Night came while Marpasse and Isoult were building a fire under the lee
of a grass bank in a meadow outside Guildford, for Marpasse, shrewd
woman, had no sooner heard the din that the King’s men were making in
the town, than she had chosen to pass the night in the open rather than
within the walls.
“They will all be drunk as swine,” she said, “and a drunken man is no
bargain. Out with your knife, Black Cat, and run and cut some of that
furze yonder. Some lazy soul has left faggots in that ditch.”
Marpasse made Denise sit down under the shelter of the bank, for the
grey sister’s feet had hurt her through the last two miles. So Denise
sat there in the dusk, lost in a kind of vacant wonder at life, and at
herself, and at the strange way that things happened. She felt tired,
even to stupidity, and the sounds that came up out of the town were not
more audible than the roar of a distant mill.
Marpasse and Isoult made the fire, Isoult using the flint, steel and
tinder they carried with them, Marpasse playing the part of bellows. The
fire proved sulky, perhaps because of Isoult’s temper, and her muttering
of curses. Marpasse knelt and blew till her brown cheeks were like
bladders. The flames seemed pleased by her good-natured, strenuous face,
for they shot up, and began to lick the wood.
Marpasse sat back suddenly on her heels, her face very red, and shading
her eyes with her hand, she looked out into the darkness.
“Poof, is it the blood in my ears, or do I hear something?”
Isoult was also on the alert, her eyes bright under a frowning forehead.
“Horses,” she said.
“What are they doing this time of the night?”
From somewhere came the dull thunder of many horses at the trot. Nothing
was distinguishable but the fires that had been lit here and there about
the town, fires that shone like golden nails on the sable escutcheon of
the night. Isoult, who was very quick of hearing, swore that more than a
thousand horses must be moving yonder in the darkness.
“Curses, but it must be the rear-guard,” said Marpasse; “God send them
clear of us, or we shall be over-crowded. The fire will save us from
being trampled on.”
The thunder of hoofs came nearer, a sound that sent a vague shudder
through the darkness as though something infinitely strong and
infinitely savage were rushing on out of the gloom. The earth shook. A
sense of movement grew in the outer darkness, a sense of movement that
approached like a phosphorescent wave swinging in from a midnight sea.
Then a trumpet screamed. There was a rattling and chafing like the noise
made by the tackle of a great ship when she puts about in a high wind. A
shrill, faint voice from somewhere shouted an order. The belated
rear-guard of the host, for such it was, halted within a furlong of the
women’s fire.
Marpasse shook her fist at the dark mass.
“Fools, you should have been drunk down yonder in the town by now! We
can do very well without you. And as likely as not you will thieve our
fire.”
Isoult laughed.
“Some thieves might be welcome,” she said.
And Denise, who had listened to it all with tired apathy, seemed to wake
suddenly and to feel the cold, for she shivered and drew nearer to the
fire.
Despite the newcomers, Isoult, Marpasse and Denise sat round the burning
wood, breaking their bread, and listening to the shouts of the men, and
the trampling and snorting of horses. It was pitch dark beyond the
circle of light thrown by the fire, though torches began to go to and
fro like great moths with flaming wings. Marpasse and Isoult both had
their ears open. They were rough women in the midst of rough men, and
their instincts were as fierce and keen as the instincts of wild things
that hunt or are hunted at night.
Voices seemed to rise everywhere in the darkness. A waggon went creaking
by, with the cracking of a whip, and the oaths of the driver. Mallets
began to ring on the polls of stout, ash pegs and Isoult pricked up her
ears at the sound.
“They are pitching a tent yonder!”
Marpasse nodded as she munched her bread.
“Some of the lords must be near,” Isoult ran on, “we may be in good
company. The saints bring us luck.”
Her eyes met Denise’s, and there was a startled something in Denise’s
glance that made Isoult flinch, and then burst into spiteful laughter.
Isoult had the wine flask in her hand, and she lifted it, and drank
deep.
“Blood of mine, have we an unshorn lamb here?”
She stared at Denise impudently as though challenging her. Denise looked
away.
Isoult’s face sharpened, the face of a little vixen ever ready to snap
and bite.
“Lord, how proud we are! Coarse sluts, that is what we are, Marpasse.”
The big woman held up a brown hand.
“Keep your claws in, cat,” she said, “you were born quarrelling. Curse
you, be quiet.”
And Isoult obeyed, having felt the weight of Marpasse’s fist.
It was not long before a couple of soldiers passed close to the fire,
and seeing the three women, red, blue, and grey, they stopped, and began
to talk banteringly to Marpasse and Isoult. The women returned the men
better than they gave, and showed them plainly that they had no need of
their company, for the fellows were rough boors, and sweeter at a
distance. Denise sat and shuddered, huddling into herself with
instinctive disgust, and understanding why Marpasse had a naked knife in
her sleeve. The men slunk off, sending back jeers out of the darkness,
for Marpasse had shown her knife.
“The sting of a wasp keeps such flies from buzzing too near,” she said;
“we are great ladies on occasions, Isoult and I. We cherish our dignity
for the sake of the gold.”
They went on with their meal, hearing movement everywhere about them in
the darkness. Isoult’s eyes were fixed upon a fire about a hundred yards
away, whose light seemed to play upon the rose-coloured canvas of a
tent. Men were going to and fro there, and Isoult guessed that it was
some great lord’s pavilion. As for Marpasse she ate, drank, and kept
eyes and ears upon the alert.
