The night was far spent, and the oil in the earthen lamp had failed some
hours ago. Denise, sitting in the darkness, with her chin resting on her
hands, listened to Aymery’s breathing, and waited for the dawn. Nerving
herself, she had twisted the arrow’s head from the flesh, unlaced his
hauberk and bound up the wounded shoulder, and poured some wine between
his lips. For a long time she had watched him for signs of returning
consciousness. Then the lamp had died out and left them in the darkness,
and Denise had sat wondering whether the man’s quietude meant sleep or
death.
Denise did not close her eyes that night. She was wakeful, strangely
wakeful, almost conscious of the beating of her heart. More than once
she had bent forward and touched Aymery’s hand, and its coldness chilled
her, so that she longed for the day. Often too in the strained suspense
of the night’s silence she would fancy that he had ceased to breathe,
and she would fall a-praying with a passion that startled even her own
heart.
A faint greyness beneath the door, a sudden tentative cry from some
awakened bird. For a while silence, then sudden and strange, a thrilling
up of note on note, a sense as of golden light mounting in sweeping
spirals towards the sky. Wizard’s magic in the grey of the great wood, a
thousand throats throbbing in unison till the whole world seemed full of
a glory of sound. The very air quivered within the cell. It was as
though invisible wings were beating everywhere, while the trees of the
forest were tongued with prophetic fire.
Denise rose, opened wide the door, and let the song of the birds come to
her with the cold fragrance of the breaking day. As yet greyness
everywhere, grey grass, grey trees. A gradual gathering of light, then,
of a sudden, as though some god had hurled fire into the sky, a blur of
gold, a cry of crimson from the mouths of the pale clouds. Soon, an arch
of amber in the east, the forest black against the splendour thereof,
the grass a-gleam, the sky in the zenith still dim like a woman’s eyes
dim with tears. A beautiful tenderness transfigured the face of the
world; no wicked thing seemed thinkable while those birds were singing.
So the dawn came, and flung his torch into the cell at Denise’s feet.
Now that the daylight absolved her from suspense, she turned, a little
fearfully, and knelt down beside the bed. The man’s face was in the
shadow, so that it looked very sharp and grey to her, yet he was
breathing quietly with his lips closed. Only a little blood had soaked
through the bandages. Yet Denise knelt watching him, unable to shake off
the haunting dread that he might not wake to see another dawn.
Whether it was the daylight playing on his face, or the long gaze of
Denise’s eyes, Aymery awoke without so much as the stirring of a hand,
and looked up straight into the woman’s face. And for some moments those
two stared silently into each other’s eyes.
Aymery half rose upon his elbow, but Denise’s hand went to his unwounded
shoulder.
“Lie still,” she said to him, with a pressure of the hand.
He obeyed her, and sank back upon the bed. Denise saw his lips move, but
no words came from them. His eyes wandered from her face about the cell,
as though the slow consciousness of it all were flowing into his brain.
And as the daylight broadened, his mind’s awakening seemed to keep pace
with it. He was lying in Denise’s cell, and upon Denise’s bed.
“How long have I been here?”
She bent towards him, her hair shining about her face. Aymery’s eyes
caught the sheen thereof, and seemed dazzled by its glory.
“Only lie still,” she said. “In the night I thought that you would die.
You are safe here. None but friends know the ways.”
He seemed to feel the first burning of his wounds, for his hand went to
his right shoulder, but Denise caught it, and laid it upon the coverlet.
“I have looked to your wounds.”
“How did I come here?”
His eyes searched her face.
“You are safe, is not that enough; yet, you were very heavy,” and she
smiled at him.
“Have you seen Grimbald?”
“No, no one.”
Aymery was silent for a moment, looking at Denise with a kind of quiet
wonder. Her face was turned from him. And suddenly he caught her hand,
and lifted it, and for a moment its whiteness lay across Aymery’s mouth.
“God guard you, Denise.”
Her eyes flashed down at him.
“You must live. I ask that.”
“Assuredly, I cannot die.”
Denise rose up and went out into the sunlight, for her face had blazed
suddenly with blood that rushed from the heart.
