Gilbert sat in the door of his tent at noon, the sun shining down upon
him and warming him pleasantly, for the day was chilly, and he was
still aching. As he idly watched the soldiers going and coming, and
cooking their midday meal at the camp-fires, while Dunstan and Alric
were preparing his own, he was thinking that this was the third day
since he had saved the Queen's life, and that although many courtiers
had asked of his condition, and had talked with him as if he had done a
great deed, yet he had received not so much as a message of thanks from
Eleanor nor from the King, and it seemed as if he had been forgotten
altogether. But of Beatrix, Dunstan told him that she was in a fever
and wandering, and the Norman woman had said that she talked of her
home. Gilbert hated himself because he could do nothing for her, but
most bitterly because he had yielded to the Queen's eyes and to her
voice in the instant of balanced life and death.
The great nobles passed on their way to their tents from the King's
quarters, where the council met daily to trace the march. And still
Gilbert's shield hung blank and white on his lance, and he sat alone,
without so much as a new mantle upon him, nor a sword-belt, nor any
gift to show that the royal favour had descended upon him as had been
expected. So some of the nobles only saluted him with a grave gesture
in which there was neither friendship nor familiarity, and some took no
notice of him, turning their faces away, for they thought that they had
made a mistake, and that the Englishman had given some grave offence
for which even his brave action was not a sufficient atonement. But he
cared little, for his nature was not a courtier's, and even then the
English Normans were colder and graver men than those of France, and
more overbearing in arms, but less self-seeking, one against another,
in court.
Dunstan came from behind the tent, where the fire was, bringing food in
two polished brass bowls, and Gilbert went in to eat his dinner. Coarse
fare enough it was, a soup of vegetables and bread, with pieces of meat
in it, and little crumbs of cheese, scraped off with a sharp knife, and
floating on the thick liquid; and then, in the other bowl, small
gobbets of roasted beef run by sixes on wooden skewers that were
blackened at the ends by the fire. And it all tasted of smoke, for the
wood was yet green on the hillsides. But Gilbert ate and said nothing,
neither praising nor blaming, for very often on the long march he had
eaten the dried bread of the German peasants and the unleavened
wheat-cakes of the wild Hungarians, with a draught of water, and had
been glad even of that. Also on Fridays and Saturdays, and on the
vigils of feast days, and on most days in Lent, he had eaten only bread
and boiled vegetables, such as could be found, and the fasting reminded
him of the old days in Sheering Abbey.
For in his nature there was the belief of that age in something far
above common desires and passions, dwelling in a temple of the soul
that must be reached by steps of pain; there was the spirit of men who
starved and scourged their bodies almost to death that their souls
might live unspotted; and the terribly primitive conception of every
passional sin as equal in importance to murder, and only less deadly
than an infamous crime in the semi-worldly view of knightly honour,
which admitted private vengeance as a sort of necessity of human nature.
The mere thought that he could love the Queen, or could have believed
that he loved her for one instant, seemed ten thousand times worse than
his boyish love of Beatrix had once seemed, when he had supposed that
there was no means of setting aside the bar of affinity; and it was
right that he should think so. But though temptation is not sin, he
made it that, and accused himself; for it was manifest that the merest
passing thrill of the blood, such as he had felt on that night in
Vezelay, and now again, must be an evil thing, since it had brought
about such a great result in a dangerous moment.
These were small things, and nice distinctions, that a strong man
should dwell on them and bruise his heart for its wickedness. But they
were not small if to neglect them meant the eternity of torture that
awaited him who looked upon his neighbour's wife to covet her. There
were among the nobles who had taken the Cross not a few to whom the law
seemed less rigid and perdition less sure, and Eleanor herself gave her
sins gentle names; but the Englishman was old-fashioned, and even the
good Abbot of Sheering had been struck by his literal way of accepting
all beliefs, in the manner of a past time when the world had trembled
at the near certainty of the Last Judgment, expiating its misdeeds by
barefooted pilgrimages to Jerusalem, and its venial faults by cruel
macerations of the flesh.
