THE YEARS ROLL BACK
"Hugh!" exclaimed the Prioress.
And again, in utter bewilderment: "Hugh?"
And yet a third time, in a low whisper of horror, passing her left hand
across her eyes, as if to clear from her outer vision some nightmare of
the inner mind: "Hugh!"
The silent Knight still made no answer; but he flung aside the clinging
robes, stepped from out them, and strode forward, both arms
outstretched.
"Back!" cried the Prioress. But her hand had left the hilt of the
dagger. "Come no nearer," she commanded.
Then she sank into her chair, spreading her trembling hands upon the
carven manes of the lions.
The Knight, still silent, folded his arms across his breast.
Thus for a space they gazed on one another--these two, who had parted,
eight years before, with clinging lips and straining arms, a deep, pure
passion of love surging within them; a union of heart, made closer by
the wrench of outward separation.
The Knight looked at the lips of the noble woman before him; and as he
looked those firm lips quivered, trembled, parted----
Then--the years rolled back----
* * * * * *
It was moonlight on the battlements. The horses champed in the
courtyard below. They two had climbed to the topmost turret, that they
might part as near the stars as possible, and that, unseen by others,
she might watch him ride away.
How radiant she looked, in her robe of sapphire velvet, jewels at her
breast and girdle, a mantle of ermine hanging from her shoulders. But
brighter than any jewels were the eyes full of love and tears; and
softer than softest velvet, the beautiful hair which, covered her, as
with a golden veil. Standing with his arms around her, it flowed over
his hands. Silent he stood, looking deep into her eyes.
Below they could hear Martin Goodfellow calling to the men-at-arms.
Her lips being free, she spoke.
"Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh," she said. "The Saracens will not
slay thee, will not wound thee, will not touch thee. My love will ever
be around thee, as a silver shield."
She flung her strong young arms about him, long and supple, enfolding
him closely, even as his enfolded her.
He filled his hands with her soft hair, straining her closer.
"I would I left thee wife, not maid. Could I have wed thee first, I
would go with a lighter heart."
"Wife or maid," she answered, her face lifted to his, "I am all thine
own. Go with a light heart, dear man of mine, for it makes no
difference. Maid or wife, I am thine, and none other's, forever."
"Let those be the last words I hear thee say," he murmured, as his lips
sought hers.
So, a little later, standing above him on the turret steps, she bent
and clasped her hands about his head, pushing her fingers into the
thickness of his hair. Then: "Maid or wife," she said, and her voice
now steady, was deep and tender; "Maid or wife, God knows, I am all
thine own." Then she caught his face to her breast. "Thine and none
other's, forever," she said; and he felt her bosom heave with one deep
sob.
Then turning quickly he ran down the winding stair, reached the
courtyard, mounted, and rode out through the gates of Castle Norelle,
and into the fir wood; and so down south to follow the King, who
already had started on the great Crusade.
And, as he rode, in moonlight or in shadow, always he saw the sweet
lips that trembled, always he felt the soft heave of that sob, and the
low voice so tender, said: "Thine and none other's, forever."
* * * * * *
And now----
The Prioress sat in her chair of state.
Each moment her face grew calmer and more stern.
The Knight let his eyes dwell on the fingers which once crept so
tenderly into his hair.
She hid them beneath her scapulary, as if his gaze scorched them.
He looked at the bosom against which his head had been pressed.
A jewelled cross gleamed, there where his face had laid hidden.
Then the Knight lifted his eyes again to that stern, cold face. Yet
still he kept silence.
At length the Prioress spoke.
"So it is you," she said.
"Yes," said the Knight, "it is I."
Wroth with her own poor heart because it thrilled at his voice, the
Prioress spoke with anger.
"How did you dare to force your way into this sacred cloister?"
The Knight smiled. "I have yet to find the thing I dare not do."
"Why are you not with your wife?" demanded the Prioress; and her tone
was terrible.
"I am with my wife," replied the Knight. "The only wife I have ever
wanted, the only woman I shall ever wed, is here."
"Coward!" cried the Prioress, white with anger. "Traitor!" She leaned
forward, clenching her hands upon the lions' heads. "Liar! You wedded
your cousin, Alfrida, less than one year after you went from me."
"Cease to be angry," said the Knight. "Thine anger affrights me not,
yet it hurts thyself. Listen, mine own belovèd, and I will tell thee
the cruel, and yet blessèd, truth.
"Seven months after I left thee, a messenger reached our camp, bearing
letters from England; no word for me from thee; but a long missive from
thy half-sister Eleanor, breaking to me the news that, being weary of
my absence, and somewhat over-persuaded, thou hadst wedded Humphry;
Earl of Carnforth.
"It was no news to me, that Humphry sought to win thee; but, that thou
hadst let thyself be won away from thy vow to me, was hell's own
tidings.
"In my first rage of grief I would have speech with none. But,
by-and-by, I sought the messenger, and asked him casually of things at
home. He told me he had seen thy splendid nuptials with the lord of
Carnforth, had been present at the marriage, and joined in the after
revels and festivities. He said thou didst make a lovely bride, but
somewhat sad, as if thy mind strayed elsewhere. The fellow was a kind
of lawyer's clerk, but lean, and out at elbow.
