staircase led them to the great solar above and at the end of the hall.
From the solar a passage cut in the thickness of the wall linked up my
lord’s state chamber with his closet in one of the towers. It was a
richly garnished room, its hangings of cloth of gold, its floor covered
with skins and velvets. There were books on the table. The open door of
a great oak armoire showed ivory chessmen set ready on a board.
My lord chose one of the window-seats. He liked a stately perch, a noble
view, and his back to the light. The subtler shades did not matter to
Noble Vance; he let fate hang him where it pleased, like a joint of meat
in a butcher’s shop.
“It is wondrous hot for May, sir.”
“The blood is hot in the spring, Vance. Here comes the wine.”
The page served them, and had his orders.
“Stay in the gallery, Walter, and see that we are not disturbed.”
The Forest Warden waited for my lord to raise his cup.
“Your good esteem, sir.”
“I think you hold it, Vance. Do things ever happen in the Forest?”
“But little, sir. You have left no man fit to quarrel with you. But I
have come upon a little business in Gawdy Town.”
“Such places breed fleas—and adventures. What is it, Vance?”
“Young Gilbert Dale and the girl are there.”
“What—those cubs?”
“They came in the ship Rose. The lad is a grown man, and the girl a
fine, black-browed wench. Pimp Odgers spied them out, though they played
the part of strollers.”
“You are sure?”
“I have Odgers here, and another fellow who knew the Dales, and could
swear to the son.”
Roger Bland turned in his seat and looked out over the Forest. It was as
noble a view as a man could desire, a world of green valleys and distant
hills blue on the horizon. The lord of Troy Castle smiled as he sat
there high up in the tower, a sly, cynical smile of self-congratulation.
The Forest lay at his feet; he was its master. Even the thought of the
cruel strength he had shown in taming it pleased him, for, like many men
who lack brute physical courage, he was cleverly and shrewdly cruel.
“How many years, Vance, is it since that day when we smoked the Dales
out of Woodmere?”
“Seven, this June, sir.”
“Old Dale had sent his cubs away. What is the young gadfly doing in
Gawdy Town?”
“Playing the viol and singing songs, with bells in his cap. He goes out
of nights, I hear, but my men say that it is to Petticoat Lane.”
“Many things are hatched in a brothel, Vance. And the girl?”
“Plays the lute and sings. A haughty young madam, they say, with eyes
quick to stab a man.”
“There is no whisper of secret work, no playing for Harry Richmond?”
Vance shook his big head solemnly.
“I keep my nose for that fox,” he said, “but have struck no scent as
yet. What is your pleasure, sir?”
The Lord of Troy continued to gaze out over the Forest.
“Saw you ever anything more peaceful, Master Vance, than yon green
country? It is I who have taught it to be peaceful, and much labor it
gave me. I have cleared it of wolves; I have cowed its broken men. I
choose that it shall remain at peace.”
The warden’s eyes glittered.
“The Dales were ever turbulent, hot-blooded folk. That young man might
give us trouble.”
“Prevent it, Master Warden. You have a way of contriving these things. A
quarrel in some low house, daggers, and a scuffle in the street.”
“My lord, it is as simple as eating pie. My men will manage it. And the
girl?”
“Bring her here, Master Vance. We will question her. It is possible to
learn things from a woman. Moreover, our good king loves a wildfire
jade.”
The Forest Warden finished his wine, and wiped his mouth with his
sleeve.
“By the rope that hanged Judas, sir,” he said, “it is a pleasure to
serve a great man who knows his own mind!”
_Chapter IX_
Mellis and her brother had left Gawdy Town lying behind them on the blue
edge of the sea. The day was very young, and a north wind came over the
marshes about the mouth of the Rondel river, bending the reeds in the
dykes and rousing ripples in the lengthening grass. Mellis was mounted
on a modest nag whose brown coat and sleepy ears were more suited to the
russet cloak she wore than to the brighter colors underneath it. Gilbert
marched at her side. His eyes looked gray in the morning; the north wind
had pinched his courage a little; and he and Mellis were to part for a
while.
“Keep your heart up, sweet sister.”
She looked down at him and smiled. Her eyes were steadier than his, and
more determined, and she was less touched by the north wind. His nature
was more mercurial, more restless, not so patient when life’s adventure
dragged.
“I feel near home, Gilbert. I think I could live in the Forest—like a
wild thing.”
“Woodmere must be all green, and the lilies white on the water. The
house is but a shell, they say.”
Her eyes filled with a great tenderness.
“My heart is there,” she said, sighing.
