Said Marpasse to Isoult:
“If the Lord had loved us he would have kept the King at Oxford until we
came there to drink wine.”
And Isoult, a little woman, the colour of ivory, lithe and strong as a
snake, threw a handful of sand at Dame Marpasse, and laughed.
“Since they have taken Young Simon prisoner,” she said, “there will be
no chance for the like of us under the banner of the Old Earl. God grant
that Simon be soon put under the sods. He would freeze all the young men
in the country. God prosper the King.”
Marpasse had taken off one of her stockings, and was darning a hole in
the heel, and darning it very clumsily.
“They have slaughtered the Jews in London, and the King should come
south again to see after the remnant of his flock. They say his host is
moving nearer the river. We must look to our manners, my dear; I will be
nothing under a great lady.”
Isoult shot out a red tongue.
“Supposing I look no lower than Prince Edward himself! We must fill our
purses soon. These cursed marchings to and fro have left us out in the
cold. Once in the King’s camp, I will sleep in a lord’s tent, and no
other. And I will have siclatouns and silks, for there will be London
and half the country to plunder.”
Marpasse looked solemn.
“They must beat Earl Simon out of the country first,” said she; “the old
watchdog keeps the meat from being stolen. Phew, I would give something
for a loaf of bread. We shall have to bide the night here, and chew
grass. What a curse it is sometimes to wear gay clothes, and to have no
gentleman near to take one up on his horse.”
Great contrasts were these two; Isoult, black as midnight as to eyes and
hair, sharp, peevish, slim of body, red of mouth and white of skin;
Marpasse, with large handsome face brown as a berry, hard blue eyes
shining under a mop of tawny hair, and a mouth ready to break into
giggles. They were resting on the road, these excellent gentlewomen, in
the shelter of a sand-pit on the hills beyond Guildford, their baggage,
such as it was, spread about them in happy confusion. Isoult had a great
slit in her poppy-red tunic, a slit that showed the white shift beneath.
She was waiting till Marpasse, that tawny woman who loved bright
colours, should finish with the needle. But Marpasse’s darning was slow
and clumsy, and Isoult plucked grass and gnawed it, watching the sandy
track that went winding down into the valley.
Marpasse finished her botching at last, and wiping the sand from between
her toes, pulled on her stocking. She stuck the needle into a wisp of
thread, and tossed it into Isoult’s lap. But Isoult was still gnawing
grass, and staring down the road with a brooding alertness in her eyes.
“Here comes a grey goat,” she said suddenly, spitting out a blade of
grass, and wiping her chin, “maybe she is worth being gentle to. Who
knows! At all events, we are hungry.”
Marpasse wriggled forward so that she had a view of the road. One stout
leg protruded from under the skirt of cornflower blue, and the Juno’s
limb betrayed a further need of the needle.
“Hey, grey gull, but you are tired, my dear.”
“Tired! Bah!” and Isoult bit her lips, “only married women walk so, as
though they had a stick laid across their shoulders each morning.”
Marpasse held her ground.
“You should know enough of the road, little cat, to tell when a padder
is footsore, and far spent. God a’ me, but she is good to look at,
though she be lame. And a bag, too. If she has bread in it, I will call
her dear sister.”
The woman in grey whom Isoult had sighted, came to the mouth of the
sand-pit, and saw these two wenches in their bright clothes watching
her; and when one of them smiled and beckoned, Denise stood hesitating,
and then smiled in return. But the smile was so weary and so sad, that
Marpasse, that big woman with the head of a sunflower, jumped up, and
went out into the road.
Marpasse looked Denise over from head to foot, yet behind the rude and
bold-eyed stare there was the instinctive good nature of a coarse,
generous, vagrant spirit. Marpasse’s self-introduction was like a
friendly slap of the hand. She spoke straight out, and did not stop to
parley.
“The roads might be strawed with peppercorns in this dry weather. It is
hot in the sun too, on these hills.”
She glanced at Denise’s feet. The shoes were dusty and worn, with the
pink toes showing. Marpasse laughed. She was a hardy soul, and her brown
feet were like leather.
“If you are going to Guildford, you will not make the town to-night.”
“I know the road, I travelled it only a week ago.”
“God o’ me, mistress, so do I. Come in, and rest, we are two quiet
women. And we have wine and no bread. If you have bread, I will strike a
bargain.”
Denise looked from Marpasse to Isoult, that slip of ivory swathed in
flaming red. The two women puzzled her. She had neither character nor
calling to give them, but Marpasse looked buxom, and good-tempered, and
Denise had no cause to trust people who pretended to great godliness.
Moreover she was very weary and very footsore, and very thirsty, as
Marpasse had hinted.
The first thing she did was to give Marpasse the bag she carried.
