THE LOVE PHILTRE
So it came about that on the morrow Eve and Sir Andrew, accompanied only
by a single serving man, fearing no guile since it seemed certain that
the Frenchmen were so far away, rode across the moor to Blythburgh. At
the manor-house they found the drawbridge up. The watchman at the gate
said also that his orders were to admit none, for the Frenchmen being
gone, there were but few to guard the place.
“What, good fellow,” asked Eve, “not even the daughter of the house who
has heard that her father lies so sick?”
“Ay, he lies sick, lady,” the man replied, “but such are his orders. Yet
if you will bide here a while, I’ll go and learn his mind.”
So he went and returned presently, saying that Sir John commanded that
his daughter was to be admitted, but that if Sir Andrew attempted to
enter he should be driven back by force.
“Will you go in or will you return with me?” asked her companion of Eve.
“God’s truth!” she answered, “am I one to run away from my father,
however bad his humour? I’ll go in and set my case before him, for
after all he loves me in his own fashion and when he understands will, I
think, relent.”
“Your heart is your best guide, daughter, and it would be an ill task
for me to stand between sire and child. Enter then, for I am sure that
the Saints and your own innocence will protect you from all harm. At the
worst you can come or send to me for help.”
So they parted, and the bridge having been lowered, Eve walked boldly
to her father’s sleeping chamber, where she was told he lay. As she
approached the door she met several of the household leaving it with
scared faces, who scarcely stayed to salute her. Among these were two
servants of her dead brother John, men whom she had never liked, and a
woman, the wife of one of them, whom she liked least of all.
Pushing open the door, which was shut behind her, she advanced toward
Sir John, who was not, as she had thought, in bed, but clad in a furred
robe and standing by the hearth, on which burnt a fire. He watched her
come, but said no word, and the look of him frightened her somewhat.
“Father,” she said, “I heard that you were sick and alone----”
“Ay,” he broke in, “sick, very sick here,” and he laid his hand upon his
heart, “where grief strikes a man. Alone, too, since you and your fellow
have done my only son to death, murdered my guests, and caused them to
depart from so bloody a house.”
Now Eve, who had come expecting to find her father at the point of death
and was prepared to plead with him, at these violent words took fire as
was her nature.
“You know well that you speak what is not true,” she said. “You and your
Frenchmen strove to burn us out of Middle Marsh; my brother John struck
Hugh de Cressi as though he were a dog and used words toward him that
no knave would bear, let alone one better born than we are. Moreover,
afterward once he spared his life, and Grey Dick, standing alone against
a crowd, did but use his skill to save us. Is it murder, then to protect
our honour and to save ourselves from death? And am I wrong to refuse to
marry a fine French knave when I chance to love an honest man?”
“And, pray, am I your father, girl, that you dare to scold at me thus?”
shouted Sir John, growing purple with wrath. “If I choose a husband for
you, by what right do you refuse him, saying that you love a Dunwich
shop-boy? Down on your knees and beg my pardon, or you shall have the
whipping you have earned.”
Now Eve’s black eyes glittered dangerously.
“Ill would it go with any man who dared to lay a hand upon me,” she
said, drawing herself up and grasping the dagger in her girdle. “Yes,
very ill, even though he were my own father. Look at me and say am I one
to threaten? Ay, and before you answer bear in mind that there are those
at my call who can strike hard, and that among them I think you’ll find
the King of England.”
She paused.
“What hellish plot is this that you hatch against me?” asked Sir John,
with some note of doubt in his voice. “What have I to fear from my liege
lord, the King of England?”
“Only, sir, that you consort with and would wed me to one who, although
you may not know it, has, I am told, much to fear from him, so much that
I wonder that he has ridden to seek his Grace’s presence. Well, you are
ill and I am angered and together we are but as steel and flint, from
the meeting of which comes fire that may burn us both. Therefore, since
being better than I thought, you need me not and have only cruel words
for greeting, I’ll bid you farewell and get me back to those who are
kindlier. God be with you, and give you your health again.”
“Ah!” said or rather snarled Sir John, “I thought as much and am ready
for the trick. You’d win back to sanctuary, would you, and the company
of that old wizard, Andrew Arnold, thence to make a mock of me? Well,
not one step do you take upon that road while I live,” and pushing past
her he opened the door and shouted aloud.