"Then I sought 'Frida, my cousin. She too had had a letter, giving the
news. She told me she long had feared this thing for me, knowing the
heart of Humphry to be set on winning thee, and that Eleanor approved
his suit, and having already heard that of late thou hadst inclined to
smile on him. She begged me to do nothing rash or hasty.
"'What good were it,' she said, 'to beg the King for leave to hasten
home? If you kill Humphry, Hugh, you do but make a widow of the woman
you have loved; nor could you wed the widow of a man yourself had
slain. If Humphry kills you--well, a valiant arm is lost to the Holy
Cause, and other hearts, more faithful than hers, may come nigh to
breaking. Stay here, and play the man.'
"So, by the messenger, I sent thee back a letter, asking thee to write
me word how it was that thou, being my betrothed, hadst come to do this
thing; and whether Humphry was good to thee, and making thy life
pleasant. To Humphry I sent a letter saying that, thy love being round
him as a silver shield, I would not slay him, wound him, or touch him!
But--if he used thee ill, or gave thee any grief or sorrow, then would
I come, forthwith, and send him straight to hell.
"These letters, with others from the camp, went back to England by that
clerkly messenger. No answers were returned to mine.
"Meanwhile I went, with my despair, out to the battlefield.
"No tender shield was round me any more. I fought, like a mad wild
beast. So often was I wounded, that they dubbed me 'The Knight of the
Bloody Vest.'
"At last they brought me back to camp, delirious and dying. My cousin
'Frida, there biding her time, nursed me back to life, and sought to
win for herself (I shame to say it) the love which thou hadst flouted.
I need not tell thee, my cousin 'Frida failed. The Queen herself as
good as bid me wed her favourite Lady. The Queen herself had to
discover that she could command an English soldier's life, but not his
love.
"Back in the field again, I found myself one day, cut off, surrounded,
hewn down, taken prisoner; but by a generous foe.
"Thereafter followed years of much adventure; escapes, far distant
wanderings, strange company. Many months I spent in a mountain
fastness with a wise Hebrew Rabbi, who taught me his sacred Scriptures;
going back to the beginning of all things, before the world was; yet
shrewd in judgment of the present, and throwing a weird light forward
upon the future. A strange man; wise, as are all of that Chosen Race;
and a faithful friend. He did much to heal my hurt and woo me back to
sanity.
"Later, more than a year with a band of holy monks in a desert
monastery, high among the rocks; good Fathers who believed in Greek and
Latin as surest of all balsams for a wounded spirit, and who made me to
become deeply learned in Apostolic writings, and in the teachings of
the Church. But, for all their best endeavours, I could not feel
called to the perpetual calm of the Cloister. We are a line of
fighters and hunters, men to whom pride of race and love of hearth and
home, are primal instincts.
"Thus, after many further wanderings and much varying adventure, having
by a strange chance heard news of the death of my father, and that my
mother mourned. In solitude, the opening of this year found me landed
in England--I who, by most, had long been given up for dead; though
Martin Goodfellow, failing to find trace of me in Palestine, had gone
back to Cumberland, and staunchly maintained his belief that I lived, a
captive, and should some day make my escape, and return.
"I passed with all speed to our Castle on the moors, knowing a mother's
heart waited here, for mothers never cease to watch and hope. And,
sure enough, as I rode up, the great doors flew wide; the house waited
its master; the mother was on the threshold to greet her son. Aye! It
was good to be at home once more--even in the land where _my_ woman was
bearing children to another man.
"We spent a few happy days, I and my mother, together. Then--the joy
of hope fulfilled being sometimes a swifter harbinger to another world
than the heaviest load of sorrow--she passed, without pain or sickness,
smiling, in her sleep; she passed--leaving my home desolate indeed.
"Not having known of my betrothal to thee, because of the old feud
between our families, and my reluctance to cross her wish that I should
wed Alfrida, thy name was not spoken between us; but I learned from her
that my cousin 'Frida lay dying at her manor, nigh to Chester, of some
lingering disease contracted in eastern lands."
"With the first stirrings of Spring in forest and pasture, I felt moved
to ride south to the Court, and report my return to the King; yet
waited, strangely loath to go abroad where any turn of the road might
bring me face to face with Humphry. I doubted, should we meet, if I
could pass, without slaying him, the man who had stolen my betrothed
from me. So I stayed in my own domain, bringing things into order,
working in the armoury, and striving by hard exercise to throttle the
grim demon of despair.
"April brought a burst of early summer; and, on the first day of May, I
set off for Windsor.
"Passing through Carnforth on my way, I found the town keeping high
holiday. I asked the reason, and was told of a Tourney now in progress
in the neighbourhood, to which the Earl had that morning ridden in
state, accompanied by his Countess, who indeed was chosen Queen of
Beauty, and was to sit enthroned, attended by her little daughter, two
tiny sons acting as pages.
