One day early in March when dust and dead leaves were whirling
everywhere, old Fulcon the baker, the meanest man—so it was said—in
Reigate town, went to and fro along the passage beside his house,
carrying in faggots that had been unloaded from a tumbril in the street.
The carter had thrown the wood against the wall, knowing that Fulcon
would not give him so much as a mug of water for helping to carry the
faggots into the shed behind the bakehouse.
Fulcon went to and fro along the passage like a brown crab, a man whose
back seemed built for burdens, and whose bowed legs and hairy chest gave
promise of great strength. He carried the faggots two at a time, and
neighbours who loitered to watch him at work saw nothing but the sheaves
of wood crawling along upon a knotty pair of legs. The boys of Reigate,
who hated the baker because he had good apple trees and used a stick
vigorously in defending the fruit, called him “tortoise,” and “snail in
the shell.” Sometimes a boy would make a dash and pretend to try the
snatching of a loaf from the stone counter of the little shop. But
Fulcon had a dog who was as surly and as wide awake as his master. Nor
was it to be wondered at that dog Ban had a sour temper, since the
number of stones that were surreptitiously thrown at him would have
paved the path in old Fulcon’s garden.
The baker had come near the end of the load, and had disappeared up the
passage, leaving the last two faggots lying on the footway. He came
back, picking up the odd bits of stick that littered the stones. A bent
body seemed such a habit with Fulcon that his eyes often saw nothing
more than the two yards of mother earth before his feet. Hence he had
already laid a hand to one of the remaining faggots before he saw the
grey folds of a cloak spread out under his very nose.
Fulcon straightened up, and showed his natural attitude towards the
world by closing a big brown fist. He saw a woman sitting upon one of
the faggots, a woman in a grey cloak with the hood drawn over her head.
The woman’s back was turned to him, and by the stoop of her shoulders
she seemed very tired.
Fulcon took her for a beggar, and Fulcon hated beggars even more than
boys.
“Get up,” said he.
And since she did not stir he repeated the command.
“Get up, there,” and he reached out to take her by the cloak.
The woman rose, and overtopped Fulcon by some five inches. She turned
and looked at him with great brown eyes that seemed tired with the dust
and the wind. The baker stared hard at her, catching the gleam of
splendid hair drawn back under the grey hood. The woman’s face had a
silence such as one sees on the face of a statue.
“The wood’s mine,” he said, grumbling into his beard, and pointing a
very obvious finger.
The woman looked at him, and then at the shop.
“I want bread,” she answered.
Fulcon’s eyes retorted “pay for it.”
The woman had a leather bag in her hand. She felt in it, and brought out
money. Fulcon’s frown relaxed instantly. He stooped under the wooden
shutter propped up by its bar, picked up a loaf, and handed it to her.
To his astonishment she sat down again on the faggot, as though she had
a right there now that she had bought the loaf. Fulcon opened his shrewd
but rather sleepy eyes wider, and stared. The words “get up” were again
on the tip of his tongue. But he smothered them, picked up the other
faggot, and giving a warning whistle to the dog Ban who was lying in the
shop, went away up the narrow passage.
When Fulcon returned, he stared still harder, for the dog Ban was
sitting with his muzzle resting on the woman’s knee, and looking up
steadily into her face. She was breaking the bread slowly, and giving
the dog a crust from time to time. Fulcon might have reasoned with her
over such extravagance, had he not been the creature of a strong
affection with regard to the big brown dog, one of the two living things
in the world to whom he grudged nothing.
The baker stood by, scratching his beard, something very much like a
smile glimmering in his eyes. Then he gave a half audible chuckle as
though the scene seemed peculiarly quaint.
The woman turned her head, but Fulcon’s face was as blank as a piece of
brown sandstone. He looked indeed as though he had never uttered a sound
in his life. Dog Ban lifted his head and stared at his master as though
it was unusual for Fulcon to chuckle.
The woman asked a question.
“How far is it to Guildford?”
Fulcon jerked his head like a wooden doll worked by string.
“Guildford? It may be eighteen miles,” and he reconsidered the number
carefully as though he were handing out loaves.
The woman laid a hand on the dog’s head.
“I am tired,” she said suddenly. “I want a lodging.”
“A lodging.”
