About that time Father Merlin had news brought him. Runners came to the
White Lodge in the forest, where Merlin was to be found sitting on a
stool by the pond, fishing; or kneeling in the hall before a little
wooden cross that he had hung on a peg in one of the oak posts. Every
hour he might be found kneeling there, eyes closed, a smile on his harsh
face, looking as though he had prayed for the souls of men and saw the
Great Ones of Heaven descending instantly to succour the poor.
The runners came from north, east, and west. Each man had much the same
message to give to Father Merlin, and he would listen with a rapt look
and then return the fellow his blessing.
“Peace to you, my son. Assuredly, God and St. Francis have remembered
the poor.”
Merlin knew what he knew as he took his walks in the forest, a thin,
grey figure in a great, green world. He would pause upon the hills, and
look east and west, his hood turned back, his eyes gleaming, his broad
nostrils sniffing the air. Father Merlin had been a villein’s son, and
all the fierce, sneering spirit of the man sprang back with a snarl of
hatred from those who ruled by right of birth. A hundred hungers and
humiliations lay on him like a hair shirt. He chafed to tear the pomp
from the lords’ shoulders and to fling it as a cape of freedom over the
poor, though the noble’s purse might find its way into St. Francis’s
wallet and his power into St. Francis’s hand.
He cried aloud as the west wind came up the slope of the hill, and blew
his grey frock about his knotty knees.
“Blow, wind, blow! The poor shall trample Mammon into the mud!”
Much such a cry as Merlin’s had gone through all the land, and the men
of the fields had heard it and lifted their heads—brown waters running
together in flood time from every ditch and stream. The carter had left
his horses; the woodman had shouldered his axe and left the oak bark but
half stripped for the tanner; the serf had set his scythe upon a pole;
the smith had shouldered his hammer; the charcoal burner had forgotten
his fire. Everywhere they gathered, these brown men, with a murmur like
the rustling of dead leaves when a great host marches to battle along a
woodland road in autumn. Their mouths were uttering strange new words,
“The Commons and the King!”
A stupor of fear had seized on all those who ruled. The lords and gentry
had shut themselves up in their castles and houses, or ridden off out of
the way of the wind. Doors were barred, bridges raised, shutters bolted.
Reeves, clerks, tax-gatherers, hid themselves in cellars and hay-lofts.
Women shivered and lay awake at night. The suddenness of the thing had
astonished the gentles as though the brown earth were heaving under
their feet. Knights who had fought in the French wars sat sullenly at
home, too proud, perhaps, to risk the pride of the sword against the
insolence of a smith’s hammer or a labourer’s flail. The ignoble many
had risen against the arrogant few, and the arrogance was with the mob
for the moment.
It was a wild May, both in wind and temper. The hawthorn bloom was
scattered like snow, and late frosts nipped even the young bracken. The
north wind roared out of a hard blue sky, making the green world shiver,
and bringing Berserk steel into the painted pleasance of spring. The
mood of the hind suited the mood of the weather. The fields were empty,
and the men who should have laboured there were running like madmen
hither and thither. The cold spell out of the north seemed to have given
a rougher edge to the boorish temper, making it remember the mud and
rain in the winter fields, the sour food at home in the draughty
clay-daubed cottage; while Master Gentleman sat in his stone house
before the fire under the great chimney, and drank hot Spanish wines,
and had furs to draw about him. The wolf spirit was abroad. These men of
the fields were drunk with years of envy, hatred, and sullen anger; they
raged through the country-side, plundering cellars and larders, tearing
down the banks of fish ponds, breaking mill wheels, cutting down orchard
trees, emptying granaries and dovecots, killing deer, and harrying
warrens. Pride of birth was taken by the beard, mocked, and treated to
the savage horse-play of these men of the soil.
“When Adam delved and Eve span,
Where was then the gentleman?”
