It was the poll-tax that had set every common man in England snarling
like an angry dog. Hitherto no one had listened to the sullen grumbling
of the poor, those brown men with brown faces who trudged in the mud and
went out to labour in the winter wind and rain. They were part of the
soil, and no one heeded them so long as there was corn to be had and fat
beasts to be salted for winter. Edward the King and his great lords had
made war in France with a screaming of trumpets, a humming of
bow-strings, and the clash of ash-staved spears. They had crossed the
sea in their rich-coloured stuffs and their shining harness, had ridden
their war horses over the fields of France, and brought back honour,
noble prisoners, and much plunder. But the wars were no longer glorious,
and the taxes mounted up. A gust of anger had passed over the land, and
even the boor flinging mud out of a ditch had paused and asked himself,
“Why—and wherefore?” There were many who talked and many who
threatened, looking sullenly upon the lord as he rode by in a coat of
furs, and thinking even more sullenly of those who sat before the fire
with wine and spices ready to hand. Privilege everywhere, valiant pride
soaring overhead, and the serf in the mud, suddenly and viciously
envious! This anger of the common people had not known how to vent
itself, how to speak so that the great ones should hear. This was no
baron’s business, but a dunghill fermentation, and being slow and sodden
and savage, was like to be more terrible when thoughts of blood and fire
and vengeance fumed up out of this mixen of discontent.
Of all the great lords of the land no man was more hated than the King’s
uncle, John of Gaunt. It was said that he had the King in the palm of
his hand, that the curse of the heavy taxes flowed from him, and that he
had no thought or pity for the poor. Men spoke of his Palace of the
Savoy as the most wonderful house in England, packed with plate and
jewels, rich stuffs, and armour. Scores of rich manors, forests,
castles, houses, and chases were held by him, and his power and his
opulence were not to be challenged. Moreover, a certain majestic pride,
a casual haughtiness in dealing with lesser men, had not brought him the
mob’s love. He was an eagle who took no account of the hedge-sparrows,
holding aloof and looking far afield, for his was a soaring spirit with
visions of kingship and honour in far countries. The little men under
and about his feet were just little men to be forgotten. Being
over-busied with great enterprises, he had no patience to remember the
ploughman and the fool.
Not only was the Duke of Lancaster hated, but all those near to him, and
even his possessions, shared this savage hatred. The common people
lusted to cut the throats of his stewards and foresters, beat out the
brains of his knights and men-at-arms, and to burn and destroy his
houses and all the rich gear in them. So in the blowing up of the storm
there were certain tall trees marked out for destruction; and Fulk of
the Forest, riding his rounds and cherishing the deer, did not reflect
that he himself would be a stag marked out for the slaughter.
But Father Merlin knew it, and told himself that a chained hart alive
might be of more value than mere venison. Much enlightenment had come to
him since that meeting by the thorn tree near the vachery, and Merlin
had gathered his gossips round the fire in Blackbottom Gill and
whispered a strange story. They had drawn close about him, gaping,
amazed, yet caught by the shrewd audacity of his imaginings.
There was no moon when the Polecat climbed the White Lodge fence, opened
the garden wicket, let Merlin in, and led him to Isoult’s window. The
house was asleep, but Isoult lay awake, having been warned of Merlin’s
coming. She had heard a fern-owl whirring in the oak woods, and, rising
from her bed, stood at the window, waiting.
Merlin spoke in a whisper:
“Isoult, art there?”
He could see her grey face at the bars, but she could see nothing of his
because of his cowl.
“Speak softly, for the young falcon has strong talons and a fierce
beak.”
“It is of Fulk Ferrers that I have much to say.”
“I am listening.”
She was on her guard, though not conscious of it, half ready to put
aside any treacherous blow aimed at the man who had captured her under
the yews; but Merlin had not spoken ten words before she became
enthralled by the strange tale that he was telling her. She stared out
into the darkness whence this whispering voice came. And when he had
ended she drew in her breath sharply, and fell to listening for any
sound within the house.
“Merlin,” said she, “have a care. What if it be the King?”
“Comfort yourself. I had word. Richard is in the White Tower in
London—has been there all these days.”
“Is he so like?”
“Like enough to trick any but his own familiars, and though this fellow
is some five years older, the young king looks more than a lad. It is a
marvel.”
Isoult stood thinking.
“Two kings to play with! To use the one, if the other should prove
contrary! Yes; but, my friend, this young man, this Fulk of the Forest,
is more proud and stiffnecked than any king I ever read of.”
Merlin’s voice was sly and insinuating.
“And Isoult of the Rose surpasses all women——”
She cut in on him sharply.
“Be careful. I am not to be played with. But I might try my wits.”
She stared into the darkness as though trying to see Merlin’s face.
“Have you any plan?”
“Listen, Isoult. All the country is stirring, and all the outlawed men
are swarming hither. The word is flying from mouth to mouth. Now, we
shall come here and break in. This falcon will fight?”
“To the death, or I am no judge of a man’s fettle.”
“Good. We will have him at our mercy, and then you, Isoult, shall step
in and beg his life. A close prisoner he shall be, and I doubt not that
he may be persuaded.”
“Be not too sure.”
“I am not crossed easily.”
“Merlin, one word: think not that Isoult is without honour.”
He protested with an eager, murmuring voice.
“No, no; it is but a lure to the lad’s spirit. Born out of wedlock, a
love child, a king before a king! He is the son of his father’s loins.
