There was a sound of horns in the woodlands as the morning of the second
day drew towards noon, and Denise, who had gone down towards Goldspur to
discover whether Grimbald or any of the villagers had returned, heard
the distant winding of the horns, and stood still to listen.
The day was sunny, with a light breeze blowing, and Denise could see no
live thing stirring in the whole valley where the ashes of Goldspur
still threw out silver smoke. Yet those distant horns beyond the hills
seemed to carry a cry of strangeness and unrest. Denise would have given
much to know all that was passing yonder, but no man came that way and
she dared not leave the beech wood, and the wounded man in the cell. The
very silence and emptiness of the landscape filled her with vague dread.
No one had dared to return to the fields or the burnt village. The hawk
was still hovering, and the small birds kept their cover.
Aymery was asleep when Denise returned to the cell, but he woke at her
coming, and looked up at her for news.
“I have seen nothing but the smoke from Goldspur,” she said calmly
enough. “Grimbald and the people still keep to the woods. They may be
with us any hour.”
Aymery lay quiet for a while as though sunk in thought. His
consciousness reflected clearly the meaning of the past and the promise
of the future.
“So they have burnt Goldspur,” he said, as though speaking the words of
a prayer.
Denise had set the door wide, and drawn a stool into the sunlight.
“Surely there is some law left in the land?”
“We have surfeited ourselves with law,” he said bitterly; “only to learn
that the law bows itself to the man with the sword and the title.”
Denise leant back against the rough oak door-post.
“You will build the house again?” she asked.
He did not answer her for a moment.
“No, not yet,” he said at last. “The sword is the first tool that we
Englishmen must handle. These Frenchmen laugh at us, calling us English
swine, but the day is near when the tusks of the English boar shall be
red with their blood.”
He spoke with the fierceness of the man of the sword, but Denise’s heart
was with him, though her hands were held to be hands of mercy.
“Such men as Hubert of Kent, they are our need,” she said.
“Hubert! The land shall give us a hundred Huberts,” and his face blazed
up at her. “It will be the bills of England against the spears of this
hired scum from France and Flanders, these dogs in the service of dogs
who have plundered our lands and shamed our women. They have laughed at
us, robbed us, made a puppet of our king. ‘Get you to England,’ has been
the cry, ‘It is a land of fools, of heavy men stupid with mead and
swine’s flesh. Take what you will. The savages will only gape and
grumble.’ But I tell you, Denise, the heart of England has grown hot
with a slow, sure wrath. We are Normans no longer, nor Saxons, nor
Danes. Men are gripping hands from sea to sea. God see to it, but the
years will prove that England is England, the land of the English, and
woe to those who shall trifle with our strength.”
Like a mocking voice came the cry of a horn, echoing tauntingly amid the
hills. Another took up the blast, and yet another, cheerily braying
through the young green of the woods. The two in the cell were mute for
the moment, looking questioningly into each other’s eyes.
Aymery raised himself upon his elbow.
“The Savoyard’s men!”
Denise’s eyes were full of a startled brightness.
“Why not Waleran?” she asked him as she stood listening at the door.
“I know the sound of our Sussex horns.”
She stepped out into the sunlight, and went swiftly down the path
towards the gate.
“Lie still,” she called to him. “I will go and see what may be learnt.”
Denise knew every alley in the wood, and her grey gown glided westwards
amid the dark boles of the trees. Ever and again the horns sang lustily
to one another, coming nearer and ever nearer, swelled by the faint but
ominous tonguing of dogs. Denise went forward more slowly, pausing often
to listen, her brown eyes growing more watchful as the sounds came
nearer to her through the maze of the woods. She could feel even her own
heart beating; and her face sharpened with the keenness of her
vigilance.
Denise drew back abruptly behind the trunk of a great tree. She had
heard a crackling of dry leaves, a sound of men moving, voices calling
in harsh undertones, one to the other. She crouched down amid the
gnarled tree roots, her lips apart, her eyes at gaze. The heavy
breathing of tired beasts came to her, with the rustle of leaves, and
the quick plodding of many feet. As she crouched there she saw figures
go scurrying away through the mysterious shadowland of the woods. Some
were mounted on forest ponies, others fleeing on foot. One man passed
within ten yards of Denise, his mouth open, his hands clawing the air
beside him as he ran. None of them saw her, none of them looked back.
They disappeared like so many flitting shadows, and a second silence
covered their tracks as water closes behind the keel of a ship.