“There is bread there,” she said, “and some apples.”
Marpasse stared, but took the bag. Isoult had crept up, and her eyes
were bright and greedy. She snatched at the bag, but Marpasse caught her
wrist, and gave her a slap across the cheek.
“Play fair, little cat,” said she, “I cheat no one who does not try to
cheat.”
Then she turned to Denise with a laugh, her hard eyes growing suddenly
soft and bright.
“Take your share, sister, and welcome,” she said, “two mouthfuls of wine
for a crust of your bread. Come in. I will keep Dame Red Rose’s fingers
quiet. There are worse places to sleep in than a sand-pit.”
Peaceable folk might have fought shy of these boldly coloured, and
bold-eyed women, but Denise had suffered so many things at the hands of
the world that she did not stand upon dignity or caution. Marpasse and
Isoult puzzled her, being so gaudy and yet so ragged, so broad and merry
in their talk. When they had drunk wine and broken bread together,
Marpasse came and sat herself at Denise’s feet. She unlaced the worn
shoes, and finding blood and chafed skin beneath, made a noise like a
clucking hen.
“You are not used to the road yet, my dear,” said she, “it is time I
played the barber.”
In her blunt and practical way she pulled off Denise’s stockings, doing
it gently enough, for the feet were chafed and sore.
“Black cat, throw me the oil flask.”
Isoult demurred, looking a little sullenly at Denise. For Isoult was
fond of oiling and smoothing her black hair, and there would be no oil
left for the toilet.
Marpasse took it by force.
“I understand these matters,” she said, “you are a selfish brat,
Isoult.”
Marpasse’s broad face was so brown and kind, and her hands so motherly,
that a wet mist came into Denise’s eyes. She was astonished that the
woman should take so much trouble, and was touched by her great
gentleness. Isoult, who was watching, saw two tears gather in Denise’s
eyes, and she started up with an angry toss of the head, and a snap of
her white teeth. Marpasse, bending over Denise’s feet, saw those two
tears fall on to Denise’s skirt. She looked up suddenly, and for some
reason showed her roughness. Such women as Marpasse and Isoult had a
ferocious contempt for tears.
“Bah, come now, no snivelling. I have not hurt you, don’t pretend that.”
“You have not hurt me at all. It was not that.”
“Oh, not that! Then what are you blubbering for?”
“Not many people would have troubled about my feet,” said Denise, almost
humbly.
“Bah, many people are fools.”
The two women looked at each other, and Marpasse seemed to understand.
She went red under her brown skin, laughed at herself contemptuously,
and began to drop in the oil.
“The Black Cat has prowled away,” she said, “and the cat is a selfish
beast. Now for some cool grass.”
She scrambled aside, and tearing grass from some of the tussocks on the
bank, moulded the stuff about Denise’s feet, binding it in place with
pieces of rag.
“You will walk easier to-morrow,” she said, smiling, “and you had better
buy new hose in Guildford town.”
She was still smiling when Denise bent down and kissed the coarse,
laughing, good-natured mouth.
“Bah, if you had a beard, it might please me,” quoth Marpasse.
But from that moment she and Denise were friends.
The three of them slept that night in the sand-pit, Marpasse showing
Denise how she could scoop a hole in the sand, and lie in comfort. And
Denise slept till after the dawn had broken. When she woke, the two were
packing their belongings into a sack.
Denise felt that they had been talking about her while she slept, for
they eyed her a little curiously, but with no cunning or distrust. Nor
was Denise’s instinct at fault. “She is not one of us,” Marpasse had
said, “not yet, at all events, poor baggage.” And Marpasse had looked
almost pityingly at Denise, for her face was beautiful yet very sad in
sleep, bathed by its auburn hair. “She has had trouble,” Marpasse had
gone on to declare; “curses, I was more like that myself once.” Whereat
Isoult had jeered.
Marpasse came over, and unbound Denise’s feet, and in the doing of it,
asked a few blunt questions.
“Maybe you would not be seen with us on the road?” she asked.
Denise’s brown eyes answered “why?” Marpasse looked at her and smiled.
“Where may you be going?”
This time Denise’s eyes were troubled, they had no answer.
“Nowhere, and anywhere? God o’ me. I learnt that road long ago, and a
rough road it is. Come with us, if it pleases you. I am a wise crow.”
Denise looked puzzled. She liked Marpasse, and human sympathy was
something, but she could make nothing either of her or of Isoult, save
that Isoult had a jealous temper. They were so very gay for beggars, nor
had they the air of being upon a pilgrimage.
“Perhaps you are for Canterbury?” she asked.
Marpasse sat back on her heels, and opened her mouth wide to laugh.