They howled these words in the villages, along the roads, and over the
heaths and commons. The French Jacquerie seemed to have come again with
its gibbering fury, its wild lust and blood spilling; and many a woman
trembled for her honour, and many a gentleman dreamt of his bloody head
dancing upon a pike.
Father Merlin knew what he knew. The runners came to him carrying news,
and one May morning he sought Isoult. She had taken herself to one of
the empty forest lodges where two sheep and their lambs fed in the
deserted orchard and a cow came to the byre gate to be milked.
It was so cold that Isoult had brought in wood and kindled a fire, and
Merlin found her in the dark, black oak hall, sitting on a stool, and
staring at the flames. A loose shutter banged to and fro in the wind,
and the twittering of the sparrows in the thatch sounded cold and thin.
Merlin’s eyes shone out from under the shadow of his cowl. He pulled up
a stool, and, spreading his hands to the blaze, spoke of the roughness
of the weather.
“And yet our Rose blooms,” said he; “and the young man of the quarry, is
he as cold as the wind out of the north?”
She did not look at Merlin, but her eyes were dark and set steadily
towards some inward thought.
“He is—what he is.”
“Does the scent of the rose count for nothing in June? Come now, what
have you seen, my daughter?”
She answered him slowly, almost grudgingly.
“The third finger of the left hand is crooked. A blow from a
quarter-staff broke it. And over the right eyebrow there is a small
brown mole.”
“Good. You would know this apple from another?”
She nodded.
Merlin spread his arms dramatically, and then stared in silence at the
fire. The eyes under the cowl glistened, and the harsh face with its
savage sagacity looked hungry and exultant.
“We have two puppets and two strings! Speak to me, Isoult. Let me hear
what you have to tell.”
She rested her chin on her fist.
“I have nothing to tell. I will wager that you cannot take the hood from
that hawk and make him fly as you please.”
“Say you so! But a young man may be persuaded, and you—my daughter——”
“I, too, have the fettle of a falcon.”
“Am I a fool? But what have you done? How have you played with him?”
“Merlin, be careful how you tempt me to be angry!”
He looked at her intently, and then, leaning forward, began to speak
with a whispering eagerness, his voice sounding like the blowing of a
wind through a crack in a shutter. Isoult sat back, rigid, her eyes
staring at the fire, her throat stiffening, her lips pressed together.
She was very white when he uttered the first words, but a slow surge of
blood rose into her face, and her eyes glittered like water touched by
the sun at dawn.
Suddenly she started up, and her face flamed.
“Enough! Am I to listen to this?”
Merlin stroked the air with his hands.
“My daughter, I speak advisedly. Is it not a glory to any woman for her
to make and unmake kings? And this Fulk is not unworthy. The blood of a
great prince runs in him.”
She walked to and fro, and then stood and looked down at him with a
scorn that she did not dissemble.
“No. I sing no such song for you, Master Merlin. By my troth, I bid you
beware.”
He waved his hands with the same smoothing motion, and dared to meet her
eyes.
“My daughter, you are in too hot a hurry. The King of the Commons will
not have to wed a princess out of France or Spain. She who is comely and
proud and valiant can sit by such a king. Come now—consider.”
“Merlin, I know that tongue of yours.”
“Let us leave it to Dame Nature, Isoult. Love leaps in where he
pleases.”
“I give you neither yea nor nay.”
“In that I must find my comfort.”
He sat awhile beside the fire, brooding and fingering his chin. Isoult
had gone out into the orchard, but when he sought her there she was not
to be found. Merlin crossed himself, and turned back towards the White
Lodge.
“A woman’s anger is not to be trusted,” he said to himself, “for
oftentimes it rises out of the passion it pretends to scorn. I must feel
how that young man’s heart beats. Hot blood is very helpful.”
Isoult, hidden among some yew trees on the side of the hill above the
orchard, watched Merlin’s grey frock disappear into the green of the
woods. Her face shone white and hard, but in her eyes there was
something of wonder, even of fear.