Denise tarried no longer, but rose and ran back towards the cell. Those
flying shadows amid the beech trees had told her all that she could need
to know. As for Aymery, she must hide him and take her chance. Her gown
gleamed in and out through shadow and sunshine, while the tonguing of
the dogs and the scream of the horns haunted her like the discords of a
dream.
Denise had half crossed the clearing when she saw a sight that made her
catch her breath. Close by the gate lay Aymery, propping himself upon
one arm, his head drooping like the head of a man who has been smitten
through with a sword.
She ran to him, her eyes a-fire.
“Lord, what have you done?”
He lifted his face to her, a face that was grey and moist in the
sunlight. She saw that the linen swathings over his shoulder were red
with vivid stains.
“I have time—yet.”
Denise bent over him.
“You are mad, you are bleeding anew.”
“Give me wine, Denise; I can crawl, if I cannot walk.”
She put her arms about him and tried to lift him to his feet.
“No, no, come back to the cell. They are beating the woods. I saw men
flying for their lives.”
Aymery clung to her, and gained his feet.
“Denise, I must take my chance, help me into the woods.”
But his eyes went dim and blind in the sunlight, and Denise, as she
looked at him, uttered a sharp, passionate cry.
“Lord, you have tempted death enough. Come. There is no time to lose.”
Denise was strong beyond her strength as she put an arm about him, and
half led, half carried him into the cell. She let Aymery sink upon the
bed, and covered him with the coverlet that he had thrown aside.
“For God’s love, lie still,” she said. “Should they come this way I will
put them off with lies.”
Denise went out from him and closed the door. For a moment a great
faintness seized her, for she had taxed her very soul in carrying Aymery
within. The sunlight flashed and flickered before her eyes, so that she
put her hands up before her face, and leant, trembling, against the
door. But the sound of the horns and the dogs grew louder in the beech
wood, and Denise’s strength came back to her with that fine courage that
women show when life and death hang in the balance.
With one quick glance at the woods she went down on her knees on the
stone-paved path, and began to pull up the few weeds that she could find
in the borders. Her hair had become loosened in her flight through the
wood, and hung in waves about her neck and shoulders. Denise kept her
eyes on the ground before her, though her ears were straining to catch
the slightest sound. She prayed as she knelt there, as she had never
prayed for a boon before, that these men might pass by without seeing
the dark thatch of her cell.
The trampling of many horses swelled the shrill whimpering and tonguing
of the dogs. A horn blared close by. The wood seemed full of voices, of
swift movement, of hurrying sounds. Denise heard the laughter of a woman
peal out suddenly, strange and unfamiliar in the midst of such a chorus.
A man’s voice shouted a fierce command. The whole wood about the place
seemed to become alive with colour, and the gleam and clangour of steel.
Denise bent her head over the brown soil and gave no sign. Her fingers
plucked at a tuft of grass, but could not close on it because of their
great trembling. Her heart told her that these people would not pass by.
Swiftly, half fearfully, she raised her head, and looked up over the
wattle fence.
Before her the shadowy wood seemed to swim with the faces and figures of
armed men. Horses crowded in with tossing manes, shields flickered,
surcoats with many colours. Brown-faced archers walked between the
horses, their steel caps shining, bows ready with arrows on the strings.
Rangers and servants held the dogs in leash, sweating, panting men who
cursed the beasts that strained, and yelped, and rose upon their
haunches.
In the forefront of the whole rout, like a great gem set in the centre
of a crown, Denise saw a woman seated on a milk-white horse. Her green
gown was diapered over with golden lilies, and in her hand she carried a
bow. The woman’s face was flushed with riding, and her hair disordered
in its golden caul. On her right hand rode a lord in a surcoat of
purple, and the trappings of his horse were of white and blue. On her
left, with a drawn sword over his shoulder, Denise saw the man who had
surprised her at the spring.
Since there was no help for it, Denise sat back upon her heels, her face
flushed with stooping over the soil. All those hundred eyes seemed
fastened upon her. Yet there was a sudden silence save for the
whimpering and the chafing of the dogs.
Over the wattle fence, and across the narrow stretch of grass, the eyes
of the woman on the white horse met the eyes of Denise. And some instant
instinct of enmity seemed to flash between the two, as though—being
women—they could read each other’s hearts.
Denise saw her turn to Gaillard, and point with her bow in the direction
of the cell. The Gascon laughed, and pretended to pray to the cross of
his sword. Then he flapped the bridle upon the neck of his horse, and
rode forward to speak with Denise.