“No, my dear, we are not for St. Thomas’s shrine. We are in search of
service, Isoult and I. Isoult is travelling to find service in the
household of some lord.”
Denise’s eyes were innocent enough as she looked at Isoult, but the girl
bit her lips, and turned away. Marpasse had mastered her laughter. On
the contrary she was studying Denise with a questioning frown.
“Are you after St. Thomas’s blessing, my dear?” she asked.
Denise did not know how to answer her, and Marpasse, who was wondrous
quick for so big a woman, picked up Denise’s shoes and began to lace
them on.
“You can come with us as far as you please, my sister,” she said, “and
when that body there is asleep some time, you and I can talk together. I
am called Marpasse, and I am a very wicked woman, and the good priests
curse me, and the bad priests curse me also, but look after me along the
road. I am so wicked that I shall certainly be claimed by the devil one
day. That is what I am, my dear; but a speckled apple is sometimes sweet
under the skin.”
She laughed with a kind of fierce bravado, and Denise saw her eyes
flash.
Isoult broke into a sharp and malicious giggle.
“What a good girl you were once, Marpasse!”
“I was that,” said the elder woman, looking at Denise’s feet; “men make,
men break, and good women prevent the mending. That is what life has
been to many.”
They set out for Guildford that morning over the blue hills where the
gorse blazed, and a few solitary firs rose black against the sky. It was
a wild country, and Denise was in wild company had she known it, for
little Isoult had had blood on the knife she carried at her girdle, and
Marpasse could use a heavy hand. They trudged on over the heathlands,
Isoult walking a little ahead, sometimes humming a song, sometimes
glancing back sharply and impatiently at Denise. For Marpasse took her
time, remembering that Denise was footsore, and she talked to Denise
freely, telling her where she was born, and how she had lived, and how
she had come to the road.
“For we are beggars, my dear,” she said, “though Madame Isoult there has
a red dress. We must live, and the good women turn up their noses. But
good women often have sharp tongues and sour faces, and the poor men run
to the mead butt and to us for comfort.”
Marpasse was so frank that she could not but doubt that Denise knew what
company she was in. But Denise had taken a liking to Marpasse, and
perhaps for that reason she did not read very clearly the truth that the
woman put honestly upon her own forehead. It was not surprising that
Marpasse should draw her own conclusions, yet she was sorry in her heart
for Denise.
The day passed, a day of blue haze, of blue distances, and of sunlight
shimmering over purple hills. Bees were on the wing, humming here and
there amid the gorse. At noon the women shared out the bread, wine, and
apples, and Marpasse looked at Denise’s feet. It was near evening when
they came over the last hill towards Guildford town, with the west a
pyre of peerless gold.
Isoult, who walked ahead of the other two, turned suddenly, and waved to
them, and pointed towards the sky line. And against the deep blue of the
northern sky they saw a line of spears moving, with here and there the
black dot of a man’s head. A banner was displayed at the head of the
company, but neither Isoult nor Marpasse could decipher it at such a
distance.
The line of spears went eastwards towards Guildford, and dropped slowly
out of view. Denise saw that Black Isoult’s nostrils had dilated and
that her eyes had the glitter seen in the eyes of a beast of prey. She
ran on ahead, light on her feet as a young lad, and they saw her stand
outlined against the sky line, and then turn and wave her arm.
Below, towards the valley, dark masses of men were moving on Guildford
town. The faint braying of the trumpets came up on the evening breeze.
Isoult saw a part of the King’s host on the march.
She tossed her head, laughed, and spread her arms.
“The good saints have blessed us,” she said, and she looked at Denise
curiously under her black brows as though searching her inmost heart.
Marpasse beamed.
“Our grey sister has brought us luck. We must keep our wits sharp
to-night.”
They went on down the hill, and Isoult, walking softly and lightly as a
cat, pointed out where a great baggage train lumbered with a crowd of
people like black ants about it. Already they were pitching tents and
pavilions in the meadows outside the town. The evening sunlight seemed
to strike upon water, for the glitter of the King’s host was like the
glitter of a river flowing in the valley. Everything looked so peaceful
and minute, so orderly, and yet so human. It was like the green grass
over a quagg, bright and rich at a distance, but covering rottenness
beneath. Up on the hills one did not smell the sweat of the horses nor
hear the men’s foul talk, nor see the savagery that was loose in their
eyes.
Isoult turned, and looked sharply at Marpasse.
“Shall we try the town?”
Marpasse shook her head. Her face was hard now, and her eyes watchful.
Denise wondered at the change that had come over the two women.
“A quick bargain is a bad one,” said Marpasse, “let us bide our time,
and listen. We are good enough to take our choice. I shall keep my knife
in my hand to-night.”
And they went on down hill towards the camp that was being pitched about
the town.