A flock of sheep passed them, being driven to the river pastures. A
great wood-wain came rumbling along, loaded high with brown fagots.
Mellis’s nostrils dilated, and her eyes shone.
“What a good ship, and what merchandise! I can smell the Forest.”
He laughed, with a note of recklessness.
“Oh the merry, merry life, with the horn and the hound, and the bed
under the greenwood tree. Why did our people wear the wrong color,
sister? Our hearts were red, and the color beggared us.”
“My heart is the color of fire,” she answered him, “and I let it burn
with the thought of vengeance. When will you begin to tell me your
secrets?”
“Very soon, sister. I want no listeners within a mile of us. You see how
discreet I am! Gawdy Town is a pest of a place; even the dogs do their
spying; and there is always the chance of your getting a knife in your
back. That is why I thought it better that you should go.”
“Have you ever found me a coward?”
“Dear heart, you are too brave, and such courage may be dangerous.”
They were leaving the marshes behind them, and the Rondel had taken to
itself glimmering green lines of pollard willows. Little farmsteads
dotted the long northward slope of the hills. Here and there the Forest
showed itself, thrusting a green headland into the cornlands and the
meadows.
Gilbert was on the alert. Presently he pointed to an open beech wood
that spread down close to the road.
“There is our council chamber, Mellis.”
“It should serve.”
“We can tie up the nag and see how my friend the cook has filled your
saddle-bags.”
They turned aside into the beech wood, tethered the horse, and sat down
under a tree. They were hidden from the road; the gray trunks hemmed
them in.
Gilbert was examining the saddle-bags.
“That cook is a brave creature! Good slices of bread with meat in
between. And a bottle of wine. There is enough stuff here to last you
for days. Dear Lord, what trouble I was at to explain my buying of that
sorry old nag!”
He set one of the bags between them.
“Now for dinner and a gossip. There are two words that you must never
utter, Mellis, save when some one challenges you with the question,
‘What of Wales?’”
“And those words?”
“Are ‘Owen Tudor.’ They will win you friends where friends are to be
had, but also they might hang you.”
“Of course.”
“Our plans have not gone so badly. Our king across the water is a shrewd
gentleman. Our business is to stir up a hornets’ nest in these parts;
others will play the same game elsewhere, so that Crooked Dick shall be
stung in a hundred places while Lord Harry is crossing the sea. Roger
Bland is our arch enemy.”
She drew in a deep breath.
“Do I forget it?”
“Tsst!—not too much fire! He is the very devil for cunning. We have got
to hold him in these parts, so worry him that he cannot march and join
the Hunchback when spears will be precious to that king. They will find
a dozen fires alight in every corner of the kingdom, and if our Harry
wins the day, Woodmere will be ours again.”
She uttered a fiercer cry.
“And blood shall pay for blood. Oh, I am no sweet saint, Gilbert. That
man dragged our father at his horse’s heels, and then——”
She broke off as though the words were too bitter to be spoken.
Gilbert’s eyes had hardened.
“God forgive me for feeling merry at times. Well, sister, I stay on in
Gawdy Town, as you know, to wait for news, and to watch for the men who
will come over the sea. Old John Falconer is our watchdog in the Forest.
The Blounts and the Ropers are with us; also a dozen more. We ought to
muster three hundred men when the day comes. The Flemming is a jewel.
His pack mules have smuggled war gear and stores into the Forest. There
are three suits of armor, besides bills and salets and jacks hidden in
our cellar under the south tower. There is a big beam, too, in the
sluice ditch to throw across the gap in the trestle bridge.”
He lay back against the tree, thinking deeply.
“This Father Jude on the Black Moor is a close-mouthed old worthy. He is
a man who asks no questions, and there is money to be made by such
people; a fellow who can mind his own business is worth his wage. There
is not a wilder place in the Forest. You will lodge there in the
pilgrim’s house; the Benedictines of Paradise are bound to feed and
lodge any traveler who passes that way. Besides, Father Jude is one of
us; the man has some bitter grudge against the Lord of Troy.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“And I am a pilgrim.”
“Under a vow.”
“And how shall I serve you, on the top of a moor? It seems foolishness.”
“If a man goes to shrive himself or to pray at a holy place, can folk
quarrel with him? That butcher villain of a Vance has his spies
everywhere. A bird does not fly straight to its nest when a cat is
about.”
“True.”
“And, sister, it would be well if you could steal your way to Woodmere,
and see with your own eyes that things are as old Falconer and the
Flemming say they are. The cellar trap is hidden under a pile of loose
stones; a stout stake through the ring will raise it.”