"A sudden mad desire came on me, to look upon thy face again; to see
thee with the man who stole thee from me; with the children, who should
have been mine own.
"Ten minutes later, I rode on to the field. Pushing in amid the gay
crowd, I seemed almost at once to find myself right in front of the
throne.
"I saw the Queen of Beauty, in cloth of gold. I saw the little maiden
and the pages in attendance. I saw Humphry, proud husband and father,
beside them. All this I saw, which I had come to see. But--the face
of Humphry's Countess was not thy face! In that moment I knew that,
for seven long years, I had been fooled!
"I started on a frenzied quest after the truth, and news of thee.
"Thy sister Eleanor had died the year before. To thy beautiful castle
and lands, so near mine own, Eleanor's son had succeeded, and ruled
there in thy stead. He being at Court just then, I saw him not, nor
could I hear direct news of thee, though rumour said a convent.
"Then I remembered my cousin, Alfrida, lying sick at her manor in
Chester. To her I went; and, walking in unannounced--I, whom she had
long thought dead--I forced the truth from her. The whole plot stood
revealed. She and Eleanor had hatched it between them. Eleanor
desiring thy lands for herself and her boy, and knowing children of
thine would put hers out of succession; Alfrida--it shames me to say
it--desiring for herself, thy lover.
"The messenger who brought the letters was bribed to give details of
thy supposed marriage. On his return to England, my letters to thee
and to Humphry he handed to Eleanor; also a lying letter from 'Frida,
telling of her marriage with me, with the Queen's consent and approval,
and asking Eleanor to break the news to thee. The messenger then
mingled with thy household, describing my nuptials in detail, as, when
abroad, he had done thine. Hearing of this, my poor Love did even as I
had done, sent for him, questioned him, heard the full tale he had to
tell, and saw, alas! no reason to misdoubt him.
"By the way, my cousin 'Frida knew where to lay her hand upon that
clerkly fellow. Therefore we sent for him. He came in haste to see
the Lady Alfrida, from whom, during all the years, he had extorted
endless hush-money.
"I and my men awaited him.
"He had fattened on his hush-money! He was no longer lean and out at
elbow.
"He screeched at sight of me, thinking me risen from the dead.
"He screeched still louder when he saw the noose, flung over a strong
bough.
"We left him hanging, when we rode away. That Judas kind will do the
darkest deeds for greed of gain. The first of the tribe himself shewed
the way by which it was most fitting to speed them from a world into
which it had been good for them never to have been born.
"From Alfrida I learned that, as Eleanor had foreseen, thy grief at my
perfidy drove thee to the Cloister. Also that thy Convent was near
Worcester.
"To Worcester I came, and made myself known to the Lord Bishop, with
whom I supped; and finding him most pleasant to talk with, and ready to
understand, deemed it best, in perfect frankness, to tell him the whole
matter; being careful not to mention thy name, nor to give any clue to
thy person.
"Through chance remarks let fall by the Bishop while giving me the
history of the Order, I learned that already thou wert Prioress of the
White Ladies. 'The youngest Prioress in the kingdom,' said the Bishop,
'yet none could be wiser or better fitted to hold high authority.'
Little did he dream that any mention of thee was as water to the
parched desert; yet he talked on, for love of speaking of thee, while I
sat praying he might tell me more; yet barely answering yea or nay,
seeming to be absorbed in mine own melancholy thoughts.
"From the Bishop I learned that the Order was a strictly close one, and
that no man could, on any pretext whatsoever, gain speech alone with
one of the White Ladies.
"But I also heard of the underground way leading from the Cathedral to
the Convent, and of the daily walk to and from Vespers.
"I went to the crypt, and saw the doorway through which the White
Ladies pass. Standing unseen amid the many pillars, I daily watched
the long line of silent figures, noted that they all walked veiled,
with faces hidden, keeping a measured distance apart. Also that
several were above usual height. Then I conceived the plan of wearing
the outer dress, and of stepping in amongst those veiled figures just
at the foot of the winding stair in the wall, leading down from the
clerestory to the crypt. I marked that the nun descending, could not
keep in view the nun in front who had just stepped forth into the
crypt; while she, moving forward, would not perceive it if, slipping
from behind a pillar, another white figure silently joined the
procession behind her. Once within the Convent, I trusted to our Lady
to help me to speech alone with thee; and our blessèd Lady hath not
failed me.
"Now I have told thee all."
With that the Knight left speaking; and, after the long steady
recitation, the ceasing of his voice caused a silence which, seemed, to
hold the very air suspended.
Not once had the Prioress made interruption. She had sat immovable,
her eyes upon his face, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. Long
before the tale was finished her sad eyes had overflowed, the tears
raining down her cheeks, and falling upon the cross at her breast.
When he had told all, when the deep, manly voice--now resolute, now
eager, now vibrant with fierce indignation, yet tender always when
speaking of her--at last fell silent, the Prioress fought with her
emotion, and mastered it; then, so soon as she could safely trust her
voice, she spoke.