go in and barber him, Father; a lover looks best with a -clean chin.” - -Grimbald stared her in the face. - -“What have you told him?” - -“That we kept her away last night—for the sake of his wounds.” - -Grimbald’s lips came together for a “but.” Marpasse whispered on. - -“Get your razor and barber him, Father, and keep a clean edge on the -lie. His eyes asked for it—I tell you, and I had not the heart to dash -in the truth. I have the yoke on my own shoulders. Two lies sometimes -make the truth.” - -She took Grimbald’s holly staff from the corner, and put on her hood. - -“I am going to fetch her,” she said; “no—I shall not scold. I have my -plan. You may sit in the wood-shed out of sight, Father Grimbald, when I -bring her back with me. If she sees you it will spoil the whole brew.” - -She turned on the threshold, and Grimbald saw suddenly that her eyes -were wet. - -“Pray for them both, good Father,” she said to him, “my heart’s in the -thing whatever rough words my mouth may say.” - -And Grimbald promised, and let her go. Yet when she had gone, and he was -left alone in the great room with its black beams and smoking hearth, he -saw through his prayers the brave, brown face of Marpasse. - -Yet Marpasse’s warm-hearted, yet coarser, nature could not vibrate to -the subtler emotions that stirred in Denise. The two were like crude -sunshine and moonlight; Marpasse healthy and vital in herself, yet -lacking mystery and the glimmer of visionary things. Denise had often -been more a spirit than a body, though the woman in her had been -awakened, and the rich warm scent of the earth had ascended into her -nostrils. Suffering had made her very human, and yet the soul in her -still beat its wings, even though those wings should carry it away from -the world’s desire nearer to the cold stars in a lonely sky. To -Marpasse, Denise’s self-condemnation might seem a kind of futile and -pitiable sanctity, but then Marpasse had more blood and bone in her, and -less of that spirit that is crucified by its own purity. - -Denise had passed the whole night in the long grass under the rose tree, -looking at the stars and the vague, black shapes of the great beeches. -The cell had a horror for her, and she would not enter it, as though her -other self lay dead within. That other memory was more vivid than the -memories of those nights when Aymery had lain there wounded little more -than a year ago. - -Give herself to the man she felt she could not, for she was too -sensitive, too much a sad soul in a beautiful body not to feel the veil -of aloofness that covered her face, that veil that was invisible and -impalpable to Marpasse. Her own innocence made her more conscious of -that other life—that other innocent soul that had been born in her, and -which had taken from the mother that which she would have given to -Aymery whom she loved. Only a pure woman could feel what Denise felt in -her heart of hearts. The divine girdle had been torn from her. Love -might be blind to it, but Denise’s soul could not be blind. - -And yet a sense of great loneliness rushed upon her that night, weighing -her down into the long grass, and making her heart heavy. The petals of -the rose fell dew drenched into her lap. The night was still and -fragrant, and no wind made the trees mutter like the hoarse whisperings -of an oracle in some ancient forest. The heart of Denise was heavy -within her. The sad deeps of life seemed between her and the world, a -dark voiceless gulf that no living soul could cross. - -So the day came, and with it Marpasse, holly staff in hand, alert, and -on her guard. But she was disarmed that morning by Denise herself. The -first glimpse of that tragic and troubled face drove the rougher words -out of Marpasse’s mouth. She took Denise in her arms, and kissed her, -seeing in those brown eyes such deeps of sincerity and sadness, that -Marpasse humbled herself, feeling herself near to something greater than -a woman’s whim. - -Marpasse guessed what Denise had to say. The renunciation lay in the -brown eyes like a dim mist of tears. - -“I am going away, Marpasse,” she said. “I have thought of it all the -night.” - -Marpasse hid her impulses, and was patient and very gentle. - -“Heart of mine, where will you go?” - -“To Earl Simon.” - -Marpasse opened her eyes. - -“I shall go to him, and put everything before him. He has a great heart, -Marpasse, and his lady has the soul of Mary—Our Mother. Nor shall I go -in vain.” - -She spoke very simply, like one resigned, but Marpasse felt the wild -heart of a woman who loved palpitating beneath her courage. It was the -purpose of one whose knees shook under her, and who strove to keep -herself from looking back. A touch, and love would break out, with a -great passionate cry. Marpasse saw it all, and took her inspiration. - -“So be it, heart of mine,” she said, looking sad enough; “and -yet—before you go—there is Father Grimbald yonder. The good man -strained a sinew last night, or he would have been here with me this -morning. He would not forgive your going without seeing him.” - -Denise breathed out the answer that Marpasse was expecting. - -“But I cannot go! He—is there.” - -Marpasse, brazen-faced, told the lie of her life. - -“Messire Aymery? He is so little the worse that he was in the saddle at -daybreak, and searching the woods to the west, and half the village with -him.” - -Denise looked into Marpasse’s eyes. - -“That is the truth?” - -“Heart of mine, why should I tell you a lie!” - -Denise seemed to hesitate. She shrank from the sight of any familiar -face that morning, and yet her heart reproached her because of Grimbald. -The thought was often with her that she might have trusted him more -deeply. - -Marpasse, dreading to seem too eager, put in a frank plea. - -“Why shun a good friend?” she said; “he would be grieved. The man is no -Ursula, God forbid!” - -Denise surrendered. - -“I will come,” she said; “but I will see no one but Grimbald.” - -“Leave it to me, sister; we can keep to the woods.” - -Marpasse played her part so well that no flicker of suspicion passed -over Denise’s face as they made their way across the valley to the -priest’s house under the silver birches. Only here and there had they to -leave the woodlands to cross a meadow or a piece of the wild common -where the villagers pastured their cattle. Denise walked with her hood -drawn forward, looking about her wistfully at the hills and valleys that -were so familiar, and had been so dear. She felt like a stranger in the -Goldspur woods that morning, a bird of passage that passed and left no -loneliness in the heart of the land she left. Marpasse talked much upon -the way, entering into Denise’s plans as though she were resigned to -them, the most loving of hypocrites who lied for the sake of love. She -even warned Denise to take care of her long-suffering body. “Two nights -without sleep,” she said, “is enough for any woman. Live your life in -such a hurry and you will be as thin as a post in three months, with -wrinkles all over your face. The pity of it! Like a piece of fine silk -left out in the wind and rain.” - -So they came to Grimbald’s house amid the silver stems of the birches, -Marpasse alert and on the watch lest some piece of clumsiness should -make her plot miscarry. Denise was shy and wild as an untamed falcon, -her brown eyes half afraid of the birch wood, as though Aymery might -come riding out with half Goldspur village at his heels. Marpasse saw -the look in Denise’s eyes. One clap of the hands and the bird would be -skimming on frightened wings. - -“Courage, sister,” she said, “there is not a soul to be seen. I will -keep guard and watch while you are talking with Grimbald. No, the good -man will not try to over-persuade you. If I whistle, then you will know -that there is danger in the distance.” - -They entered the porch, Marpasse first, Denise following. - -“The good man is abed resting that sprained ankle of his. I will see -whether he is ready.” - -Marpasse crossed the outer room, peeped in, held up a hand to Aymery, -and turned and called Denise. There was an iron catch on the door that -hooked into a staple, so that the door could be fastened on the outer -side. Moreover the door opened outwards into the larger room, and -Marpasse stood with her hand on the catch. - -“She is coming, Father,” she said, keeping her eyes upon Denise. - -The grey figure brushed past Marpasse, and crossed the threshold in all -innocence. No sooner was Denise within, than Marpasse clapped to the -door, fastened it, and ran like a mad woman out of the house. - -In the wood-shed at the end of the rough garden she found Grimbald -sitting patiently on the chopping block behind a screen of faggots. - -“I have shut her in with him,” she said; “now love must win—or never.” - - - - - CHAPTER XLIV - - -The morning sunlight poured through the window and struck upon Denise as -she stood leaning against the door that Marpasse had closed on her. The -first impulse had been one of anger, the anger of one caught in an -ambuscade. For it was not