“I could find my way to Woodmere in the dark.”
“What a wench you are for wandering! You have that money safely? I might
have my purse cut in Gawdy. You must play Jew.”
She put her hand to her bosom.
“It is here.”
They talked awhile of all that was in their hearts and of the great
adventure that lay before them. Mellis was as serious as he was gay; his
flippancy increased as the time slipped by.
“I shall have a tale to spin, oh false woman who passed as my sister! I
am a Jack without a Jill.”
Yet his eyes were sad. A gradual melancholy took hold of him.
“Kiss me, child; we must be parting. Keep a brave heart.”
She kissed him with sudden tenderness.
“God guard you, my brother.”
“Oh, I have a cat’s lives!”
He jumped up and went to unfasten her nag.
“Remember, this good priest will ask no questions. He is a kind soul,
and will swear to any lie, so they tell me. Up with you, sweetheart.”
He strapped on the saddle-bags, helped her to mount, and led her horse
out of the wood. There was not a soul to be seen on the road, and still
he seemed loth to leave her.
“I will go with you a little way.”
She looked at him dearly.
“No, I am brave. And there is no one here to see us part, and to gape
and wonder concerning us.”
“True, oh queen! And so, farewell.”
He tossed his cap at her, laughed, and went off whistling.
And a sudden strange sadness assailed her. She held her horse in and sat
there watching him. He was so gallant, so debonair, this brother of
hers.
And she would never set eyes on him again. No prophetic instinct could
tell her that.
_Chapter X_
Brother Geraint made his way through the dusk to Widow Greensleeve’s
house at Cherry Acre. It was a warm, still night, and the scent of the
white thorn blossom in the hedges hung heavy on the air.
He came to the gate and stood listening. There was no sound to be heard
save the rush of the river through the sluices of the mill.
Geraint pushed the gate open and peered about under the apple trees.
“Good evening to you, holy sir.”
Some one was laughing close to him in the dusk.
“Who’s there?”
“What, not know my voice?”
“It is you?”
“Come and see. Have you forgotten the seat by the hedge?”
He thrust the apple boughs aside, and saw the white kerchief that
covered her shoulders.
“Where is the girl?”
“Saying her prayers somewhere. I have not seen her since noon. She is
touched in the head, and goes wandering for hours together.”
Geraint sat down on the bench beside the dame. He was in a sullen mood,
and very bitter.
“The fool! Send her back to the moor.”
“She swears she will not go.”
“This Martin Valliant is the devil. She could make nothing of him?”
“Why, my good man, it was he who made a Magdalene of her. She came back
crying, ‘He is a saint. There is no man in Paradise fit to lace his
shoes!’”
Geraint cursed under his breath.
“A pest take both of them!”
She rapped his shoulder sharply with her knuckles.
“A word of warning, Dom Geraint. If the man is dangerous, the girl may
prove more so. I tell you he has worked a miracle with her, and women
are strange creatures. She says openly, ‘Some day Martin Valliant will
come down from the moor, and make an end of the wickedness in
Paradise.’”
“She says that!”
“Aye, and dreams of it. I tell you women are strange creatures when love
has its way. She is all for turning anchoress, and praying all day to
St. Martin. For half a cup of milk she would go running through the
valley, screaming the truth. Be very careful, Dom Geraint.”
He leaned forward, glowering and biting his nails.
“We have made a poor throw, dame. And here is that pestilent pedant of
an abbot threatening us with a visitation. We have heard of the storm he
raised at Birchhanger; he trampled on the whole priory there, had one of
the brothers hanged by the judge on circuit. Privilege of clergy,
forsooth! The Church is to be regenerated!”
He rocked to and fro.
“And this Martin Valliant, the very man to play the holy sneak! A pretty
pass indeed! A cub we took in and nurtured!”
The woman touched his sleeve.
“Some men are too good for this world. They are so much in love with the
next world——”
He laughed discordantly.
“That they should be kicked into it! By my bones, there’s truth in that!
It had entered my head, dame. And after all it is but doing a saint a
service to help him to a halo.”
“Tsst—you are too noisy! Have a care.”
They drew closer together on the bench till their heads were nearly
touching.
“Kate is not about?”
“She’ll come back singing a litany. We shall hear her.”
Yet the girl was nearer than either of them dreamed. She had come
wandering silently along the path soon after Geraint had entered the
garden, and their voices had warned her. She was standing on the other
side of the hedge within two yards of the bench, her hands clenched, her
face white and sharp.
