A GOOD FIGHT
Now, ever since I could run alone I have always tried to find out
everything for myself, and to put my spoon into every dish the like of
which I had never seen before. So, having easily passed off my
escapade upon the friskiness of Varlet, and his having had no exercise
for weeks at the convent, only Larry, who did not matter at all,
understanding, I was resolved to make the most of our stay at Cour
Cheverney.
I had seen greater things before, of course; for mine own home of
Castle Thrieve yields to none in all the kingdoms where I have been,
and I could recall, though dimly, those great days when my dear
brother William held his tourney on the mead of Glenlochar, the one
that lasted three days--ah, there never was aught finer than that in
France--no, nor yet in Italy.
But then, at that time I was a little girl, scarce fit to hold the
train of the Queen of Beauty, and Maud Lindsay it was who had all the
honours and all the eye-glancings of the younger men. But now that has
changed, and I felt for the first time, I know not how, that I could
hold my own with a king’s daughter.
Moreover, Cour Cheverney was still empty of my bridegroom. That was
its chief joy. I had an unexpected respite. As Margaret of Galloway I
could laugh at Will of Avondale, my cousin, at his books and
parchments, the great schemes in his head, and the little outcome
there had been of them; but as my bridegroom, my husband, my master,
the Earl of Douglas, the Duke of Touraine, I was not so sure that
Cousin Will would be such a laughing matter.
So, for the present, Cour Cheverney, even with the presence of the
Lady Superior, was to me highly desirable; a means of furthering my
education, and, by incident, that of several other people as well.
And my chief joy and safety, in thus completing of my education, was
that everyone knew that I was so soon to be married--by high
pontifical dispensation, papal Bull, holy cord, and four pounds of wax
thereto attached--not to speak, as it were, of bell, book, and candle.
So they might sigh, the men of them, that is--but no one could think
(no, not for a moment) that I meant any harm. Indeed, I never did, and
said so frequently when the harm came.
Now Cour Cheverney was of itself a pleasant place. The Sieur Paul, a
rich man, had recently had it put in repair. The chambers he had
decorated with tapestry from Paris. The higher windows were widened,
and balconies thrust out from the thickness of the wall. The courtyard
was set about with a bordering of flowers. Bravest of all was a great
Judas tree, with purple blossoms close set upon its branches, which
cast a shade along the left side of the court, opposite to the great
hall and the men’s apartments. I asked the Sieur Paul to have a bench
put there, and I went often to that place of a sunny afternoon with my
broidery--to be quiet and think.
But the strange thing was that I scarcely got five minutes of
meditation, and as for the solitude which I had come there to
seek--why, first came one and then another, my faith, past believing!
The place was like a fair.
There was Laurence, who, being a prelate, or, at least, having the
powers of one, could not go a-hunting. Yet, because I said once, to
try him, that he was of no more use than to bide at home with the
maids, he took to fishing, and made infinite work with his tackle,
sitting beside me on that same seat. I never heard whether he landed
anything--from the river, I mean. At the seat he certainly did not. So
I mourned with him over his ill success, and when James Douglas came
down in yet another new purple vest, with gold buttons and long
sleeves of silk, I told him of the little progress that Larry was
making in the art of fishing with the angle, innocently inquiring if
he did not think that with a rod of elder and a busking of white
jupon, our fisherman might try the banks of the Closson with better
success.
“These French troutlets are shy. They have been tried so often
before,” I said. “You can ask my Lord James as to the bait he is wont
to use!”
Then Larry, knowing that James and I had some secret between us, would
grow all of a sulk, and, bundling his things together, take leave of
us upon the instant. At which James, making a little face behind his
back, would sit down beside me, while the Sieur Paul went
a-promenading along the other side of the court with the Bald Cat upon
his arm. She had discovered that on the maternal side he could claim
to be a cousin ten times removed (if not more) of her family. And as
he was also kin to the great, and possessed a castle like Cour
Cheverney, the wise Mother Superior had no objections to the alliance,
in spite of the “bar sinister” which, like an oriflamme, he flaunted
athwart his back.
It was one of the most frequent of our ploys to dance in the courtyard
of an evening. James could not dance well. He was too big of bone, and
too fair. Only dark men dance well. But he would snatch angrily at the
strings of his doublet and kick at the house dogs as they slunk
uneasily along the selvage of the flagged square, apprehensive of so
many heels all going to a measure. Then he would affirm loudly that,
thank Heaven, only fools and cropped poodles could dance; that as for
himself, the “deil might care, but he, James Douglas, cared no jot!”
