The little red spider of a man who pattered along beside Gaillard’s
horse, looked up from time to time into the Gascon’s face, and thought
what a great pageant life must be to a soldier who had such a body and
so much pay. For the little red spider was a cripple, and nothing more
glorious than a spy, a thing that crawled like a harvest bug, and might
have been squashed without ceremony under the Gascon’s fist. As for
Gaillard he was a very great man, cock and captain of Count Peter’s
chickens, those most meek birds who scratched up obstinate worms, and
kept their lord’s land clean of grubs.
They were marching back to Pevensey, bows and spears, along the flat
road over the marshes, with the downs in the west a dull green against
the April sky. Waleran de Monceaux had been chastened in proper fashion,
a chastening that might calm the turbulent tempers of his neighbours. Of
what use were such castles as Pevensey, Lewes, Arundel, and Bramber, to
the King at such a crisis, if the great lords did not put pettifogging
law aside and coerce as much of the country as they could cover with
their swords? Men were tired of words and of charters. “Let us come to
grips,” said they, “and not quarrel over parchment and seals.” And the
great lords were wise in their necessity, kept—each in his castle—a
dragon at his service, a dragon that could be sent out to scorch up
those who had the temerity to threaten the King.
The little red spider thought Messire Gaillard a fine fellow. He had
such limbs on him, such a voice, such a cheerful way of bullying
everyone. The Gascon might have been made of brown wire, he was so
restless, so sinewy, so alert; a rust-coloured man with red and uneasy
eyes, a harsh skin blotched with freckles, hair that curled like a
negro’s, and a big mouth insolent under the aggressive tusks of its
moustache. A vain man, too, as his dress and his harness showed, a man
who put oil on his hair, wore many rings, and had a quick eye for a
woman. He was just the lusty, headstrong animal, a born fighter, and a
bully by instinct, inflammable, self-sufficient, a babbler, and a singer
of love songs.
The waters of the bay were covered with purple shadows, and the
marshlands brilliant as green samite when Gaillard’s men came to the
western gate of the castle, and rode two by two with drooped spears into
the great outer bailey closed in by the old Roman walls. Gaillard came
last, with the spy pattering beside his horse. The men went to their
quarters, rough pent houses that had been built for them along the
northern wall, for there was not room enough in Peter of Savoy’s new
castle within a castle for all those hired men from over the sea.
Pevensey would have astonished any rough Northumbrian baron, or the
fiery Marcher Lords who fought the Welsh. For Peter of Savoy was a
southerner, a compeer of the King’s in his love of colour and of music.
To dig a moat and build white towers was not enough for him, and the
spirit of Provence had emptied itself within the Roman wall. A great
part of the space had become a garden, shut in with thickets of
cypresses and bays. The roses of Provence bloomed there in June. Winding
alley ways went in and out, short swarded, and overhung by rose trees.
There were vines on trellises, and banks of fragrant herbs. In the thick
of a knoll of cypresses Count Peter kept two leopards in a cage,
yellow-eyed beasts which glided silently to and fro.
Gaillard, skirting the cypresses of the pleasaunce, had his eyes on the
window of the great tower where Peter of Savoy loved to sit playing
chess with Dan Barnabo his chaplain, or listening to a woman singing to
the lute. The lutanist sang to others as well as to Count Peter.
Gaillard the Gascon knew the twitter of her strings, better perhaps,
than Peter of Savoy himself.
“Give me a red rose, my desire,
And a kiss on the mouth for an _Ave_.”
The words were those of Etoile of the Lute, and Gaillard hummed them
under the shade of the cypresses as he rode towards the inner gate. But
some hand threw a clod of turf at him that morning, and threw it so
cleverly that the thing hit Gaillard on the ear, and spattered his blue
surcoat over with soil.
The Gascon turned sharply in the saddle, and saw a white hand showing
between two cypress trees, and a wrist that betrayed the golden threads
embroidering a woman’s sleeve.
A voice laughed at him.
“Throw me a clod of turf, my desire,
Give me a blow on the ear for a greeting!”
