THE WARRIOR HEART
As Mora turned off the highway, and pressed Icon deep into the glades,
she cried over and over aloud, for there was none to hear: "I go to my
husband, and I choose to ride alone."
How wondrous it seemed, this going to him; a second giving, a deeper
surrender, a fuller yielding.
When she went to him in the crypt, her body had recoiled, her spirit
had shrunk, shamed, humbled, and unwilling. Her mind alone, governed
by her will, had driven her along the path of her resolve, holding her
upon the stretcher, until too late to cry out or to return.
Now--how different! Free as air, alone, uncoerced, even unexpected,
she left her own home, and her own people, to ride, unattended,
straight to the arms of the man who had won her.
A wild joy seized and shook her.
The soft, mysterious glades, beneath vast, leafy domes, seemed
enchanted ground. The hoofs of Icon thudded softly on the moss. The
stillness seemed alive with whispering life. Rabbits sat still to
peep, then whisked and ran. Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring
wings. Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang.
There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful
eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen. Yet all these varied
sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful
home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the
complete remoteness from human dwelling-place.
Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight
fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade.
The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon.
He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be
restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an
unseen way.
Mora rode as in a dream. "I ride to my husband," she cried to the
forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an
irrepressible burst of praise: "_Jesu dulsis memoria_!" Then, when she
fell silent: "_Dulsis_! _Dulsis_!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy
clerestories overhead. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid
back his ears and cantered faster.
Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the
very heart of the pine wood.
Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and
slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones.
Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and
slipped again.
With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing
through the undergrowth.
Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the
tree trunks.
Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart
was now so blissfully at rest.
Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she
mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty.
"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm
which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose
to ride alone."
With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words
in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go
forward.
At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and
the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view.
With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a
swift canter.
Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open.
Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the
distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home.
* * * * * *
It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed,
yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted
in the courtyard.
She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck. For
the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes
even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire
confidence.
"Icon, brave and beautiful!" she whispered. "Thou hast carried me here
where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire."
Then she turned, speaking quickly and low.
"Martin, where is my husband? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?"
"My lady," said Martin, "I saw him last in the armoury."
"The armoury?" she questioned.
"A chamber opening out of the great hall, facing toward the west, with
steps leading down into the garden."
"Even as my chamber?"
"The armoury door faces the door of your chamber, Countess. The width
of the hall lies between."
"Can I reach my chamber without entering the hall, or passing the
armoury windows? I would rid me of my travel-stains, before I make my
presence known to Sir Hugh."
"Pass round to the right, and through the buttery; then you reach the
garden and the steps up to your chamber from the side beyond the
armoury."
"Good. Tell no one of my presence, Martin. I have here the key of my
chamber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?"
"Nay, my lady; nor guessed how often we rode hither. We reached the
castle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty
garments; then dined alone. After which he went into the armoury."
"When did you see him last, Martin?"
"Two minutes ago, lady. I come this moment from the hall."
"What was he doing, Martin?"
Martin Goodfellow hesitated. He knew something of love, and as much as
an honest man may know, of women. He shrewdly suspicioned what she
would expect the Knight to be doing. He was sorely tempted to give a
fancy picture of Sir Hugh d'Argent, in his lovelorn loneliness.
He looked into the clear eyes bent upon him; glanced at the firm hand,
arrested for a moment in its caress of Icon's neck; then decided that,
though the truth might probably be unexpected, a lie would most
certainly be unwise.
"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his
armour, and sharpening his battle-axe."
As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious
of a very definite sense of surprise. She had pictured Hugh in his
lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth. She
had seen herself coming softly behind him, laying a tender hand upon
those bowed shoulders; then, as he lifted eyes in which dull despair
would quickly give place to wondering joy, saying: "Hugh, I am come
home."
But now, as she passed through the buttery, Mora had to realise that
yet again she had failed to understand the man she loved.
It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost happiness. If she failed
him finally, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man,
going straight on, unhindered by vain regret.
Once again her pride in him, in that he was finer than her own
conceptions, quickened her love, even while it humbled her, in her own
estimation, to a place at his feet.
A glory of joy was on her face as, making her way through to the
terrace, now bathed in sunset light, she passed up to the chamber she
had prepared during Hugh's absence.
All was as she had left it.
Fastening the door by which she had entered from the garden, she
noiselessly opened that which gave on to the great hall.
The hall was dark and deserted, but the door into the armoury stood
ajar.
A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door.
She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she
stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice,
singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the
King's Minstrel.
With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast
within.