All which was, as one might say, meat to the hungry. And specially to
me, who had been two long years in a convent, with Sister Eulalie
tugging all the time at the tail of one’s gown! Well, I have heard
speak a great deal of paradise. And it may all be true. But at
eighteen one does not hunger after such doubtful exchanges. Cour
Cheverney and the dance beneath the Judas tree were good enough for
me.
Then Larry, who had a vast amount of music in his fingers as well as
in his toes, and could play any instrument from an organ to a
five-stringed _guiterne_ or a mouth flute--by sheer wit, as it were,
and without learning, used to play for us. At first it was all
solemn-sounding tunes on the great harp--after which, perhaps, low,
sweet harmonies on the _psalterion_. Then, as he warmed to his work,
I, who knew him and saw the ichor mounting, would hand him a viol
silently and hush the company with my hand. For, if left alone, they
were bound to hear a marvellous thing.
Then would he sing, accompanying himself, like the carolling lark on
the first day of May, in such a voice as never was heard save in the
sky, till he would bring the very tears to our eyes, and set us to the
sobbing for no reason at all. Songs of lost love he would sing, of
desolate low shores and maids yet more desolate. Sadder and sadder the
ballad would grow, till, with a sudden fling of the elbow through his
embroidered robe, Larry would dash into some mirthful lilt of old
Scottish song, all marriage-making and happiness, with white-mutched
crones nodding heads at their gossip, and goodmen chaffering in the
market-place.
As he played he grew fixed and lost, this daft Larry of ours, whom
fate and the Douglases had made an abbot, and the ambassador of
another man’s wooing. And though there was a shaven patch, the size of
a clipped ducat, on his crown, I wot well the curls clustered so fair
and maidenly about his brow, that, had he not worn breeches (or
whatever holy men wear underneath their soutanes), the Bald Cat would
have had them shorn by the roots in the twinkling of an eye.
Then, of course, at Cour Cheverney there were other exploits. Great
brawny James was all for the tourneying, and (also of course) at that,
among the country lords and Knights-of-the-Green-Fields, easily bore
the gree. But Bevis Roland, the renegade Englishman, as easily beat
him at the archery, which at least was exceedingly good for our brisk
Jamie’s soul. But again at riding and hunting, and also at the
horse-leaping, my Lord James Douglas could give a long start to all
the company--an it were not Larry, who, being a clerk on a white mule,
a cross on his breast, and a mitre on his head, could not, for very
shame, compete with him. But he stood behind me, gritting his teeth
and groaning in his spirit.
“I could beat him,” he said, “’fore the Lord, I could beat him at all
but the jousting. And as for that bag-swagging Englisher, Bevis
Roland, I could shoot three in the white to his one, for sixty golden
crowns! If I could not, may the devil change me into a kailstock. Yet
here I must stand like a draff-sack set upright. God rest my soul for
it in the day of need! It is much to put up with for the sake of
religion!”
Then, the devil he had imprecated entering into me, I encouraged him
to cast his robe, his cope, and soutane, and to it in his hose and
shirt. And by my fey, the mad wight would have done it in a twinkling.
He had the heavy mantle half off his shoulder, when suddenly he caught
sight of the great golden cross upon it, all wrought in thread as
thick as wire.
Then some thought of his calling, as I hope, or shame of the people
about him--as I fear--caused Larry to halt, and with a sigh he drew
his cope again about him. But when I had egged him on a little further
(the devil or one of his imps still possessing me), he turned upon me
and said in Scots, “Mistress Meg, art a naughty wench! And if thou
dost not mend thy manners, wilt come to no good! I ken what means thy
trokings under the Judas tree yonder, thy blotched broiderings and
sudden eye-liftings, thy seats set in the shade of an afternoon”--
“Concerning which, good lad,” I retorted, “you, holy Father Larry, of
a certainty ought to know, for you sit there more than any! Ay, and
hold thread for the winding, too, between these same thrice-blessed
abbatical fingers! _Pax vobiscum! Retro me! Requiescat in pace!_”
And that being all my stock of Latin, I made to bless him backwards in
sport, which angered him curiously.
“Ah, that I were your father,” he murmured, low and bitter in mine
ear, “or your mother, ay--or even the Abbess of St. Brigida two days
agone! There are some rules of that Order which would suit you!”
“Well, what would happen then, most reverend prior of the bare chin?”
I demanded.
Larry said nothing in words, but his fingers itched visibly to box my
ears--or, for aught I know, more and worse.
