"Cousin Yolande, will you give me yours?"
"Well, now, I _am_ highly favoured. And you really would not rather
have that of Mistress Bremskete, or the fair Mistress Susan Gander?"
But Ralph was not good at raillery, he was far too much in earnest to
enter into a joke, and Yolande saw the shafts of her wit would only fall
flat or be misunderstood.
"But, cousin Ralph, I have promised my favour elsewhere."
Ralph looked at her with bitter disappointment.
"'Tis true 'tis as well to have two strings to one's bow, and why you
did not say so I don't know, for I might never have thought of it
myself, and so you might have lost a very good chance. Well, what do
you say; shall I give you one as well?"
"But, Yolande, may a lady have two knights in the same tourney?"
"Why, marry, yea! At least I see no reason why not. One can have them
everywhere else. Let us ask the Captain."
Lord Woodville had been riding on lost in abstraction. They had left
Godshill on their right. They were now skirting the high hills, the
outlying spurs of Week Down. Hearing his name mentioned, the Captain of
the Wight turned round; as he did so, he caught sight of a figure, and
instantly his face became as pale as death, and then flushed up with
angry fire.
The quick eyes of Yolande did not fail to detect the change. Her eyes
glanced in the direction of Lord Woodville. She saw a man in a common
dress standing by the side of an old thorn bush.
"'Tis only a hind belonging to the Priory of Appuldurcombe. I marvel
what hath come to the Captain," she murmured.
The man had been standing watching the little calvacade approach, but as
it drew nearer he stepped back on to a more rugged piece of ground at
the foot of the steep hill behind, and which was difficult for horses,
being all broken and covered with gorse.
Lord Woodville rode forward, motioning to the others to remain behind.
Ralph could not help thinking he had seen that figure before. Where had
he seen it?--he could not recollect.
"Marry, Ralph, 'tis a bold hind; see how he scowls on the Captain. By
St Bride, he hath broad shoulders, and bears himself as if of gentle
blood. I would give a good deal to know what the Captain is saying to
him. I shall ride nearer."
But the Captain of the Wight heard the steps of her horse; he looked
back with a stern glance, and said gravely,--
"Mistress Lisle, under your leave, I would say a few words alone."
There was no help for it; with a pettish air, but not at all
disconcerted, Yolande said her nag wanted to browse on that sweet bit of
grass there, and returned to Ralph.
After the interchange of a few words, the Captain rejoined the others,
and the man disappeared into the tall furze behind the old thorn bush.
"We've lost our heronshaw," said Mistress Yolande, pouting.
"Nay, the varlets will bring the quarry in," said the Captain. "But
what building have we here."
"'Tis the nunnery of Appuldurcombe," said Yolande. "Marry, I am sore
athirst. Prythee, let us go there, and ask the kind sister for a
draught of ale or hippocras."
"Right gladly, fair mistress," said Lord Woodville, and they cantered
over the smooth turf towards the grey stone wall which surrounded the
picturesque roofs and gables of the old Priory of Appuldurcombe, now a
cell of the convent of the order of Saint Clare, without Aldgate, in the
City of London. As they rode up, the chapel bell was tolling to
vespers.
"Marry, 'tis later than I thought," said Yolande.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*HOW THE COCKEREL FELT HE WAS BUT A COCKEREL.*
The old Priory of Appuldurcombe was situated in a most lovely spot,
nestling in thick woods whose brown and russet foliage climbed the steep
sides of the lofty downs surrounding it; the high-pitched gable of the
little chapel, and the quaintly-grouped pile of grey buildings, looked
serene and peaceful in that sequestered nook amid the ever-lasting
hills.
Originally granted by the piety of stout Earl Richard de Redvers to his
new foundation of Montsburg in Normandy, it was used as a cell for a
prior and two monks to look after their farms of Appuldurcombe,
Sandford, and Week. But, sharing the fate of other alien foundations,
it was taken from them by Henry IV. and granted to the nuns of St Clare,
without Aldgate, who eventually obtained a grant of it from the
Monastery of Montsburg, and so possessed it until the dissolution of the
monasteries.
The Convent of St Clare, without Aldgate, at this time was accustomed to
send two sisters and a prioress to look after their interests, and used
the cell as a place of peaceful resort and change of air from London.