Apparently the men and woman whom Eve had met in the passage were still
waiting there, for instantly they all reappeared.
“Now, fellows,” said Sir John, “and you, Jane Mell, take this rebellious
girl of mine to the chamber in the prisoners’ tower, whence I think
she’ll find it hard to fly to sanctuary. There lock her fast, feeding
her with the bread and water of affliction to tame her proud spirit, and
suffering none to go near her save this woman, Jane Mell. Stay, give
me that bodkin which she wears lest she, who has learned bloody ways of
late, should do some of you or herself a mischief.”
As he spoke one of the men deftly snatched the dagger from Eve’s girdle
and handed it to Sir John who threw it into the farthest corner of the
room. Then he turned and said:
“Now, girl, will you go, or must you be dragged?”
She raised her head slowly and looked him in the eyes. Mad as he was
with passion there was something in her face that frightened him.
“Can you be my father?” she said in a strained, quiet voice. “Oh! glad
am I that my mother did not live to see this hour.”
Then she wheeled round and addressed the men.
“Hearken, fellows. He who lays a finger on me, dies. Soon or late
assuredly he dies as he would not wish to die. Yes, even if you murder
me, for I have friends who will learn the truth and pay back coin for
coin with interest a hundredfold. Now I’ll go. Stand clear, knaves,
and pray to God that never again may Red Eve cross the threshold of
her prison. Pray also that never again may you look on Hugh de Cressi’s
sword or hear Grey Dick’s arrows sing, or face the curse of old Sir
Andrew.”
So proud and commanding was her mien and so terrible the import of her
words, that these rough hinds shrank away from her and the woman hid her
face in her hands. But Sir John thundered threats and oaths at them, so
that slowly and unwillingly they ringed Eve round. Then with head held
high she walked thence in the midst of them.
The prisoners’ chamber beneath the leads of the lofty tower was cold and
unfurnished save for a stool and a truckle-bed. It had a great door of
oak locked and barred on the outer side, with a grille in it through
which the poor wretch within could be observed. There was no window,
only high up beneath the ceiling were slits like loopholes that not a
child could have passed. Such was the place to which Eve was led.
Here they left her. At nightfall the door was opened and Jane Mell
entered, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug of water, which she set down
upon the floor.
“Would you aught else?” she asked.
“Ay, woman,” answered Eve, “my thick red woollen cloak from my chamber,
and hood to match. Also water to wash me, for this place is cold and
foul, and I would die warm and clean.”
“First I must get leave from my lord your father,” said the woman in a
surly voice.
“Get it then and be swift,” said Eve, “or leave it ungotten; I care
little.”
Mell went and within half an hour returned with the garments, the water
and some other things. Setting them down without a word she departed,
locking and bolting the door behind her.
While there remained a few rays of light to see by, Eve ate and drank
heartily, for she needed food. Then having prayed according to her
custom, she laid herself down and slept as a child sleeps, for she was
very strong of will and one who had always taught herself to make the
best of evil fortune. When she woke the daws were cawing around the
tower and the sun shone through the loopholes. She rose refreshed and
ate the remainder of her bread, then combed her hair and dressed herself
as best she could.
Two or three hours later the door was opened and her father entered.
Glancing at him she saw that little sleep had visited him that night,
for he looked old and very weary, so weary that she motioned to him
to sit upon the stool. This he did, breathing heavily and muttering
something about the steepness of the tower stairs. Presently he spoke.
“Eve,” he said, “is your proud spirit broken yet?”
“No,” she answered, “nor ever will be, living or dead! You may kill my
body, but my spirit is me, and that you will never kill. As God gave it
so I will return it to Him again.”
He stared at her, with something of wonder and more of admiration in his
look.
“Christ’s truth,” he said, “how proud I could be of you, if only you’d
let me! I deem your courage comes from your mother, but she never had
your shape and beauty. And now you are the only one left, and you hate
me with all your proud heart, you, the heiress of the Claverings!”
“Whose estate is this,” she answered, pointing to the bare stone walls.
“Think you, my father, that such treatment as I have met with at your
hands of late would breed love in the humblest heart? What devil drives
you on to deal with me as you have done?”
“No devil, girl, but a desire for your own good, and,” he added with a
burst of truth, “for the greatness of my House after I am gone, which
will be soon. For your old wizard spoke rightly when he said that I
stand near to death.”