But in the midst of these occupations and the new joyance of freedom
which had come to me, the Sieur Paul promised other entertainment. He
was, I think, some little piqued that our big James had so easily
borne his point against the gentlemen of Touraine. So said he one
morning, when we were all at gossip under the Judas tree, “Messire
James, my good lord, there are none of your mettle here, but over
yonder at Loches with the Dauphin there are one or two knights of
another web--La Hire and the younger Dunois--good lances and stout
hearts. How will you like it if I send for them, make a fête day at
Cour Cheverney, and see if you can break a lance with them as deftly
as with us poor laggard oafs of the provinces?”
“Faith, I would like it greatly,” said James. “I ask no better!”
And to me, turning his head, he said in Scots, “Cousin Marget, ye will
see me whammle them!” Which is the same as to say that he would make
them all bite the dust.
For that was our James, root and branch of him--ready, self-confident,
never blate, everyway large, hectoring, easy of manner, quick as a
touch to draw on a gentleman, swinge a burgher, or drink pewter for
pewter with a beggar. He never dreamed that he could fail in anything.
Nor for that matter (to tell the truth) did I!
Well, they came. And I sat on a fine crimson-draped balcony which had
been fastened out on struts from two lower windows of the keep. For
(having none other) the Sieur Paul had perforce to make me Queen of
Beauty; and as for James, he thought, as usual, that he had naught
else to do but lift the jewel--a black diamond circled all about with
points of brilliants and sapphires--which certainly would have become
me excellently. So I hoped he would win.
The company arrived. There were knights on splendid horses, the like
of which I have never seen in Scotland, except the noble black, which
had belonged to William, my dear young brother, who was so
treacherously slain at Edinburgh by Chancellor Livingston and the
sneaking gutter-hound Crichton.
There was Dunois the younger, a tall, dark man, quiet and lissom, a
velvety glitter in the eyes of him like a wandering Egyptian, with La
Hire, a smart, grey-headed man of fifty, stout-backed, and with a long
upper lip, also with little to say for himself. To them add the Count
des Baux and Henri de Cayades, light, alert men of the South,
Provençal through all their veins, both born within sight of the
castle of good Roi Réné, and both as full of talk and apt to love as
a willow bole is of sap in the springtime.
Ultimately to these were added a slight brown man with shifty eyes,
with an ill-kept steel capote on his head, and, believe it who will, a
rosary about his neck like the Bald Cat herself; and, last of all, a
tall dark man, of whom, however, I caught but one glimpse disappearing
into the stables to arm himself, for he had ridden over light, his
armament having been sent from Loches with a groom.
There were banners hung from all the windows of Cour Cheverney and the
air of a fête day everywhere. The very grooms and varlets of the
stable were alert and active, with ribbons in their caps and fresh
straws in their mouths.
Outside the newly set-up barriers there was a great press of the
commons, with spearmen to tread upon their bare toes with mail-clad
feet, and in case of need to stamp out a due and respectful space
behind the barriers with the butts of their lances.
Of our house party there came first, of course, James Douglas, my
cousin, who must always gallant it in the forefront. Then came the
Sieur Paul, most like an apple dumpling done in steel plate and a
helmet with plumes, but yet, so they affirmed, able to swing a good
sword and grip a stout lance in his day. One of these last only he was
to break. Then there was one who, though amongst the party of Cour
Cheverney, and fighting in a borrowed suit of plate with the “bar
sinister” of Herault de Douglas, had requested that his name should
not be made known.
We of Cour Cheverney, being for the most part clerks and squires, had
hard work to muster man for man. And, indeed, even with the young man
of the Golden Bar, we were two men short, till there rode up another,
the dark man I had seen disappearing in the stables. Through his
banner-bearer he declared his readiness to fight upon the side of Cour
Cheverney--which, when he had ranged himself with James, the Sieur
Paul, and the young man of the Bar Sinister, gave us four to their
four.
It was a good fight. Dunois and James broke four lances each and still
held it even, which was little to the liking or expectation of either
at the first shock. The Sieur Paul “keeled” over and lay like an egg
of Pasch, fallen on his back, feebly swaying his arms and calling to
all and sundry to hasten--that he was being choked in his armour. He
had encountered La Hire. And though that stout-backed Samaritan tried
to save him all he could, the shock of meeting so famous a lance was
doubtless severe. Bar Sinister and our Succouring Knight lent us from
the other side had both conquered their men, without even breaking
their own lances, and the grooms were catching the runaway horses and
setting the armed men back in the saddle. Towers of glistening metal
they looked from my high bank of crimson cloth, and being men of the
Midi, they spat out curses at their ill-fortune--the Count des Baux
blaming De Cayades for riding across him, and De Cayades telling Des
Baux of various places more or less discomfortable, to which an it
pleased him he could immediately ride. Whereupon Des Baux said they
could settle the matter elsewhere.