She could hear all that they said to each other, and it was sufficient
to make her wise as to what was in Geraint’s heart. She realized how his
brethren at Paradise hated Martin, and how they wished him out of the
way.
Kate heard Geraint stirring at last. There were sounds from the other
side of the hedge, sounds that made her wince. She crept away, step by
step, till a turn of the path hid her from view.
The gate shut with a clatter. She heard the monk give a great yawn, and
then his heavy steps dying away beyond the orchard.
Kate stood very close to the hedge and shivered. Life had so changed for
her; she was horrified at things that she had hardly understood before;
men seemed contemptible creatures. She was thinking of what she had
overheard, and of the treachery that threatened Martin Valliant.
Kate had kept her promise, and the very keeping of it had strengthened
her heart; but that night she was persuaded to break it, nor could her
conscience find fault with her.
There would be a moon in an hour. She crept around to the stable that
stood some way from the house, put a halter on the old gray donkey, and
got the beast out with scarcely a sound. He was as stubborn as any ass
could be in most people’s hands, but he had a liking for humoring Kate.
She led him down the orchard, through the slip gate into the dame’s
meadow, and so away over the open country to the bridge at the mill. No
one saw her cross the river, though the miller nudged his wife when he
heard the donkey’s hoofs on the timber of the bridge.
“Now who would you guess that to be?”
The good wife ran to the window, but saw nothing, since the moon was not
up.
“An ass, by the sound.”
“Two of them, more likely. And supposing it were Kate Succory, where
would she be going?”
“It is best to mind one’s business, John, when we live at the prior’s
mill.”
“Remember it, dame, by all means,” he said, somewhat sullenly, “there is
not an honest man among them now that Martin Valliant is away on the
moor.”
His wife clapped her hands.
“Maybe that ass travels as far as the moor.”
“Get you to bed. A woman’s tongue stirs up too much mire.”
Kate did not trouble her head as to whether anyone had seen her from the
mill. She set the donkey’s nose for the Forest, and helped him with her
heels. Luckily, she knew the way, and soon the moon came over the hill
to help her.
“A blessing on you, Master Moon,” she said quite solemnly, looking over
the donkey’s tail.
The clock at Paradise was striking midnight when Kate saw the Black Moor
lying dim and mysterious under the moon. More than once she had been
shrewdly frightened in the deeps of the woods; but old Jock was the most
stolid of mokes, and the beast’s steadiness had comforted her. She had
stretched herself on his back, her arms about his neck, her face close
to his flopping ears, and had talked to him.
“Who’s afraid, Jock? I can say a Mater Maria and a Pater. Besides, we
are on a good errand, and the saints will watch over us.”
Jock, by his silence, most heartily agreed with her.
“Dom Geraint is a treacherous villain. The lean, black rat! Some day
Abbot Hilary will send for Martin Valliant and will make him prior.”
She sat up straight on Jock’s back as the donkey climbed the moor. The
place had a magic for her. She could imagine all sorts of miraculous
things happening where Martin Valliant lived.
“Assuredly he will be a very great saint,” she said to herself, “and
people will come to him to be healed.”
Presently she saw the cross standing out against the sky, and it stirred
her almost to passionate tears. She slipped off Jock’s back, fastened
him to a stunted thorn, and went on alone.
Everything was very still. In the far south the sea glimmered under the
moon. Kate went forward with a strange, exultant awe in her heart.
Martin would pardon her for breaking her promise when he knew why she
had come.
The buildings were black and solemn, though a faint ray of light shone
from the window of the chapel. It was the vigil of St. Florence, and
Martin had left two candles burning on the altar while he slept for an
hour.
Kate looked into the chapel and found it empty. She knelt on the
threshold, put her hands together, and said a prayer.
Martin Valliant was sound asleep in his cell, but he awoke to the sound
of some one knocking. He sat up on his pallet, and listened.
“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant!”
He knew her voice, and for a moment he would not answer her.
“Martin Valliant, be not angry with me. I am not breaking my vow to you;
no, not in the spirit. I have come to warn you.”
“Child, what mean you?”
“Beware of Brother Geraint, beware of the monks of Paradise. They go
about to do you a great wrong.”
He rose to his knees.
“How should you know?”
“Listen. I speak what is true.”
She told him of the things she had heard Geraint whisper in the garden.
“They are evil men, and mean treachery toward you. I could not rest,
Martin Valliant, because you are a good man, and taught me to see the
Christ.”
There was silence.
Then she said, “Pray for me, Martin Valliant,” and was gone.
Martin rose up and opened the door of the cell, but she was out of sight
over the edge of the moor.