Grimbald that she saw, but Aymery, propped -against a pillow, with a face like wax, his eyes shining at her, eyes -full of that truth which she had sought to shun. - -“Denise!” - -He held out his hands to her, rising in the bed so that the sunlight -fell upon his head and shoulders. And Denise, leaning against the door, -found her anger sinking into a kind of stupor. Her face was as white as -Aymery’s, and she shrank like a bird when the hand of the fowler comes -into the trap. - -Aymery’s eager face was still luminous, as though the soul shone through -the flesh. Denise’s hood was drawn, yet beneath it he caught the gleam -of her splendid hair. She did not move or utter a word, but stood there -helplessly, hearing her own heart beating like a thing that struggles to -be free. - -There was a sudden sense of a shadow stealing across the room. The man’s -face had clouded. A troubled, questioning look came into the eyes, the -look of a dog trying to understand. His hands sank slowly to the bed, -and were no longer stretched out to her, but lay open, palms upward, the -hands of a man waiting for alms from heaven. - -For the moment Denise saw nothing but those hands. The rush of blind -anger against Marpasse went out before a spasm of compassion. The -silence of the room seemed the silence of a great church where the Holy -Blood is uplifted. Then a mystery of infinite, dim things swept over her -like a cloud of incense. She shivered, and held her breath. - -“Denise.” - -She struggled to find words. - -“I thought that it was Grimbald here. Marpasse deceived me.” - -How poor and miserly the words seemed, and the sense of their -ineffectual coldness drove her to glance at Aymery’s face. He was lying -back in the shadow, his eyes watching her with that same puzzled, -questioning, and wistful look. She saw them fill suddenly with -understanding, and the generous gleam that followed, humbled her heart. - -“I did not know——” he began. - -“Marpasse told me——” - -She bit her lips, and was silent. - -“Denise—it was no trick of mine, God knows that!” - -She leant against the door, hiding her face. - -“I lost you—after Gaillard and I had ended it. They brought me here, -and told me that they had found you, but that they would not bring you -to me—because of my wounds. That—is everything. Call Marpasse. She -shall open the door and let you go.” - -Denise glanced at him, half furtively, and that one glance seemed to -make the metal of her purpose melt and flow into a stream of living -fire. She turned with an inarticulate cry, and threw back her hood, -letting the sunlight fall upon her face. - -“Lord, how can I, I who remember all the past!” - -“Denise!” - -He was up, leaning towards her, stretching out his hands. - -“God! What is all that—to me! Can you not understand?” - -She swayed, closing her eyes, her hands feeling the air as though she -were blind. - -“My heart—oh—my heart!” - -“Denise!” - -“May the sin of it be forgiven.” - -She was on her knees beside the bed, her arms flung out over it, her -face hidden in the coverlet. - -“Lord—save me——!” - -Aymery’s arms went round her, and she clung to him with sudden passion, -as though life were there, and love, and hope. - -“Hold me—keep me—let me not go! Oh, but the shame of it—the -selfishness! Closer, closer to you! I am afraid—I am afraid!” - -She was trembling like one lifted from the torture of the rack. Her -hands clung to him, the hands of a frightened child, and of an -impassioned woman. Aymery turned her in his arms, so that her hair fell -down across the bed, and her face was under his. - -“Rest here, my heart. Who—on God’s earth—shall take you from me?” - -Their eyes met and held in one long look. - -“Lord, lord—ah—do not pity me,” she said, “not in the way that hurts a -woman’s heart.” - -Aymery kissed her upon the mouth. - -“God forgive me,” he said, “if ever I have made you think that.” - -Meanwhile Marpasse had returned, leaving Grimbald in the wood-shed, and -creeping softly across the room she stood listening at the closed door. -Such a true friend was Marpasse that the two within might have forgiven -her her eaves-dropping. It was no inquisitive spirit that waited there -silent, and open-mouthed, listening with wet eyes to words that were -sacred. Marpasse soon knew the truth, and she crept away on tip-toe. - -But Marpasse was no sooner out of the house than a delirious mood seized -her, and she ran like a girl, her wet eyes ablaze, her face exultant. -There was no need for Grimbald to ask her how things sped. - -“Love