Crash went the arms again, and La Hire, having opposed himself to the
Succouring Knight who had reinforced the party of Cour Cheverney,
overbore him, and he went heavily to the ground. On the other hand
James succeeded this time with Dunois, and his spear breaking, the
brave young Frenchman was soon on the ground, crying with a loud
voice, “Praise to St. Denis that my father is not here to see!” Upon
which, James erected his lance as if to conquer Dunois were the
simplest thing in the world, and rode again to the top of the lists.
The Count des Baux and Henri de Cayades had rushed together upon the
Knight of the Bar Sinister, but he, lightly reining his steed, had let
them both pass him and crash heavily into each other like two ships in
a strong sea, manœuvring too narrowly for the fairway.
A shout arose at his dexterity, and the little shifty-eyed man rushed
into the arena and spoke some words to the fallen knights, which
seemed to be ill enough taken.
At last La Hire and James Douglas came to it. They had met once
before, and James, solely through self-confidence and lack of caution,
had been overthrown. But this time our James made no mistakes. The
prize was too high--a ring, a bird, and a kiss from the Queen of
Beauty--as it is writ in the poem of Chivalry--
“Un cygne qui el pre sera,
Et si vous di qu’il baisera
La pucelle de Landemore.”
La Hire went down before the Douglas brawn and beef and bone. Porridge
to breakfast and Martinmas cow to dinner for some score of years had
done their work. Truth to tell, La Hire came at it with wonderful
finesse, but the weight of man and horse bore him down. After this
neither Henri de Cayades nor the Count des Baux was ready for the fray
against the conqueror of La Hire and the young Dunois. The Knight of
the Bar Sinister had mysteriously disappeared, and James rode round
the lists like one vaunting himself, as indeed he never could help
doing all his life, specially under the eyes of women. He had taken
his new lance, with the pennon which had been carefully kept rolled
until now by his standard-bearer, and, with a bow in my direction, he
gave it to the wind. The “transfixed heart” of the Douglases flapped
out bravely, together with the red and gold on his horse’s trappings.
He set his visor up, and, as I told him afterwards, no cock on his own
midden-head strutted ever more proudly than James Douglas that day.
Oh yes; and I liked him for it. It was a great deal to me to know that
he loved me, and had done all that for my sake.
But when it came the turn of the victor to receive the chaplet, the
swan, and the kiss, James had his headgear removed in his tent and
came forth presently, looking tall and personable in a close-fitting
suit with a golden tabard back and front. Then, according to custom,
the beaten men had to unhelm also and see him receive the prize.
The Sieur Paul led them on, smiling and bowing to all about. He had
his head wrapped up in a napkin as if for a deadly wound, but the
good-humoured ironic cheering of the populace told that they
understood other of it. Then came La Hire and Dunois, looking as if
they had swallowed each a tankard of vinegar in lieu of good red wine.
Lastly, the two men of the Midi, laughing, chattering, and jesting
with an air which said plainly that it would be their turn next time.
There was one other, the Succouring Knight, who had taken the side of
Cour Cheverney, and after winning once had gone down before La Hire.
He came up a little late, and at the very time when I was occupied in
setting the chaplet of laurel on the head of the victor. Then, tossing
the swan among the commons to be scrambled for, James bent over and
took his legal kiss from my lips in the fashion prescribed and
established by a hundred courts of love.
Perhaps he was unwontedly long about it. For the next thing I knew was
the tall, dark Succouring Knight, he who had obstinately kept his
visor down even when he stood among the vanquished, laying his hand
upon my arm.
“Margaret!” he said quietly.
And then I knew him for my Cousin William, the man with whom I was to
wed. I shuddered and caught my breath--as I do now, even as I write.
“And one for me!” he said. “I have come far to get it.”
Now I know not what it was that made me perverse that moment. A kiss
was nothing, yet I would not.
“No,” I said; “it is not your right here in this place, but James’s!”
I think he sighed.
“Then a kiss by favour?” he said.
“Nay,” I answered, “you must win a tournament first!”
“I will win all Scotland for you,” he said. “As for this cracking of
lances--it is but hammer-and-anvil play!”
“Ah, but then you cannot do it,” I retorted upon him, “and James can!”
And the victor of the combat stood preening himself behind his
brother, and, I doubt not, trowing himself the greatest and the
strongest man in Christendom.
But William Douglas went away softly without speaking another word.