Sun came more and more slanting through the trees. Eating was done. The
two sat in forest light and coolness, and they went over plans step by
step so that there might rest no misunderstanding nor any happening
unprovided against. “The _Vineyard_ boat, and the word is ‘_Gold and
silver_.’ South around Middle Forest and then east. Leave the ruined
farm at dusk to-morrow.”
“I have found a great hollow tree,” said Englefield and pointed to it.
“If any come, in I creep!”
“Good! Unless there are dogs,” Bettany said. With that he fell into
silence.
The other, half-reclining, also was silent. Gold light playing over him
showed how gaunt he was and his face how lined and smitten.
Bettany spoke. “Dost think True Religion has taken any hurt?”
“How should True Religion take hurt, having been all the time in
another country?”
The young man mused. “To have thought one’s self Chosen out of all
the world because of one’s qualities--and then to be thrown back, past
one’s old dwelling, past, past, down past the whole world--”
Richard Englefield spoke. “I looked on Medusa. Do you know what is
that, to look on Medusa? And looking, to open on the knowledge that you
yourself were the artist?”
“Eh?” said Thomas Bettany. “But the first of it must have been
glorious! Honey and kingship and worship and safety for aye!”
“_Honey and kingship and worship and safety for aye._ Just that! Then
the hair turned to snakes.”
Silence in the forest. Bettany moved a little. “Friday. I suppose you
are glad of Friday?”
“What happeneth Friday?”
“She burns at town cross. Morgen Fay.”
“_What have I to do with that?_”
Forest silence filled with tongues. Bettany untied his horse and
strapped the empty leathern case before the saddle. He looked at the
discarded habit of monk of Silver Cross. “Put it in the hollow tree?”
“No. In the deep sea to-morrow night.”
“Better in river. Then if ’tis found, as like enough it may be,
surely--all say--you were drowned!”
He stood, bridle in hand. “Morgen Fay. She had a house by the river
and a fair, small garden. Aye! she was harlot, but then what were
Montjoy and Somerville and others? It is a speckled earth. There is
other sale than that? Aye, she made it, and bought blackness and flame
and peril maybe for ever and ever. Because she was harlot and Father
Edmund preached mightily just then against her, they broke her house
and garden and stoned her forth from town. Then one that I know who is
speckled, too, hid her for a time. Then, as fate or somewhat would have
it, came to Prior Matthew knowledge that she had to certain eyes much
of outward face and form of the great picture, so that he who painted
might have set her before him for first model. That knowledge and that
she was still in Wander vale. So all followed. She thought she was
buying ransom--safety if not honey. Once I saw played at the Great Fair
_Faustus and the Devil_. Faustus thought he would buy happiness, and
here was to-day and perhaps would never come to-morrow and death! So
she thought. Safety and perhaps house and garden once more, and maybe
to-day will last! But _thy soul is required of thee_,--and she is in
prison waiting.”
He mounted horse. “I will come ere sunset to-morrow. When you hear
_Otterbourne_ whistled, it is I.”
“Should something happen,” said Englefield, “and all this go awry,
still have you done for me what if I had younger brother or dear
comrade or old fellow-worker with me in my craft, I might have hoped
for--”
“I don’t know why I do it, but I must do it. For a time I thought of
you five times a day as most blessed. You were heaven’s courtier, you
were sailing on heaven’s ship! Now you are man like me, though older
than me, and I see you need a friend. You thought you had so great a
one--and then there was blackness! I’m nothing but Thomas Bettany, but
I’ll set you at least on the _Vineyard_. Let’s say no more!”
The merchant rode away. The master goldsmith was left by the ruined
farm in Wander forest.
He saw the red orb of the sun descend past boles of trees. It sank
beneath the earth. All the west hung fire red, then the colour faded.
“I will go now to sleep, and God knoweth I need it! When I come to
London, or rather, I think, to France--”
Down he lay. Bettany’s cloak was thick, the leaves and moss a
pleasant bed, soft dusk around, the forest a cradle with cradle song.
“Sleep--sleep! Sleep--sleep!”
But sleep was at the antipodes. “This place--what is this place?”
“Bitter Shame, Very Anger, strengthen me! Let me not pity the witch!
Let me not feel her misery mine! Let me not long to see her face, touch
her, hold her!”
“_Shall I desire the dragon that slew me? Shall I cherish Medusa?_
Burning--burning!”
He sprang to his feet and walked the wood, up and down, up and down. He
moved with disordered steps, twigs and boughs striking him. The long
June day left still a radiance.
He threw himself down and lay with face buried. Time dropped away, drop
by drop, and each drop a world and an æon.
Dark clear night, moonless but starlight.
Thomas Bettany, returning to Middle Forest, found at his own door a
ship’s boy sent by Diccon Wright. The latter was again at the Golden
Ship and would see him there. He went and found that the matter was
that _Vineyard_ boat could not be at landing first planned. The
_Alan-a-Dale_ had come in and chosen to drop anchor just there. Best
now the old landing by the reeds. Bettany agreed. Old landing by the
reeds.
Home again and preparing for bed he determined to rise early and ride
to the ruined farm. If at dusk aught happened and he did not reach the
man nor tell him of where now he was to go--then mischance enough! With
a long sigh he put himself into his comfortable merchant’s bed in
comfortable merchant’s room. He slept and waked, slept and waked and at
last an hour before dawn gave up sleeping and lay staring before him.
“Now it is Wednesday. To-morrow is Thursday, and then Friday.”