We’ll challenge him to the adventure.”
“There is the woman, his mother. That is another marvel that one who is
now as cold and stiff as a corpse——”
“She may serve or she may not. It does not signify: the man’s the
master. If only he be persuadable. And you, Isoult, may do much.”
Her voice betrayed impatience.
“Let the adventure go on, but do not think of me as hell fire. We shall
see how the stag runs. And now, good-night.”
She heard the sound of his breathing die away, and knew that the window
was empty. Like a ghost he had come and like a ghost he stole away,
leaving Isoult distraught and restless.
* * * * *
It was in the half light of a May dawn that Peter of Pippinford came
running to the White Lodge with his head all bloody and a short sword in
his hand. He had been ranging his ward, and had come back to find his
lodge on fire and four ragged rogues waiting for him behind the
woodstack. One of them had given Peter a bloody poll with the thick end
of a holly cudgel, and Peter had cut off one man’s hand, slashed another
across the face, and then had saved himself by the grace of his long
legs. He set up a furious hallooing outside the White Lodge gate, and
Fulk went out to let him in.
Fulk listened to his news with a face that was very quiet and very grim.
He had been warned two days ago by one of the purlieu men that the
common people were breaking down fences and emptying fish ponds, and
that the whole country had gone mad. A tax-gatherer had been beaten to
death in one of the villages. The gentry were flying to Lewes and
Pevensey, leaving their houses and larders to be plundered by their
boors.
“We must get the women out of the way. I will ride over to the vachery
and bring Barnabas’s people in. Get your head tied up, Peter, and then
help John to make ready the great wagon.”
Fulk had a word with his mother, Margaret Ferrers standing at her
chamber door in her night gear, looking like a corpse in a shroud. Cold
woman that she was, she fell to pleading with him, but he put her
prayers aside.
“Run away from the lousels? Not I! The men shall take you and Isoult and
the women to Lewes, and then come back to me. We will make these
scullions skip.”
He mounted his roan horse, galloped bareback to the vachery, and ordered
the cowherd to the White Lodge with his women and children.
“Turn the cows out and let them fend for themselves, Barnabas. The wagon
starts for Lewes in an hour.”
When he returned to the White Lodge Fulk found that two other foresters
had come in and were helping Peter of Pippinford yoke eight oxen to the
wagon, and load some of the household gear into it. Fulk chose Peter to
be the leader, and charged them to return when they had lodged the women
within the walls of Lewes town. He chose John to bide with him, because
John was a coward, and the best men were wanted in the wagon; and John
looked sulkily at Fulk, having no stomach for the White Lodge when such
rough gentry were hunting men as well as deer.
Fulk passed into the house, went to Isoult’s room, and stood in the
doorway, beckoning.
“Come.”
She was ready, dressed in all her rich colours, her hair in its silver
net, her knife and gypsire at her girdle. She looked at Fulk with intent
and questioning eyes, considering something in her heart.
“Is it the swainmote?”
“No. The boors have gone mad and are running wild. I am sending the
womenfolk to Lewes town for shelter, and you will go with them.”
“And you?”
“A deer master does not run away from swine.”
Isoult did not move.
“Messire Fulk, if I choose to stay here——”
“On my faith, the choice is not with you. Put on your cloak and hood.”
She eyed him half defiantly, yet as one who loved to be defied.
“I’ll make you carry me. It may be that you hold a hostage and know it
not!”
He went a step nearer.
“What! Are you with these nameless fools?”
“Did I say so?”
“Come, have done; time’s precious.”
Her loftiness topped his impatience.
“I choose to stay. You brought me here, and if it must be that I should
go, you must put me out even as you brought me in.”
They stood, measuring each other, Isoult’s red mouth smiling
provocation. Fulk fell to frowning because some strange emotion stirred
in him, a fierce young wonder that had stumbled of a sudden upon this
woman’s comeliness. Her audacity seemed to beat its wings and to soar
against his pride, and her eyes had all the luring gloom of the woods.
“Come; I have no desire to be rough, Isoult.”
“Ah, but a man’s roughness——”
Isoult, looking beyond Fulk, saw Margaret Ferrers standing in the
doorway.
“Fulk, do we wait for this woman?”
He stood back with a sweep of the arm.
“Come, let us waste no more words.”
Dame Margaret’s mouth sneered, but her eyes were afraid of Isoult’s. She
stood there menacingly, as though longing to utter the one
word—“harlot.”
Isoult’s chin went up.
“Dame Ferrers, this woman waits for nobody. I go at my own pleasure.”
She passed out, her arm touching Fulk’s sleeve, her eyes throwing a
quick side-glance into his.
“Stiffnecked as ever. You must take your choice.”
Fulk followed her, looking at the red shoes under the edge of the green
dress; and as a man notices things at times, simply because he cannot
help but notice them, he was struck by the way the woman
walked—confidently, proudly, as though beholden to no one. His glance
lifted to the white curve of her neck as she passed out of the porch
into the sunlight. She, too, could be stiffnecked, he thought, though
her throat looked so white and smooth and mysterious.
Tom of Hindleape was standing beside the oxen. The other men were in the
wagon with their bows ready, the women and children sitting on the
floor. Fulk helped his mother in, and then stood to help Isoult, holding
his knee and hand as a man helps a woman into the saddle.
She gave him a whisper:
“Hold the White Lodge and wait for the grey friar.”
As the wagon moved off he found her watching him with eyes that were
dark and enigmatical.