is lord of all,” she sang; “and I have the weight of a lie off my -shoulders! Good saints, good saints—I wish I could give you a lapful of -silver!” - -She laughed up to Grimbald in her delight, caught him by the shoulders, -and kissed him full upon the mouth. - -“_Mea culpa_, Father; I am a mad fool, but my heart was in the venture, -and when I am glad—like a dog—I must show it.” - -The sunlight pierced the faggot wall of the shed, and burnt like golden -tongues on the sombre cloth of the man’s cassock. Something in -Grimbald’s eyes sobered Marpasse abruptly. It was not anger, not an -amused and fatherly tolerance, but a look in which the deep strong heart -of the man betrayed itself. Marpasse caught her breath, and went -fiercely red under her brown skin. Then, a sudden virginal softness -seemed to steal over her face. She hung her head, but not foolishly. For -the moment neither she nor Grimbald spoke. - -Marpasse gave a short, curious laugh, picked up a rotten stick, and -began to snap it into small pieces between her hands. - -“May they be very happy,” she said; “the love of a strong man is life to -a woman, Father—and the children that may come of it.” - -She looked up quickly at Grimbald, and her bold eyes had grown like the -eyes of a girl. - -“I might have made a good mother—but there——!” and she threw the -pieces of broken wood aside, and spread her hands “children have not -come my way—nor the man who will master me,” and she was silent, -staring at the ground. - -Grimbald’s face shone like a rock with the sunlight on it. - -“To some of us such things are not given,” he said; “my children are -down yonder—and yet——! I chose what I chose—when I was a lad.” - -Marpasse seemed to be struggling to say something that would not shape -itself into words. - -“It is so lonely—sometimes,” and her eyes looked into the past; “dear -heart, I have often spat at the thought of myself! It is always ‘the -might have been,’ with some of us. The world often leers at a woman, -Father, when it offers her a penny. I was just as tall as the harvest -wheat when they pushed me out on the road. But I am not bad to the core, -Father, though few people would think it the truth.” - -She heard Grimbald draw his breath. - -“The core of the world is a generous heart,” he said; “look at me, -Marpasse. Many things might happen, but for what I am.” - -He took Marpasse’s hands, held them a moment, and then dropped them -reverently, looking at her to see that she understood. And these two -brave souls gazed in each other’s eyes, knowing that they could come no -nearer, and that their lives might cross but never travel the same road. - -Yet Marpasse went out from the wood-shed into the sunlight with a smile -upon her face, the smile of a woman who has re-discovered mystery in -herself. A look of the eyes, a few words, a touch of the hands—that was -all! Marpasse pressed her face between her two hands, and stood staring -and staring away towards the distant woods. The scoffing voice was -silent in her, the mouth strangely soft, the eyes the eyes of a young -girl. - -And Denise, who kissed her that night, as a woman who is loved kisses -the woman who loves her, saw no shadow of sadness on the brave, brown -face of Marpasse. - - - Made and Printed in Great Britain by - The Greycaine Book Manufacturing Company Limited, Watford - - * * * * * - - -_NOVELS BY WARWICK DEEPING_ - - KITTY - DOOMSDAY - SORRELL AND SON - SUVLA JOHN - THREE ROOMS - THE SECRET SANCTUARY - ORCHARDS - LANTERN LANE - SECOND YOUTH - COUNTESS GLIKA - UNREST - THE PRIDE OF EVE - THE KING BEHIND THE KING - THE HOUSE OF SPIES - SINCERITY - FOX FARM - BESS OF THE WOODS - THE RED SAINT - THE SLANDERERS - THE RETURN OF THE PETTICOAT - A WOMAN’S WAR - VALOUR - BERTRAND OF BRITTANY - UTHER AND IGRAINE - THE HOUSE OF ADVENTURE - THE PROPHETIC MARRIAGE - APPLES OF GOLD - THE LAME ENGLISHMAN - MARRIAGE BY CONQUEST - JOAN OF THE TOWER - MARTIN VALLIANT - RUST OF ROME - THE WHITE GATE - THE SEVEN STREAMS - MAD BARBARA - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious -typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. - -[End of _The Red Saint_ by Warwick Deeping] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Saint, by Warwick Deeping - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED SAINT *** - -***** This file should be named 63544-0.txt or 63544-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/4/63544/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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