When they had breasted the chalk hills with their beech woods, great
yews, and wild junipers, and saw the lush valley country below them,
Cavendish rode on ahead to speak with the King’s reeve, who kept the
Manor of the Black Mere. Cavendish had hunted in these parts, and knew
the ways and the lie of the land. They saw him ford a stream that ran at
the foot of the hills, splashing through the shallows, the water
crackling into white foam under his horse’s hoofs.
Knollys and Fulk rode together, the mock page following on her pad. She
made a comely youth with her ripe lips, and her dark eyes, and that
daring and imperious chin of hers in the air. The hood of chain mail hid
her hair, that was fastened up in a silver net. Her long-lipped mouth
had an elusive and mischievous look, and sometimes she smiled as she
watched Fulk in his black harness masterful even in the saddle.
Knollys was in a playful mood.
“It is not generous of us to set her to watch your beard grow, my son,
yet she chose to come in that short cloak and her green hose. I can see
petticoats in that big wallet strapped to the pad’s saddle. Sir Tristram
and his lady! And no loving-cup needed!”
Fulk was a little in the air, and had too much passion in him to be
playful.
“We owe her these heads on our shoulders.”
“Tsst, lad! The girl is splendid. I would change with you, if I could.
To start again on adventures in strange lands with such a mate to keep
your blood afire! Ha! the French wars, the Breton moors, the fine,
lusty, galloping life! And the black eyes and the wines of Spain! If I
were young again—if I were young.”
Fulk’s thoughts were back in that Sussex forest, turning towards that
cold woman, his mother, and the silent man who had reared him as a son.
Ever since he had caught Isoult by moonlight, hunting the duke’s deer,
the world had been turned topsy-turvy, and the old life had vanished. He
knew that he could never go back and guard deer in a Sussex forest.
Isoult had come sailing like a splendid falcon out of the blue,
challenging him to soar with her in quest of great adventures.
“Knollys, the King will keep faith?”
“We shall see to it, my son.”
“I must have good men, a good ship, and good money. My pride has had a
bold flight. It will not come back to perch so easily.”
“Would you change with your half-brother?”
“Yes—and no. But I keep faith, and I shall not let it be forgotten.”
Knollys laughed.
“No, in faith, you would be dangerous—to forget. We have pledged our
faith to you. No prince of the blood shall set out more royally. Even
the good Walworth is ready to pay you for his knighthood! A man may send
in a big bill for saving a kingdom. I will ride down hither before many
days are passed, and bring you news.”
They rode through but one village, and saw nothing but women, old men,
and children. Sullen faces looked at them from behind half-closed doors.
The men who had slunk home from London did not show themselves,
mistrusting anything that rode upon a horse. The fields were still
deserted, though here and there they saw a man swinging a scythe. The
people were cowed, afraid of their own violence, profoundly discouraged
by the deaths of their leaders. The lords and the lawyers would be out
for vengeance, and the mob that had threatened a kingdom had scattered
in a panic, and was ready to cringe.
The country grew wilder, rolling woods meeting heather-covered hills
that were purpling against the blue of the summer sky. It was an empty
landscape where deer might range and the hawk hover without sighting
such a thing as man.
At Beggars Thorn they reined in, for here Knollys and his men were to
turn back.
“There is no more kick in Master Adam. You will not be troubled.
Cavendish will see you housed.”
He slung Fulk a fat wallet.
“Wine and dainties, my son. God speed you.”
He drew close and these two embraced, for comrade’s love—man’s
love—had sprung up between them.
“Grace to you, Master Bertrand.”
He looked at Isoult, and smiled.
“The knave of a boy! How could you cock your chin at me. Farewell,
farewell!”
He left them the guide and turned back with his men for London town.
It was evening—a still, June evening—when they came towards the Black
Mere. Heathlands sloped to a deep valley, where woods of birch and of
beech threw light and heavy shadows. The track followed a long, winding
strip of grassland knee deep with grass and flowers, and into it opened
the woodland ways, tunnels of mystery.
Then the Black Mere lay before them, a great black pool in the hollows
of green park-like slopes. Willows grew on the banks, trailing thin,
grey foliage in the water among the flags and rushes. Here and there a
tongue of woodland came down to the edge of the pool, throwing a long
black shadow upon water that already looked black. No wind blew; not a
ripple showed. The evening sunlight, streaming through the trees, made
circles and bands of polished gold upon the water.
In the centre of the pool lay an island, and on this island stood the
manor house of the Black Mere, its black timber and white plaster built
into quaint squares and lozenges. Little windows were sunk deep in the
thatch—heather thatch, the colour of the water in the pool. The upper
storey overhung the lower, carried on great oak posts and brackets. At
one end of the island was an orchard shut in by a palisade. Willows grew
on the banks, making a grey, misty screen.
The place looked solitary and deserted. No smoke rose from it, and the
flat-bottomed boat was lying chained to the island landing stage.
They found Cavendish’s horse tethered to a tree, and a pile of clothes
on the grass near it.
The guide looked puzzled.
“An empty nest, lording.”
Someone hailed them, and a half-naked man with a piece of sacking tied
round him came down to the landing-stage. It was Cavendish.
“Coming, coming!”
He climbed into the boat, unmoored it, and taking the pole, brought the
boat across the water.
“Reeve Roger has had a fright. Not a soul on the island. The old rogue
was afraid of having his throat cut by the rebels; he is safe in
Farnham, Guildford, or Windsor.”
He threw the chain to the guide, sprang out, and going behind a willow
tree, slipped into his clothes, and as he dressed he talked.
“I had to swim over. Not a soul has been there. You will find mead and
wine in the buttery, flour and salt meat in the kitchen, herbs and green
stuff in the garden, fowls and eggs in the yard and stables. If you must
fast you can fish in the pool. How does it please you, Sir Godamar? Can
your page cook?”
The page answered for himself.
“I can cook, squire, as well as I can say my prayers.”
“Noble child! A merry jest to you. Shall I take Master Numskull back
with me?”
Fulk laughed, glancing at Isoult.
“Yes, take him, friend Cavendish.”
“If I am brisk I shall make Guildford before it is too dark to see. How
many miles, Jock?”
“Nine, lording.”
“We shall do it, and have time to help with the horses. Jock is a wonder
on his legs.”
There were two poles in the boat, and Cavendish and the guide served as
ferrymen. Fulk’s horse, who behaved like a fine gentleman, was taken
across first, and then Isoult and her pad, and the pad pretended to be
restive. They stabled the beasts and found them oats, water, and straw.
Fulk went across with them to bring back the boat.
“Good luck to you, Cavendish. Tell Knollys that we are hermits.”
“May your beard grow, sir. And have a care how you play with that pole
in your harness. Not God Almighty could fish you out of the mud if you
tumbled overboard in all that gear!”
Cavendish mounted his horse, and Jock shouldered his quarter-staff, and
Fulk watched them disappear up the narrow meadow that lost itself in the
gloom of the woods.
Then he picked up the pole to ferry back to Isoult.