Fulcon always echoed a neighbour’s sentences, a trick that suggested
caution, and a desire to gain time for reflection.
“There are hostels in the town,” he said.
“No.”
“There are hostels in the town.”
“No,” and yet again she repeated the blunt monosyllable “no.”
Fulcon echoed the “no,” and stared hard at the opposite wall.
Ban opened his mouth suddenly, and laughed as a dog can laugh on
occasions. It was as though the matter was so absurdly simple that he
was tickled by the way these humans bungled it.
Fulcon caught the dog’s eye. Ban’s laughter had been silent, his
master’s came with a human gurgle.
“You want a lodging?” and he approached the question as something wholly
new and astonishing, a matter that had never been previously mentioned.
“I can pay.”
“You can pay.”
The woman put back her hood, and gave Fulcon a full view of her face.
Perhaps he felt what Ban had felt, for there was something in the
woman’s eyes that made both these surly dogs quite debonair.
“I should give you no trouble,” she said simply. “I have had trouble
enough to teach me to be contented.”
Fulcon nodded.
“Trouble,” he agreed. “There are many things that bring trouble, more
especially such a thing as a King.”
“My trouble began with the King,” she said.
“Ah, to be sure; his men took all my bread one day last year, and I had
not so much as a farthing.”
His voice grumbled down in the bass notes, and Ban sympathised with a
growl.
The woman felt in her bag.
“I can pay you,” she said, “a little. I can work, too, if you wish it.”
Fulcon narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and looked at Ban as though for
advice. The dog wagged his tail. That wag of the tail decided it.
“Come up and see,” he said. “I have a little room under the roof.”
And all three went in together, Fulcon, the dog, and Denise.
Whether it was Ban’s friendship, or Fulcon’s complacency in turning a
good penny by letting his attic, Denise tarried there in the baker’s
house, glad to find a corner in the world where she could rest awhile in
peace. Fulcon lived quite alone, though an old woman came in now and
again to cook, clean, and sew. The house was of stone, and roofed also
with flags of stone, because of sparks from the bakehouse furnace. The
upper room where Denise lodged was reached by an outside stairway from
the yard. There was a small garden and orchard shut in by the walls and
gable ends of other houses. As for Fulcon he lived in his bakery behind
the shop, he and Ban sleeping together in one corner like two brown dogs
curled up in a heap. Often there was baking to be done at night, and
then Fulcon dozed in the shop by day, the dog keeping an eye open for
customers, boys, and thieves.
It is one of the facts of life that gruff and surly people are more to
be trusted than those with burnished faces and ready tongues, and so it
turned out with old Fulcon. For Denise found him steady and honest. The
neighbours declared that Fulcon was a miser. True, he worked like a
brown gnome, round-backed, laborious, and silent. No man baked bread
better than Fulcon; nor had he ever sold short weight.
So Denise found herself tarrying day after day in the town under the
chalk hills, where the beech woods clambered against the sky, and life
seemed still and quiet. Though Earl Simon had taken Reigate the year
before, no memory of violence and of bloodshed seemed to linger there,
and the valley amid the hills waited peacefully for the spring.
Denise had come very near to death that year, and the heart in her still
carried a deep and open wound. She had changed, too, in those few weeks.
Her glorious hair was growing long again, and her eyes had a more
miraculous sadness. She was thinner in face, yet plumper at the bosom.
Some people might have discovered an indefinable air about her, a
subtle, human something that was not to be seen on the face of a nun.
A great gulf had opened for Denise between the present and the past, and
what her thoughts and emotions were, only a woman could understand. She
had lost something of herself, and there was a void of tenderness and
yearning in her that hungered to be filled. A chance touch of kindness
could melt her almost to tears. She was very silent, and very gentle.
Even the dog Ban was something to be loved and fondled, and in winning
Ban she won old Fulcon, that brown gnome who toiled and hoarded, hoarded
and toiled.
One day he called Denise from her upper room, and showed her the door
that led into the garden. Within were herb beds, brown soil turned for
planting vegetables, and a stretch of grass where the apple and pear
trees grew.
“Grass turns white under a stone,” he said in his grumbling way. “You
will see more of the sun here.”
And Denise was grateful to the old man, and she went down into the
orchard of an evening, and heard the blackbirds sing.