Gilbert, therefore, looked upon all bodily weariness and suffering and
privation which he chanced to encounter on the march as so much penance
to be borne cheerfully because it should profit his soul; and while the
young blood coursed in his veins, and youth's bright lights danced in
his eyes, the cold spirit of the ascetic fought against the warm life
toward an end which the man felt rather than saw, and of which the
profound melancholy would have appalled him, could he have realized it.
As month followed month, though his strength increased upon him under
much labour, and though his cheeks were tanned by sunshine and weather,
the broad forehead grew whiter under his cap, and more thoughtful, and
his eyes were saddened and his features more spiritual; also, while he
longed daily to draw his sword and strike great blows at unbelievers
for faith's sake and to the honouring of the Holy Cross, the rough
fighting instinct of his people, that craved to see blood for its
redness and to take the world for love of holding it, no longer awoke
suddenly in him, like hunger or thirst, at the wayward call of
opportunity. He could not now have plucked out steel to hew down men,
as he had done on that spring morning among the flowers of the Tuscan
valley, only because it was good to see the dazzling red line follow
the long quick sword-stroke, and to ride weight at weight to overthrow
it, swinging the death-scythe through the field of life. He wanted the
cause and the end now, where once he had desired only the deed, and he
had risen another step above the self that had been.
He knew it, and nevertheless, as he sat still after he had eaten his
midday meal, he saw that his years had been very sad since his first
great sorrow; and each time when he thought he had gone forward some
strong thing had driven him back, or some great grief had fallen upon
him, and he himself had almost been forced down. He had been proud of
his arms and his boyish skill at Faringdon, and before his eyes his
father had been foully slain; he had faced the murderer in the cause of
right, and he himself had been half killed; he had believed in his
mother as in heaven, and she had defiled his father's memory and robbed
her son of his inheritance; he had sought peace in Rome, and had found
madness and strife; he had desired to do knightly deeds and had killed
men for nothing; he loved a maiden with a maiden heart, and at the
touch of a faithless woman his blood rose in his throat, and for a look
of hers and a tone of her voice he had put forth his hands to grapple
with sudden death, forgetting the other, the better, the dearer.
So he was thinking, and the door of his tent was darkened for a moment,
so that he looked up. There stood one of Queen Eleanor's attendant
knights, in tunic and hose, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other
holding his round cap in the act of salutation. He was a Gascon, of
middle height, spare and elastic as a steel blade, dark as a Moor, with
fiery eyes and thin black mustaches that stuck up like a cat's
whiskers. His manner was exaggerated, and he made great gestures, but
he was a true man and brave. Gilbert rose to meet him, and saw behind
him a soldier carrying something small and heavy on one shoulder,
steadying it with his hand.
"The Lord of Stoke?" the knight began in a tone of inquiry.
"If I had my own, sir," answered the Englishman, "but I have not. My
name is Gilbert Warde."
"Sir Gilbert--" began the Gascon, bowing again and waving the hand that
held his cap in a tremendous gesture, which ended on his heart as if to
express thanks for the information.
"No, sir," interrupted the other. "Of those who would have given me
knighthood I would not have it, and they of whom I would take it have
not offered it."
"Sir," answered the knight, courteously, "those of whom you speak
cannot have known you. I come from her Grace the Duchess of Gascony."
"The Duchess of, Gascony?" asked Gilbert, unaccustomed to the title.
The knight drew himself up till he seemed to be standing on his toes,
and his hand left his sword-hilt to give his mustache a fierce upward
twist.
"The Duchess of Gascony, sir," he repeated. "There are a few persons
who call her Highness the Queen of France, doubtless without meaning to
give offence."
Gilbert smiled in spite of himself, but the knight's eyes took fire
instantly.
"Do you laugh at me, sir?" he asked, his hand going back to his sword,
and his right foot advancing a little as if he meant to draw.