“Will marrying me to a man I hate be for my good and make your House
great? I tell you, sir, it would kill me and bring the Claverings to
an end. Do you desire also that your broad lands should go to patch a
spendthrift Frenchman’s cloak? But what matters your desire seeing that
I’ll not do it, who love another man worth a score of him; one, too, who
will sit higher than any Count of Noyon ever stood.”
“Pish!” he said. “‘Tis but a girl’s whim. You speak folly, being young
and headstrong. Now, to have done with all this mummer’s talk, will you
swear to me by our Saviour and on the welfare of your soul to break with
Hugh de Cressi once and forever? For if so I’ll let you free, to leave
me if you will, and dwell where it pleases you.”
She opened her lips to answer, but he held up his hand, saying:
“Wait ere you speak, I have not done. If you take my offer I’ll not even
press Sir Edmund Acour on you; that matter shall stand the chance of
time and tide. Only while you live you must have no more to do with the
man who slew your brother. Now will you swear?”
“Not I,” she answered. “How can I who but a few days ago before God’s
altar and His priest vowed myself to this same Hugh de Cressi for all
his life?”
Sir John rose from the stool and walked, or, rather, tottered to the
door.
“Then stay here till you rot,” he said quite quietly, “for I’ll give
you no burial. As for this Hugh, I would have spared him, but you have
signed his death-warrant.”
He was gone. The heavy door shut, the bars clanged into their sockets.
Thus these two parted, for when they met once more no word passed
between them; and although she knew not how these things would end, Eve
felt that parting to be dreadful. Turning her face to the wall, for a
while she wept, then, when the woman Mell came with her bread and water,
wiped away her tears and faced her calmly. After all, she could have
answered no otherwise; her soul was pure of sin, and, for the rest, God
must rule it. At least she would die clean and honest.
That night she was wakened from her sleep by the clatter of horses’
hoofs on the courtyard stones. She could hear no more because a wind
blew that drowned all sound of voices. For a while a wild hope had
filled her that Hugh had come, or perchance Sir Andrew, with the Dunwich
folk, but presently she remembered that this was foolish, since these
would never have been admitted within the moat. So sighing sadly she
turned to rest again, thinking to herself that doubtless her father had
called in some of his vassal tenants from the outlying lands to guard
the manor in case it should be attacked.
Next morning the woman Jane Mell brought her better garments to wear,
of her best indeed, and, though she wondered why they were sent, for the
lack of anything else to do she arrayed herself in them, and braided
her hair with the help of a silver mirror that was among the garments. A
little later this woman appeared again, bearing not bread and water, but
good food and a cup of wine. The food she ate with thankfulness, but the
wine she would not drink, because she knew that it was French and had
heard Acour praise it.
The morning wore away to noon, and again the door opened and there stood
before her--Sir Edmund Acour himself, gallantly dressed, as she noticed
vaguely, in close-fitting tunic of velvet, long shoes that turned up
at the toes and a cap in which was set a single nodding plume. She rose
from her stool and set her back against the wall with a prayer to God in
her heart, but no word upon her lips, for she felt that her best refuge
was silence. He drew the cap from his head, and began to speak.
“Lady,” he said, “you will wonder to see me here after my letter to you,
bidding you farewell, but you will remember that in this letter I wrote
that Fate might bring us together again, and it has done so through no
fault or wish of mine. The truth is that when I was near to London
I heard that danger awaited me there on account of certain false
accusations, such danger that I must return again to Suffolk and seek
a ship at some eastern port. Well, I came here last night, and learned
that you were back out of sanctuary and also that you had quarrelled
with your father who in his anger had imprisoned you in this poor place.
An ill deed, as I think, but in truth he is so distraught with grief and
racked with sickness that he scarce knows what he does.”
Now he paused, but as Eve made no answer went on:
“Pity for your lot, yes, and my love for you that eats my heart out,
caused me to seek your father’s leave to visit you and see if perchance
I could not soften your wrath against me.”
Again he paused and again there was no answer.
“Moreover,” he added, “I have news for you which I fear you will think
sad and which, believe me, I pray you, it pains me to give, though the
man was my rival and my enemy. Hugh de Cressi, to whom you held yourself
affianced, is dead.”
She quivered a little at the words, but still made no answer, for her
will was very strong.