Light stole into the chamber. He rose, moved softly, dressed quietly,
stole downstairs, unbarred the small door and was out in court and
across to merchant’s stable. Here he saddled his horse, Black Prince.
East was daffodil; morning star shone over the castle. Poor Clares’
bell rang lauds, Black Prince went by the softer ways as though velvet
shod. So at peace was the land that town gates were no longer closed at
night. The industrious young merchant riding through rode off toward
Wander forest.
Sun had risen when he came nigh to the ruined farm and began to whistle
“Otterbourne.” Beech and ash and oak, fern and thorn, and by a thorn
tree he who had been, but was no more Brother Richard. “Well, in these
days, many leave cloister--
‘But gae ye up to Otterbourne
And wait there day is three;
And if I come not ere three day is end,
A fause knight ca’ ye me.’”
Thomas Bettany, dismounted now, looked with wonder at the other who
stood tall and gold-brown and determined. A night had made a difference!
“You must have slept well under oaken tree!”
“No. I did not sleep.”
“Then faery queen must have visited you! Truly you have the look of it!”
“I longed for your coming, fellow worker, and that I should not have to
wait for it till eve! Who brought it about? Still that Success!”
“_Vineyard_ boat cannot be at the landing I told you of. It is now the
old landing by the reeds. It seemed best to let you know without delay.”
“Had you not come I might have stained my face and gone into town,
changing voice, changing step and figure--Richard Dawn, traveller with
gold in his purse, sending from the inn to Master Thomas Bettany--”
“I think well that all the Folk in Green have been here! It is such a
place as they flock to. Morgen Fay hid here at the ruined farm.”
“No! _She walked in this wood._”
Green light and purple light and gold. Throstle and finch and cuckoo,
robin and lark. Fern up-growing, wild plants in bloom, the wood a
chalice of odours, censer swinging. Englefield put his hands to his
temples. “Friday!”
“What is it, man?”
The other moved to a tree whose great roots pushed above the soil.
“Come sit here, younger brother, and listen to me!”
Thomas Bettany obeyed and he moved as one in a dream, or as though the
wood had grown a magic wood. “You have become leader here. Something
has come to bloom and to fruit in you in a night!”
“I shall not go upon the _Vineyard_ unless there go two.”
“Two?”
“Unless she that lies in prison goes.”
“Morgen Fay!”
“Aye. Morgen Fay--Morgen Fay.”
Bettany put hands to tree to steady himself. “What is here?”
“Didst never read that man holds within himself autumn, winter, spring
and summer, the moon, the earth, the sun and the four kingdoms? Maybe
the fifth, but we have not come to that yet.”
“Friday.”
“Are you not willing that she should vanish from them, cheating the
cheaters? Friday. Death in flame!”
“God, He knoweth. I think that she should live!”
“Look at me!”
Thomas Bettany looked. Again he steadied himself, he drew hard breath.
“How could you get her out of prison? It is not to be done!”
“Then no ship takes me to-night or to-morrow night! Friday. There will
I be by town cross!”
“Not in two days could you save her!”
“Suppose we try?”
Thomas Bettany stared at an artist in daring. This gold-worker had
imaged, drawn and beaten out many a bold pattern, many an intricate
and subtle. Now he said, “Come, deliver what material you may! How
lies prison within and without? Who are there? Tell what you know. We
have to-day which is Wednesday and to-morrow which is Thursday. The
_Vineyard_ must not sail before cockcrow Friday.”
“I could not buy Diccon there! I might beg him for love.”
“However you do it, you will do it. I see in fine air within gross air
a ship that weighs anchor at dawn, Friday. Now, tell!”
Bettany described with minuteness that prison and its economy. “I have
a man, John Cobb. His cousin Godfrey is gaoler.”
“So, thou seest!”
“But there is naught I know of that would buy Godfrey. Keys might be
melted in his hold but he would not give them up! Town, castle and
Church know Godfrey.”
“Then let him not know that they are gone.”
“That is not possible.”
“It is possible, or I would not see the _Vineyard_ sailing Friday.
Everything is possible save her burning. Can your man sit with Godfrey,
drinking ale with him maybe, and come to handling and fingering keys
great and small, and questioning, ‘This is great door, this inner ward,
and this where she lies who burns a-Friday?’”
“So much as that is possible.”
Englefield, leaving him seated, staring, took himself three turns
between thorn and oak, by ash and beach. The forest was gold, the day
was gold, the morrow gold and he the smith. He returned. “Have you a
piece of wax, fine and smooth, such as might be held secretly in palm
of hand, softening just enough with heat of body?”
Bettany gave an abrupt small laugh. “I’ve read of that in a book from
the Italian! But if John Cobb were bold enough and skilful enough to
take--Godfrey’s face being buried in tankard--impress of keys, what
then, beseech you, unless you had all the fairies?”
“Sun is an hour high. If I could have that mould here ere he rises
again! But it must be well done, well taken, with pains. Our keys must
turn in our locks.”
“In the greenwood? I know that Brother Richard made wondrous things!
But this were to make wondrously!”
“I planned through the night--this plan, that and the other. But this
one is best. When the moon rose and again at first dawn I went softly
about that house yonder. None saw nor heard; they were sleeping. The
man has burned charcoal, and surely they have oven or hearth. Gold in
this purse may buy them, seeing they cannot know whom I am nor what we
do. You say they are old and losing wit.”
“Furnace and fuel and print of keys in wax and smith--”
“Do you bring me iron and the tools. I shall show you.”
“Thou’rt a bold man!”
“Thou’rt another!”