The sisters could walk in these retired woods and sheltered groves
without fear of observation or molestation, and were much beloved by the
labourers on the farms belonging to the Nunnery. It is quite evident
from Chaucer that the nuns did not always observe the strictest
seclusion, even in the Metropolis; and how well some at least of them
were versed in the pleasures and technicalities of field sports is
abundantly clear in the works of Dame Juliana Berners, popularly
supposed to have been Prioress of Sopewell, near St Albans.
As the Captain of the Wight rode up with Yolande and Ralph, the chapel
bell ceased.
"We will wait till their orisons be over," said Lord Woodville.
They had now leisure to look round, and even the matter-of-fact Ralph
and high-spirited Yolande were impressed with the still loveliness of
the scene. The blue smoke from the conventual kitchen and labourers'
cottages curled into the quiet air, and floated away amid the rich brown
leaves of the autumnal wood. The grass, green and soft, like velvet to
the tread, showed the fertility of the soil, and the lowing of the cows,
which were being driven from their pasture, added a pastoral melody to
the sylvan scene.
An old woman and a young girl came out of a small door pierced in the
high stone wall which surrounded the little settlement, and hid the
lower storey from outward observation.
"What a pretty child!" said Yolande, with generous admiration. "Did you
ever see such eyes?"
Ralph looked as he was told, but, boy like, paid little attention to the
looks of a girl evidently younger than himself. Besides, in comparison
with the brilliant Yolande, whose every movement was grace, and every
word fascination, how could he admire aught else? And was not Yolande,
in addition, at least four years older than himself?
The soft eyes of the girl, however, seemed to recognise Ralph. She gave
him a shy little nod of welcome and acknowledgment.
"Why, my cousin, she knoweth thee!" said Yolande. "Who is she?"
"Nay, I know not," said Ralph, not quite pleased at being nodded to in
that familiar way by so poorly clad a little girl.
"Good mother," said the Captain of the Wight, "wilt thou ask the Lady
Prioress if she will grant this fair lady a draught of ale or
hippocras?"
The old woman only shook her head, but the girl glanced up at the
Captain's face, and then said,--
"Noble sir, Gammer Audrey is deaf. I will run in and ask Sister Agnes,"
and the child drew her hand out of that of the old woman, and
disappeared through the door.
"'Tis strange!" muttered the Lord Woodville; "her eyes are wondrous
like, and the voice--old memories are stirring, methinks, to-day."
In a few minutes the figure of a nun carrying a tray on which were a
flagon and some pewter cups, appeared at the narrow door, followed by
the girl, bearing a dish with a few apples piled upon it.
The nun had hardly passed out of the door when she gave a little
stagger, and nearly dropped the things she was carrying. Recovering
herself with an effort, she approached Yolande.
"My faith, my Lord Woodville, if the girl were lovely, what think you of
the sister?" said Yolande.
Lord Woodville looked at the nun, as she approached, and became deadly
pale.
"How could it be!" he murmured. "I heard she was dead!"
"Well," observed Yolande, "of all strange things, this is the most
parlous bewildering! Who'd have thought the unmoved Lord Woodville
could be so passing stirred twice in the same hour?"
The nun poured out the hippocras, and offered it to Yolande, who took it
from the fair hand of the draped and veiled figure, with the curiosity
and awe which all women feel when brought face to face with one of their
own sex who is utterly dead to the world. The air of mystery, romance,
and sanctity which surround the convent life was not then probably so
powerful as now. Then, the nuns lived more openly, and were a part of
the everyday life of society. But to Yolande, with her strong love of
life, its amusements, its follies, and its excitement, it seemed like
being confronted with death to look at that pale face, downcast eyes,
and shrouded figure.
[Illustration: THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE.]
The nun's face was strikingly beautiful. Her features were very
straight, with splendid eyebrows, and a sweet mouth, whose full lips
were rendered almost more attractive by the little droop at each corner
producing a soft dimple in the rounded cheek. The long lashes lay like
a fringe over her magnificent dark hazel eyes, and as she stood, quite
impassive and expressionless, only deadly pale, Yolande felt drawn
towards her as she had never felt drawn to any woman before.
The Captain of the Wight kept his eyes fixed on the sweet face.
"Pious lady," he said, "we are greatly indebted to thee for thy
hospitable courtesy. Hast thou been in these parts long?"
Obliged to answer, the nun, still keeping her eyes, however, steadily on
the ground, said, in a low, deep melodious voice,--
"Noble sir, Sister Ursula and I came hither but three months since."
"Holy saints!" muttered the Captain, "'tis her very voice!"