The first thing that Denise did that morning was to take a pitcher that
stood beside the door, and to go down to the spring to draw water. There
were drops of the man’s blood upon the stones of the path, and Denise,
bringing back her pitcher, washed the stains away so that they should
offer no betrayal. The beech wood seemed still and empty in the morning
sunlight. Yet the peril of the night haunted her heart continually with
an innocence that had no thought of self.
She went to refill the pitcher at the spring, looking watchfully down
every dwindling woodway, and listening even for the rustle of dead
leaves. Aymery was lying awake when she returned. His eyes watched her a
little restlessly, and there was something in those eyes of his that
made the blood come more quickly to her face.
Turning to a cupboard she took out bread, honey, and a little jar of
wine.
“Is that water, there?”
He was looking at the pitcher.
“Yes.”
Denise understood him instantly, for she found a clean napkin in the
cupboard, moistened it, and bent over the bed.
“Your lips are dry.”
She put a hand under his head, raised it, and washed his mouth and face.
He held out his hands to her, and she washed those also, yet her eyes
avoided Aymery’s, and their deeps were hidden from him by the shadows of
their lashes.
“Are you hungry?”
“No, not even a little.”
“But you must eat for your strength’s sake.”
“I will do all that you desire.”
She would not suffer him to manage for himself, but spread the honey on
the bread, and held the wine flask for him to drink.
“It is all that I can give,” she said simply.
He looked at her, but found no answer for the moment. Both of them had
grown suddenly shy of one another and when their hands touched, the
touch thrilled them from hand to heart.
Denise left him at last, and going to the doorway of the cell, stood to
break bread for her own need. Yet though her face was turned from him,
she could not put the man’s nearness from her, and the bread as she
crumbled it, fell in waste on the stones at her feet.
“Denise.”
Aymery’s voice startled her. He had not spoken loudly, but there was a
return of strength in the tone thereof.
“Yes?”
“You shall be rid of me before nightfall. I only ask for a day’s grace.”
She had turned and was looking down at him with solemn eyes.
“It will be days before you must stir,” she said. “Remember that I saw
your wounds.”
“They are nothing.”
“Lord, I know otherwise. You will bide there on that bed.”
She spoke quietly enough, but Aymery looked up at her restlessly,
watching the sunlight shining through her hair.
“I cannot lie here, Denise.”
“You are safe.”
“Too safe, perhaps; it is not of my own safety——”
He paused, but not before she had caught his meaning. The truth was
difficult for Aymery to utter, and yet she honoured him for thinking of
her honour.
“None but our friends come this way,” she answered.
He half rose in bed with the strong and generous passion that made his
pale face shine on her out of the darkness of the cell.
“Mother of God, child, am I so selfish, and so blind! Do I not remember
what you are, to all of us in these parts. If these dogs found me here!
I would rather crawl on my hands and knees than tempt that chance.”
Her face flushed deeply, but not because of the mere words that he had
spoken. A sudden impulse seized her, an impulse that came she knew not
whither. Aymery had sunk back again, and the sight of this strong man’s
weakness went to her heart. In the taking of a breath she was bending
over him, and holding the wooden cross that hung at her girdle. Kissing
it she held it before Aymery’s eyes.
“Lord, let this be as a sign between us, for I have no fear.”
He looked at the cross, then at Denise, and his eyes seemed to catch the
glimmer of her hair.
“Denise, but one day,” he said. “To-morrow——”
“Leave God the morrow.”
“Yet, who knows what even the morrow may bring.”
Denise turned from him, and going out, closed the door. She stood
leaning against it, looking above the trees into the blue of a spring
sky. Infinitely strange, infinitely wonderful seemed this mysterious
fire that had been kindled suddenly within her heart. Quench it she
could not, though she strove to smother and hide it even from herself.
As for Aymery, the cell seemed very dark to him, for lack of the
radiance that had streamed from her hair.
Denise went down through the beech wood towards Goldspur that morning,
meaning to see whether Gaillard and his men had gone. The valley was
full of sunlight, but over the village hung a thin dun-coloured mist,
with pale smoke curling upwards into the blue. No live thing moved in
the valley, and even her hope of the glimpse of a friend failed her.
Still, her heart was glad that there were no riders there, and that the
violence of the night seemed farther from her world.