Old Fulcon had taken a fancy to Denise. He began to look upon her as a
house chattel that was familiar, and even as a possession to be
treasured. She was silent and gentle, and Fulcon was silent and gentle
under that gruff, ugly, and laborious surface. Denise paid him her
money, and though Fulcon took it, he kept it apart from the hoard he had
in a secret hole in the wall.
“Times are hard, dog Ban,” he would say sulkily. “Only a priest takes a
child’s last pence.”
Ban would approve, knowing that his master was less mean than he seemed.
“Be sure, it is no common wench, dog Ban. Noble folk fall into the
ditch, as well as beggars. She may be a great lady, who knows? No
kitchen girl ever had such hands.”
So Denise tarried there, and old Fulcon seemed quite content that she
should tarry, and even began to show less reticence and caution. Old men
are often like children; they turn to some people, and run from others.
Nor was it long before Denise discovered why the baker toiled and
hoarded as he did.
Fulcon had an idol, an idol that fed upon the father’s gold, and that
idol was a son. Denise heard of him as a big, black-eyed, tan-faced
sworder who had run away to the wars before the down was on his chin.
Fulcon’s boy had swaggered, fought, and shouldered his way up hill. He
rode a great horse now, wore mail, and carried a long spear. He earned
good pay in the service of those who hired such gentlemen, even had men
under him, and was a great captain in his father’s eyes.
“God of me, child,” he would say, “the boy was a giant from the day his
mother bore him! I can stand under his arm, so,” and he would show
Denise how his head did not reach to his son’s shoulder.
“The handsome dog, he must have money,” and Fulcon chuckled and rubbed
his hands, “there is not a finer man at his arms in the whole kingdom
than Hervé. He has fought as champion often, and no man can stand up to
him. Lord, child, and the way some of the ladies have shown him
kindness, but that is not a matter for your ears. Hervé must have money,
the handsome dog! A lad of such promise must live like the gentleman he
may be.”
Then Fulcon waxed mysterious, and looked at Denise with cunning pride.
“I have not given him all my money, oh no, I am wiser than that, I bide
my time. For though I have never dreamt it, my dear, I know that some
day Hervé will win the spurs. Lesser men have fought their way to it.
And then, child, the old baker of Reigate will come out with a store of
gold. Arms, and rings, and rich clothes shall the lad have. He shall not
be put to shame for lack of the proper gear.”
Denise was touched by the old man’s love for his son, and also by the
trust he showed her in telling her such a thing. For to one who had been
driven out into the world with shame and ignominy, such human faith is
very dear. Denise might be touched by old Fulcon’s pride, but whether
she believed Messire Hervé worthy of it was quite another matter. The
fellow was probably a gallant rogue, with wit enough to possess himself
of the old man’s gold. It seemed strange to her that Fulcon, who was so
shrewd and grim, should be dazzled by gaudy trappings, a loud presence,
and a handsome face.
Denise had at least found peace in the little town, a time of
tranquillity that stood between her and despair. She had space there for
quiet breathing, and no fear for the moment but the fear of a chance
betrayal. She needed sleep and strength before the march into the
future, that future that seemed as dim and formless as a strange and
distant land. Her heart seemed doomed to lose the very memory of a most
dear dream. If she thought of Aymery she thought of him as a man who had
made her soul thrill in past years, and was dead. Her vows were broken,
but what did that avail? The past was dead also, after what had
happened.
One evening late in March, Fulcon came to her in the garden, and she
could tell that he was troubled.
“The bloody sword is out again,” he said. “Bah, I thought they would let
us have peace awhile. The accursed Frenchman has thrown poison into the
pot.”
Denise was ignorant of much that had passed in the world around. She
knew nothing of the Mise, and of the blight that had fallen on the
Barons’ cause. Pope Urban, good man, upheld King Henry in the breaking
of oaths and the casual selfishness of misrule. Time-servers and
waverers were going over to the King, because of the award St. Louis had
made. Yet Simon had carried his head high, and acted in all honour, he
and the chief lords who were with him. They had surrendered Dover, and
prepared to treat loyally with Henry about the Mise.