The arm put the boughs aside, and a face appeared, wreathed by the
cypress sprays, a woman’s face, white, mischievous, and alluring. Her
black hair was bound up in a golden net. She showed her teeth at
Gaillard, and put out the tip of a red tongue.
“Can I throw straight, dear lord?”
He turned his horse, glanced at the window in the tower, and then
laughed back at her, opening his mouth wide like the beak of a hungry
bird.
“Better at a man’s heart, than at his head, dear lady.”
“A Gascon has more head than heart, my friend.”
“And a long sword, and a longer tongue!”
She tilted her chin, two black eyes laughing above a short, impudent
nose, and a hard, red mouth.
“Go and have your gossip with good Peter. Barnabo has beaten him twice
at chess, and he was ready to throw the board at me. The leopards are
better tempered.”
Gaillard snapped his fingers.
“I will be a leopard,” he said. “Wait till I have washed the dust off.
Peter always plays until he wins.”
The white face disappeared behind the cypress boughs, and Gaillard rode
on to his quarters, ready to wash the dust of the road away with wine
and water, and thinking of Etoile, Count Peter’s lutanist and lady. She
was a Gascon also from the land of the Garonne. Etoile and Gaillard were
excellent friends, especially when the Savoyard was playing chess.
There were peacocks strutting in the garden, sunning their gorgeous
tails, when Gaillard fresh from the bath and the hands of his man, went
out to Etoile among the cypresses. At the window above Peter of Savoy
had his head over the chess-board. The game was such a passion with him,
that his people left him in the throes of it, not even Etoile being
allowed to touch her lute. The Savoyard, chin on the palm of his left
hand, with Barnabo opposite him, had not so much as noticed Gaillard’s
return. The men had ridden to their quarters, but Peter’s long fingers
loitered over the board, and his ears might have been stuffed with wool.
Barnabo, who had won two games, had enough worldly wisdom behind his
smooth, Italian face to know that the time had come to put his lord in a
happier temper. Barnabo always rose from the board a loser. It was part
of his policy to pique the great man by defeating him at first, that he
might delight him the more with the inevitable revenge.
“You are too subtle for me, sire,” he would confess. “I can begin by
winning, that is easy. When I have beaten you, you laugh, and turn to
show me what a child I am.”
The chess-players were so intent above, that Gaillard and the lute girl
Etoile, had the half hour safely to themselves. They were blood
cousins—these two Gascons, and yet nearer of kin in the intimate
ambition that had sent them hunting in a strange land. How the Lady of
the Peacocks had persuaded Peter of Savoy into loving her would be a
tale fit for a French song. She could do very much as she pleased with
him so long as he was not hanging his dyed beard over the chess-board.
As for her and Gaillard, they understood one another. The man was driven
at times to be rash and impetuous. Etoile was strange and fierce enough
at a crisis to keep Gaillard’s galloping passion from breaking its own
neck.
These two Gascons had a common enemy, Barnabo the Italian, who was as
clever as Etoile, and far more clever than Gaillard. The chaplain was a
smooth man, a man who smiled when he was snubbed, and put the insult
carefully into the counting-house of his memory. There was sometimes a
glitter in his eyes, like the gleam of a knife hidden in a sleeve. He
hated Etoile, and Etoile the woman, knew why he hated her. Barnabo would
have had her for an accomplice, the Queen on the chess-board to play
against Count Peter. Etoile had struck Barnabo across the face, and the
chess-board and the lute had been at feud with one another. Peter of
Savoy knew nothing of all this. Both Barnabo and Etoile were too wise to
throw soot at one another, unless the chance should come when one could
be safely blackened without so much as a pinch of slander falling upon
the other.
It was of Barnabo they talked that morning, hidden by the cypresses,
Etoile standing by the leopards’ cage, the great beasts fawning against
the bars, and letting her stroke their heads. There seemed some sympathy
between her and the two sleek, sinuous cats. The voice and the eyes of
Etoile cast a spell upon them. They would purr and rub against the bars
when she came near.
The Lady of the Peacocks told Gaillard a piece of news that made the
man’s eyes grow more hard and restless.
“He had better not meddle,” he said; “or I will twist his neck.”
Etoile snapped her fingers.
“You are a great fool, my Gaillard, Barnabo is not so rough and clumsy.