Gaillard had gone. He and his men had passed the night, drinking and
warming themselves before the burning house, none too pleased with the
evening’s handiwork. Soon after dawn a rider had come galloping in,
beaconed through the darkness by the glare of the burning manor, and
Gaillard, when he had spoken with the fellow, had ordered his men to
horse, after they had buried two comrades who had fallen beneath
Grimbald’s axe. They had ridden away towards the sea, since my Lord of
Savoy had called Gaillard back to Pevensey.
The night before, some thirty “spears” and a company of archers had
marched in from Lewes, sent thence by John de Warenne, the Earl.
“Since the iron is hot in your parts, sire,” ran the Earl’s message, “I
send you a hammer for your anvil. God keep the King.”
Peter of Savoy had laughed at the message, and thrown a jewel into
Etoile’s lap.
“The book tells us that we should go a-hunting,” he had said. “We will
send for the Gascon back again. There are lusty rebels to be pulled down
when the King’s need is paramount.”
Etoile had laughed in turn, with a gleam of black eyes and of white
teeth.
“Let our horns blow, sire, I too will ride with you.”
“A bolt in time saves twine,” quoth her man.
When Gaillard returned that morning, and Peter of Savoy heard the news
of Dan Barnabo’s death, and the way the mesne lords had called out their
men, he smiled at Gaillard very grimly, and twitted him with the little
that he had done.
“You are clever at lighting bonfires, my Gascon,” he said. “But singeing
the bear makes him only madder. We have no need of our clerks and
lawyers, for when such work is afoot we can shut justiciar, coroner, and
sheriff up in the same box. Will any man tell me that I have no right of
private war in my own manors. The King is defied! Go to now, we have our
warrant.”
Gaillard showed his teeth, and shot a stealthy, swaggering look towards
Etoile.
“To catch the fox, sire, we must have hounds enough.”
“Take them, my boaster, and sweep the countryside. We will ride with you
to see the chase.”
“And madame, also? We will show her how these pigs of Englishmen can
run.”
That same evening as the sun sank low, Denise went down to draw water at
the spring. The woods were full of a glory of gold, and the chequered
shadows of the trees fell upon the brown leaves, and the vivid grass.
The gorse seemed lit as for the evening of All Souls. Perfumes rose out
of the pregnant earth. A hundred thrushes seemed chanting a vesper song.
The heart of Denise also was full of strange, elfin music. There was a
smile upon her mouth, and her eyes caught the enchanted distance of
dreams. As she drew water at the spring and the ripples of the pool were
inset with gold, she sang to herself softly, a song that she had learnt
as a young girl, a song of the tower, and not of the cell.
Aymery heard her singing as she came across the glade to the gate of the
garden. The door of the cell stood open, but Denise had hung her cloak
so as to hide the bed.
When she came in to him, Aymery watched her with the eyes of a man whose
heart is troubled. For he felt the guilt of his presence in that place,
and the fairness of Denise had made him afraid. True, she had taken no
formal vows, but to the world she was a creature whose very feet made
the brown earth holy.
“No news of Grimbald?”
“None.”
Her deep voice thrilled him, but he stirred uneasily upon the bed.
“I have gained strength to-day.”
“Do not waste it, then, lord,” she answered him.
His eyes pleaded with her like the eyes of a dog.
“Give me a hand, Denise; I will try if I can stand.”
“No; why, you will but open your wounds again.”
“My thoughts are more to me than my wounds, Denise.”
He struggled up suddenly before she could hinder him, only to turn faint
and dizzy, for the blood fell from his brain. He swayed, and went grey
as Denise’s gown.
“Are you mad, lord; you will die of your wilfulness!”
She put her arm about his shoulders, and her hair brushed against his
cheek.
“Denise, if I could so much as crawl——”
His wistfulness woke a rush of tenderness in her.
“No, no, rest here.”
“Rest! I cannot rest, cannot you understand?”
Denise’s arm was still about his shoulders. They looked into each
other’s eyes, one long look full of mystery, of sadness, and unrest.
“My heart understands you,” she said very softly. “Yet, is there shame
in my wishing you to live.”
She let him lie back on the bed, and taking the wine, she made him
drink, and her hand brushed the hair from off his forehead.
“You must sleep,” she said. “No harm can come while I am watching.”
And Aymery’s eyes were full of a silent awe.