"No, sir. I crave your pardon if I smiled, admiring your Gascon
loyalty."
The other was instantly pacified, smiled too, and waved his long arm
several times.
"I come, then, from her Grace the Duchess," he said, insisting on the
title, "to express to you her sovereign thanks for the service you did
her the other day. Her Grace has been much busied by the councils, else
she would have sent me sooner."
"I am most respectfully grateful for the message," answered Gilbert,
rather coldly, "and I beg you, sir, to accept my appreciation of the
pains you have taken to bring it to me."
"Sir, I am most wholly at your service," replied the knight, again
laying his hand upon his heart. "But besides words the Duchess sends
you, by my hand, a more substantial evidence of her gratitude."
He turned and took the heavy leather bag from his attendant soldier,
and offered it to Gilbert, holding it out in his two hands, and coming
nearer. Gilbert stepped back when he saw what it was. The money was for
a deed which might have cost Beatrix her life. He felt sick at the
sight of it, as if it had been as the price of blood which Judas took.
His face turned very pale under his tan, and he clasped his hands
together nervously.
"No," he said quickly, "no, I pray you! Not money--thanks are enough!"
The knight looked at him in surprise at first, and then incredulously,
supposing that it was only a first refusal, for the sake of ceremony.
"Indeed," he answered, "it is the Duchess's command that I should
present you with this gift in most grateful acknowledgment of your
service."
"And I beg you, by your knighthood, to thank her Grace with all
possible respect for what I cannot receive." Gilbert's voice grew hard.
"She is not my sovereign, sir, that I should look to her for my support
in this war. It pleased God that I should save a lady's life, but I
shall not take a lady's gold. I mean no discourtesy to her Grace, nor
to you, sir."
Seeing that he was in earnest, the Gascon's expression changed, and a
bright smile came into his sallow face, for he had found a man after
his own heart. He threw the heavy bag toward the soldier, and it fell
chinking to the floor before the man could reach it; and turning to
Gilbert again, he held out his hand with less ceremony and more
cordiality than he had hitherto shown.
"With a little accent," he said, "you might pass for a Gascon."
Gilbert smiled as he shook hands, for it was clear that the knight
meant to bestow upon him the highest compliment he could put into words.
"Sir," answered the Englishman, "I see that we think alike in this
matter. I pray you, let not the Queen be offended by the answer you
shall give her from me; but I shall leave it to your courtesy and skill
to choose such words as you think best, for I am a poor speaker of
compliments."
"The Duchess of Gascony shall think only the better of you when she has
heard me, sir."
Thereupon, with a great gesture and a bow to which Gilbert gravely
responded, the knight took his leave and went to the door; but then,
suddenly forgetting all his manner, and with a genuine impulse, he
turned, came back and seized Gilbert's hand once more.
"A little accent, my friend! If you only had a little accent!"
His wiry figure disappeared through the door a moment later, and
Gilbert was alone. He asked himself whether the Queen had meant to
insult him, and he could not believe it. But presently, as he
remembered all that had happened, it occurred to him that she might be
ashamed of having shown him her heart in a moment of great danger, and
now, as if to cover herself, she meant him to understand that he was
nothing to her but a brave man who ought to be substantially and richly
rewarded for having risked his life on her behalf.
Strangely enough, the thought pleased him now, as much as the brutal
offer of the gold had outraged his honourable feeling. It was far
better, he reflected, that the Queen should act thus and help him to
look upon her as a being altogether beyond his sphere, as she really
was. After this, he thought, it would be impossible and out of the
question that any look or touch of hers could send a thrill through
him, like little rivers of fire, from his head to his heels. The hand
that had been held out to pay him money for its own life, must be as
cold as a stone and as unfeeling. She was helping him to be true.
He shook himself and stretched his long arms as if awaking from sleep
and dreaming. The motion hurt him, and he felt all his bruises at once,
but there was a sort of pleasure in the pain, that accorded with his
strange state of heart, and he did it a second time in order to feel
the pain once more.