He stood there a long while, rigid, wide-eyed, a young man amazed that
older men should be so base.
_Chapter XI_
Mellis Dale had passed the night sleeping under a thorn tree in
Bracknell Wood, with a pile of last year’s bracken for a bed. The thorn
tree had stood as a green and white pavilion, and there was a forest
pool among the birch trees of Bracknell that had served her both as a
labrum and a mirror. She broke her fast to the sound of the singing of
the woodlarks, and with the sunlight playing through the delicate
tracery of the birches. Her brown nag was cropping the wet grass in a
little clearing where she had tethered him.
Mellis’s eyes were full of a quiet tenderness that morning. She was a
Forest child, and its sounds and scents and colors were very familiar
and very dear. She was as forest-wise as any ranger or woodman, and was
as much part of its life as the birds or the deer or the mysterious
woodland streams and the brown pools where the dead leaves lay buried. A
great content possessed her. She had no fear of the wild life or of a
bed under the stars.
The sun had been up some hours before she saddled her nag and rode
forward through Bracknell Deep. She knew all the ways, though Woodmere
lay three leagues to the north-west, and the Black Moor two leagues to
the east of it. She felt no need of hurrying. The deep woods delighted
her; her dark eyes seemed to fill with their mystery; their silence
soothed her heart. Life was a great adventure, a game of hide-and-seek
in a garden where every path and nook and thicket were unknown. She was
strong and comely and full of the pride of her youth; her breath was
sweet, her black hair fell to her knees, her lips were as red as the
berries on a briar.
Martin Valliant was hoeing weeds in Father Jude’s garden when Mellis
rode her brown nag up the southern slope of the Black Moor. There was no
life in Martin’s labor; his eyes had a dull look as though some pain
gnawed at his vitals. His heart had discovered a new bitterness in life,
for the words that Kate Succory had spoken to him in the night kept up a
tumult in his brain. He had begun to understand many things that had
seemed obscure and meaningless. He even realized why he was hoeing weeds
on the top of a lonely moor. The very men whose life he had shared were
filled with malice against him, and, like Joseph’s brethren, were trying
to sell him into bondage.
He heard the tramp of Mellis’s horse, and his new-born mistrust stood on
the alert.
“Why should I fear anything that walks the earth,” he thought, “man,
woman, or beast? They are but creatures of flesh.”
And then he discovered himself standing straight as a young ash tree,
resting his hands on the top of the handle of the hoe, and staring over
the hedge into a woman’s eyes. He could see her head, shoulders and
bosom; the green hedge hid the rest of her. But if Martin had dared to
scoff at Dame Nature, that good lady was quick and vigorous with her
retort. She showed him this girl, black-haired, red-lipped, flushed with
riding, sitting her horse with a certain haughtiness, her head held
high, her white throat showing proudly.
“You are Father Jude?”
Martin could have stammered with a sudden, wondering awe of her. Her
eyes were fixed on him questioningly, and with an intentness that
heralded an incipient frown.
“Father Jude is no longer here.”
“Not here!”
“He lies sick at Paradise.”
The frown showed now on her forehead. Her eyes lifted and gazed beyond
him, and Martin Valliant had never seen such eyes before. His mistrust
of her had vanished, he knew not why. Paradise had no knowledge of such
a creature as this. She had ridden out of the heart of a mystery, and
her face was the face of June.
“Fools!”
She was angry, perplexed. And then she smiled down at Martin with quick
subtlety.
“Your pardon, father.”
She smiled whole-heartedly as she took stock of his youth.
“What am I saying! I have a vow of silence upon me, save that I may
speak to such as you. I am a pilgrim. I had a fellow-pilgrim with me,
but she fell sick at Burchester, and I rode on alone. Father Jude’s name
was put in my mouth by the prioress of Burchester. Is there not a
pilgrim’s rest-house here?”
Martin Valliant was still full of his wonder at her beauty.
“Assuredly. This is the chapelry of St. Florence. The good saint so
willed it that all who passed this way should have food and lodging.”
Her face had changed its expression. She showed a sudden reticence, a
cold pride.
“St. Florence has my thanks. Will you send your servant to take my
horse?”
He gaped at her, as though overcome by the thought that this creature of
mystery was to move and breathe in the guest-house next his cell.
He tried to save his dignity by taking refuge in sententiousness.
“I am the servant of St. Florence and of all those who tarry here.”
She glanced at him guardedly, and seemed to realize his unworldliness.
“I shall be no great burden. A stall for the horse and a roof for my own
head. I can look to my own horse, if you will show me the stable.”