“I had the story,” he continued, “from two of his own men, whom we met
flying back to Dunwich from London. It seems that messengers from your
father reached the Court of the King before this Hugh, telling him of
the slaying in Blythburgh Marsh. Then came Hugh himself, whereon the
King seized him and his henchman, the archer, and at once put them
on their trial as the murderers of John Clavering, of my knights, and
Thomas of Kessland, which they admitted boldly. Thereon his Grace, who
was beside himself with rage, said that in a time of war, when every man
was needed to fight the French, he was determined by a signal example
to put a stop to the shedding of blood in these private feuds. So he
ordered the merchant to the block, and his henchman, the archer, to
the gallows, giving them but one hour to make their peace with God.
Moreover,” he went on, searching her cold impassive face with his eyes,
“I did not escape his wrath, for he gave command that I was to be seized
wherever I might be found and cast into prison till I could be put
upon my trial, and my knights with me. Of your father’s case he is
considering since his only son has been slain and he holds him in
regard. Therefore it is that I am obliged to avoid London and take
refuge here.”
Still Eve remained silent, and in his heart Acour cursed her
stubbornness.
“Lady,” he proceeded, though with somewhat less assurance--for now he
must leave lies and get to pleading, and never did a suit seem more
hopeless, “these things being so through no fault of mine whose hands
are innocent of any share in this young man’s end, I come to pray of
you, the sword of death having cut all your oaths, that you will have
pity on my love and take me as your husband, as is your father’s wish
and my heart’s desire. Let not your young life be swallowed up in grief,
but make it joyous in my company. I can give you greatness, I can give
you wealth, but most of all I can give you such tender adoration as
never woman had before. Oh! sweet Eve, your answer,” and he cast himself
upon the ground before her, and, snatching the hem of her robe, pressed
it to his lips.
Then at length Eve spoke in a voice that rang like steel:
“Get you gone, knave, whose spurs should be hacked from your heels by
scullions. Get you gone, traitor and liar, for well I know that Hugh de
Cressi is not dead, who had a certain tale to tell of you to the King of
England. Get you back to the Duke of Normandy and there ask the price of
your betrayal of your liege lord, Edward, and show him the plans of our
eastern coast and the shores where his army may land in safety.”
Acour sprang to his feet and his face went white as ashes. Thrice he
strove to speak but could not. Then with a curse he turned and left the
chamber.
“The hunt’s up,” said Father Nicholas when he had heard all this tale
a little later, “and now, lord, I think that you had better away to
France, unless you desire to stop without companions in the church
yonder.”
“Ay, priest, I’ll away, but by God’s blood, I’ll take that Red Eve with
me! For one thing she knows too much to leave her behind. For a second
I mean to pay her back, and for a third, although you may think it
strange, I’m mad for her. I tell you she looked wondrous standing with
her back against that wall, her marble face never wincing when I told
her all the lie about young de Cressi’s death--which will be holy truth
when I get a chance at him--watching me out of those great, dark eyes of
hers.”
“Doubtless, lord, but how did she look when she called you knave and
traitor? I think you said those were her wicked words. Oh!” he added
with a ring of earnestness in his smooth voice, “let this Red Eve be. At
bed or board she’s no mate for you. Something fights at her side, be it
angel or devil, or just raw chance. At the least she’ll prove your ruin
unless you let her be.”
“Then I’ll be ruined, Nicholas, for I’ll not leave her, for a while, at
any rate. What! de Noyon, whom they call Danger of Dames, beaten by a
country girl who has never seen London or Paris! I’d sooner die.”
“As well may chance if the country lad and the country archer come back
with Edward’s warrant in their pouch,” answered the priest, shrugging
his lean shoulders. “Well, lord, what is your plan?”
“To carry her off. Can’t we manage nine stone of womanhood between us?”
“If she were dead it might be done, though hardly--over these Suffolk
roads. But being very much alive with a voice to scream with, hands to
fight with, a brain to think with and friends who know her from here to
Yarmouth, or to Hull, and Monsieur Grey Dick’s arrows pricking us behind
perchance--well, I don’t know.”
“Friend,” said Acour, tapping him on the shoulder meaningly, “there must
be some way; there are always ways, and I pray you to hunt them out.
Come, find me one, or stay here alone to explain affairs, first to this
Dick whom you have so much upon the brain, and afterward to Edward of
England or his officers.”