I know the man.”
“But the rat is nibbling at our cheese!”
“What else can he do, the Savoyard cannot go to bed with him. A man is
at a disadvantage. He can only call names.”
“Behind our backs, my desire!”
“Over the chess-board, perhaps.”
Gaillard put a hand through the bars, and scratched a leopard’s head.
“It is a pity,” he said, “that we cannot shut Barnabo up with these two
innocents when they are hungry. They would play a pretty game with him,
a game of knucklebones, with nothing left afterwards but some rags, two
sandals, and a brain box.”
Etoile laughed, and then looked shrewd.
“There are other people who would eat up Dan Barnabo, people in the
woods—yonder. Every man has a foolish corner in his heart. If Barnabo
asks you how the country seems, tell him the folk are as frightened as
mice.”
“Very lusty mice, my desire! Call them pole-cats.”
“Pole-cats may serve as well as leopards. Be careful of that window in
the tower; Barnabo has quick eyes. Go up now and see how the game goes.”
Peter of Savoy and the chaplain still had the chess-board between them
when Gaillard went up to the room in the tower. The window, widely
splayed, had painted medallions in its frames. A song book and a lute
lay on a red cushion, with a gaze-hound curled on the seat.
The third game was nearly at an end, and Peter of Savoy was rubbing his
pointed beard, and chuckling inwardly as he hung over the board. Barnabo
brooded, his puzzled, hesitating hands flattering the strategy of his
lord and opponent. Gaillard sat down on the window seat to wait. Peter
of Savoy was to triumph. Therefore the world went well.
A resigned sigh from Barnabo, the tap of a piece on the board, a
shuffling of Count Peter’s feet, and the end came.
The great man sat back, laughed in his chaplain’s face, and turned a
sharp and self-satisfied profile to Gaillard.
“So you are back, my Gascon. All our games have gone well, have they?
See—I am about to steal his lady.”
Gaillard leant forward to watch.
“Since he is a priest, sire, you are saving him from great temptation.”
Peter of Savoy laughed, but for some reason Barnabo looked up at the
Gascon sharply.
The game was lost and won, and Gaillard had told his news. Peter of
Savoy had picked up the lute, and was twanging the strings complacently.
Barnabo still pored over the chess-board as though to discover how and
where he had been beaten. He was a clever artist in the conception of
flattery, yet he was on the alert while Peter of Savoy and Gaillard
talked.
“Quiet as lambs, to be sure. That will be good news for our friend here.
You smoked Waleran out like a fox out of a hole. Excellent Gascon! Fire
purifies, so thought the Greeks. There are the folk at Goldspur to be
seized—unless they come in with halters round their necks.”
The great man hummed a passage from a favourite song.
“Barnabo would not be persuaded,” he said, half-closing his eyes slyly.
“You must know, my Gaillard, that Barnabo is a man with a hot
conscience. He has learnt six words of English—what does that matter?
So many benefices to be served—in Latin; so many women to be shrived!
Even when the wolves are out—Barnabo will not neglect his duties!”
The Italian was imperturbable and debonair.
“I have a charm against all wolves,” he said, looking at Gaillard out of
the corner of his eyes.
“Your sanctity, Father, to be sure. Most excellent St. Francis, the
hawks even perch on your shoulders. Barnabo will mount his mule and ride
out to comfort the sick, whatever I, his lord, may say.”
Gaillard took the gaze-hound up into his lap.
“He will have nothing to fear there, now. I will answer for that.”
Barnabo’s eyes were studying Gaillard’s face. He smiled, and began to
gather up the chess-men.
“After the sword come the Cross and the mass book,” he said. “You will
not quarrel with my conscience, sire, if I ride out to-morrow.”
“Who—in Christendom—is worth the labour of a quarrel? Command your
friends, and tread upon your enemies. Go out, and heal the sick, when
the husbands are not at home.”
Etoile, who had been listening at the door, pulled Gaillard into a dark
corner on the stairs when he came out to see to the guards.
“So Barnabo is going a-love-making,” she said. “Good. Perhaps he will
not come back again.”
And she sang to Peter of Savoy that night, a desirable woman whose face
betrayed no care.