Now news had come into the town that the firebrands on either side were
flaming in arms. Roger Mortimer had ravaged De Montfort’s estates on the
Welsh marches. There had been skirmishes in the west country. The Earl
of Derby had hoisted his banner against the King. Henry himself had
issued writs calling his followers to arms on the last day of March. The
peacemaking of Louis of France seemed likely to bring on a yet bitterer
war.
Fulcon shook his head over it, and grumbled.
“The King pipes the tune, and poor John pays. There will be bloody work
again. God give Earl Simon a heavy hand.”
And then, as is always the case, he discovered compensations.
“Hervé will have his chance,” he said; “how can a soldier show himself
without a battle!”
Two days passed, and news came suddenly that Simon the Younger was near
at hand, and likely to pass through Reigate on the way. The news set
Fulcon all agog, for Hervé followed the Earl of Gloucester’s banner, and
some said the earl was with young Simon, and Fulcon was as eager as any
woman to see his lad. He went out into the town, leaving Denise and Ban
to look to the loaves in the shop. And while Fulcon was away De
Montfort’s son marched into Reigate with a following of knights and
men-at-arms.
Denise saw the people running to and fro like ants in a nest that have
been stirred up with a stick. A crowd began to gather, an anxious,
whispering, restless crowd, uneasy as a wood under the first puffs of a
threatening storm. For armed men in a town were too often the devil’s
retainers, were they friends or foes.
The sound of shouting came from one of the gates, with the blare of
trumpets.
“Simon is here!”
The news spread, and men who had wives and daughters, pushed them within
doors, bidding them look through cracks in the shutters if they must
look at all. A knight came riding by, carrying a black banner with a
white cross thereon. A few stray dogs ran hither and thither, to be
hooted, and pelted by the boys in the crowd. Then suddenly, with the
thunder of hoofs along the street, came the clangour of young Simon’s
company, their spears set close together like black masts in a haven.
Denise stood at the door of Fulcon’s shop, with Ban bristling and
snarling beside her. A splendid knight on a white horse rode in the van.
His helmet was off, and he laughed, and looked about him as he rode with
a certain good-humoured vanity. Beside him, mounted on a black mare,
Denise saw a woman in silks of blue and green, and a cloak of sables
over her shoulders.
The way was narrow, and the crowd greatest just by the baker’s shop.
Simon the Younger reined in his horse, holding his spear at arms length
as a sign to those behind him to halt.
“Room, good people,” he said, gracious and debonair. “We are not here to
trample on honest men’s toes.”
Denise’s eyes met the eyes of the woman who rode at young De Montfort’s
side. And in that look the shame of the near past leapt up into Denise’s
face, for the lady in the cloak of sables was the woman who had ridden
with Gaillard and Peter of Savoy the day they dragged Aymery from her
cell.
Etoile’s black eyes had flashed as they stared at Denise’s face. She
also had not forgotten. And once again she looked down upon Denise, and
mocked her with lifted chin, and laughing mouth.
The street had cleared, and Simon and Etoile went riding on together,
with spear and shield following along the narrow street. Denise had
drawn back into the shadow of the shop, her face still hot with Etoile’s
sneer. Her shame seemed to have been flung at her like a torch out of
the darkness. Denise felt as though it had scorched her flesh. And while
she hid herself there, Aymery rode by among young Simon’s gentlemen, but
Denise neither saw him, nor he her.
Soon Fulcon came back panting, having pushed his way through the crowd
in the street. He blessed God and Denise when he saw his bread
untouched.
“Five score loaves for Simon’s men,” he said gloating. “I had the order
yonder up at the Cross. Simon is a lord who pays.”
Fulcon was very happy, but Denise went to her room above, sorrowful and
sad at heart. The peace seemed to have gone suddenly from the place.
Aymery, who had passed so near to her for whom he would have pledged his
spurs, served as knight of the guard that evening at De Montfort’s
lodging. Young Simon and Dame Etoile were very merry together, drinking
and laughing into each other’s eyes. Aymery distrusted the woman, and
feared her power over the earl’s son. It always seemed to him that he
had seen her face before that night in Southwark, but where, for the
life of him, he could not remember.
And as he kept guard in Reigate town that night, he thought of Denise,
and of that dolorous thing that had befallen her. The shame of it had
not driven her out of Aymery’s heart. Little did he guess that he had
been so near to her that day.