Father Nicholas looked at the great Count’s face. Then he looked at the
ground, and, having studied it a while without result, turned his beady
eyes to the heavens, where it would seem that he found inspiration.
“I am a stranger to love, thank the Saints,” he said, “but, as you know,
lord, I am a master leech, and amongst other things have studied certain
medicines which breed that passion in the human animal.”
“Love philtres?” queried Acour doubtfully.
“Yes, that kind of thing. One dose, and those who hate become enamoured,
and those who are enamoured hate.”
“Then in God’s or Satan’s name, give her one. Only be careful it is the
right sort, for if you made a mistake so that she hated me any more than
she does at present, I know not what would happen. Also if you kill her
I’ll dig a sword point through you. How would the stuff work?”
“She’ll seem somewhat stupid for a while, perhaps not speak, but only
smile kindly. That will last twelve hours or so, plenty of time for you
to be married, and afterward, when the grosser part of the potion passes
off leaving only its divine essence, why, afterward she’ll love you
furiously.”
“A powerful medicine, truly, that can change the nature of woman.
Moreover, I’d rather that she loved me--well, as happy brides do. Still
I put up with the fury provided it be of the good kind. And now how is
it to be done?”
“Leave that to me, lord,” said Nicholas, with a cunning smile. “Give me
a purse of gold, not less than ten pieces, for some is needed to melt in
the mixture, and more to bribe that woman and others. For the rest, hold
yourself ready to become a husband before sunset to-morrow. Go see Sir
John and tell him that the lady softens. Send men on to King’s Lynn also
to bid them have our ship prepared to sail the minute we appear, which
with good fortune should be within forty-eight hours from now. Above
all, forget not that I run great risk to soul and body for your sake and
that there are abbeys vacant in Normandy. Now, farewell, I must to my
work, for this medicine takes much skill such as no other leech has save
myself. Ay, and much prayer also, that naught may hinder its powerful
working.”
“Prayer to the devil, I think,” said his master looking after him with
a shrug of his shoulders. “God’s truth! if any one had told me three
months gone that de Noyon would live to seek the aid of priests and
potions to win a woman’s favour, I’d have named him liar to his face.
What would those who have gone before her think of this story, I
wonder?”
Then with a bitter laugh he turned and went about his business, which
was to lie to the father as he had lied to the daughter. Only in this
second case he found one more willing to listen and easier to deceive.
On the following morning, as it chanced, Eve had no relish for the food
that was brought to her, for confinement in that narrow place had robbed
her of her appetite. Also she had suffered much from grievous fear and
doubt, for whatever she might say to Acour, how could she be sure that
his story was not true? How could she be sure that her lover did not, in
fact, now lie dead at the headsman’s hands? Such things often happened
when kings were wroth and would not listen. Or perhaps Acour himself
had found and murdered him, or hired others to do the deed. She did
not know, and, imprisoned here without a friend, what means had she of
coming at the truth? Oh! if only she could escape! If only she could
speak with Sir Andrew for one brief minute, she, poor fool, who had
walked into this trap of her own will.
She sent away the food and bade the woman Mell bring her milk, for that
would be easy to swallow and give her sustenance. After some hours it
came, Mell explaining that she had been obliged to send for it to the
farmsteading, as none drank milk in the manor-house. Being thirsty, Eve
took the pitcher and drained it to the last drop, then threw it down,
saying that the vessel was foul and made the milk taste ill.
The woman did not answer, only smiled a little as she left the chamber,
and Eve wondered why she smiled.
A while later she grew very sleepy, and, as it seemed to her, had
strange dreams in her sleep. She dreamed of her childhood, when she and
Hugh played together upon the Dunwich shore. She dreamed of her mother,
and thought dimly that she was warning her of something. She heard
voices about her and thought that they were calling her to be free. Yes,
and followed them readily enough, or so it seemed in her dream, followed
them out of that hateful prison, for the bolts clanged behind her, down
stairs and into the courtyard, where the sun’s light almost blinded her
and the fresh air struck her hot brow like ice. Then there were more
voices, and people moving to and fro and the drone of a priest praying
and a touch upon her hand from which she shrank. And oh! she wished that
dream were done, for it was long, long. It wearied her, and grasped her
heart with a cold clutch of fear.