Denise had nothing before her but the black half sphere of the night
chequered with the yellow flutter of the fires. Isoult and Marpasse sat
facing her and looking towards the town. Therefore they did not see what
Denise saw, the tall figure of a man in war harness, unhelmeted, and
wearing a blue surcoat blazoned over with golden suns. He came along the
bank out of the darkness, and stood looking down at the three women
round the fire.
Now Denise’s hood was back, and the firelight shining on her hair and
face. Gaillard stood on the bank above, and stared at her, intently,
silently, and she at him. Denise felt stricken dumb, and the heart froze
in her, for Gaillard was near enough for her to recognise his face. It
seemed to Denise that he stood there and gloated over her, opening his
mouth wide to laugh, but making no sound. She saw him raise his hand,
touch his breast, and then make the sign of the cross in the air,
watching her as a ghost might watch the confused and half-stupefied
terror of one awakened out of sleep.
Marpasse happened to raise her eyes to Denise’s face, and its bleak,
fixed stare put her upon the alert.
“Heart alive, sister, is the devil at my back?”
She twisted round in time to see a man moving off into the darkness, and
Marpasse caught a glimpse of the gold suns on the blue surcoat. She
jumped up, looked hard at Denise, and then went a few steps after
Gaillard into the darkness. But the man did not wait for her, and she
was recalled by a sharp cry from Isoult.
Marpasse saw Denise climb the bank, and disappear into the darkness, and
in a moment Marpasse was after her, knowing more than Denise knew of a
camping ground at night. She still had view of the grey cloak, and
Denise fled like a blind thing, and like a blind thing she was soon in
trouble. She had run towards the place where the night seemed blackest,
but the passion of her flight carried her into nothing more sympathetic
than an old thorn hedge. It was here that Marpasse came up with her,
while she was tearing her cloak free from the clinging thorns and
brambles.
She caught Denise and held her.
“Fool, where are you running?”
“Let me go, Marpasse.”
Denise’s voice was fierce and eager, the eager fierceness of a grown
woman, not the petulance of a child. She struggled with Marpasse, but
the woman kept her hold.
“Let me go, take your hands away!”
Marpasse found Denise stronger than she had thought.
“Fool, I am holding you for your own good. Strike me on the mouth, I am
used to it. I know what a camping ground is like at night. Some great,
fat spider will have you in a twinkling.”
Denise struggled for breath.
“I must go, Marpasse, take your hands away.”
“Saints, don’t shout so, they are as thick here as flies on a dead
horse! Ssst, listen to that!”
She dragged Denise close to the hedge, for they heard men stumbling and
calling in the darkness.
“Hallo there, hallo!”
“Come here, you squeakers, and keep us company.”
“Find ’em, good dog, find ’em.”
Marpasse laid a hand over Denise’s mouth, and they crouched there while
the men beat the hedge and shouted like boys bird hunting with clap nets
at night. They were on the wrong side of the hedge, however, and soon
grew tired of the game. The women heard them move off into the darkness.
Marpasse took her hand from Denise’s mouth.
“There, you grey pigeon, the night hawks would have had you!”
“Help me, Marpasse. My God, I cannot stay here.”
She was still in a fever for flight, but more reasonable towards
Marpasse. The woman sat down under the hedge, and pulling Denise after
her, held her in her arms.
“Let me play mother,” quoth she gently, “keep to a whisper, my dear. I
know something about trouble.”
So with the camp fires about them, and with the sound of trumpets blown
madly and at random in the town below, these two women opened their
hearts to one another. Denise told Marpasse how Gaillard had served her,
how she had seen him that night, how she loathed and feared the man, and
Marpasse understood. She was wise, poor wench, in the ways of the world,
and Denise’s tale might have been her own in measure. But Marpasse had
not been wholly hardened and brutalised by the life she had led. She had
the instinct of generosity left in her, and she could be superlatively
honest when she was not rebuffed by sneers.
Marpasse had an honest fit that night. She told Denise the truth about
herself, and knew by Denise’s silence and a certain stiffening of her
body that the truth had roused a counter-shock of repulsion. Denise’s
instincts recoiled from Marpasse. The woman was sensitive to the change.
She drew aside from Denise, and sat with her knees drawn up, and her
arms clasped over them.
“You are like the rest of the world, sister,” she said, with a laugh on
edge with bitterness; “even when we try to be honest, good people spit
on us, and draw aside their clothes.”
Denise stretched out a hand and touched Marpasse’s shoulder.
“It is not that,” she said.
“Bah, I am used to it! We are never forgiven, and I want no forgiveness.
Fawn and cringe on the godly? To hell with their smug faces! But after
all, you and I, my dear——”
She stopped, and began to pull at the grass with her hands. Denise’s
eyes were shining.
“God forgive us both, Marpasse. Sometimes fate is stronger than we are.
We are sisters, in that.”
Marpasse did not move. It was Denise now who played the comforter.
Marpasse did not repel her a second time.
“Bah,” said she, “what is the use of talking? The good people will never
let me be other than I am, and even a pig must live. But you, you can
climb out of the quagmire, my dear. The Gascon devil, I would stick my
knife in him for nothing. Listen to me now, we must go back to the fire,
and wait till the morning. It will be easier to bolt then. You must not
risk it in the dark.”
Denise still clung to the darkness, as though it could keep Gaillard at
arm’s length. Marpasse scolded her.
“Why, you chicken, you have never learnt how to rule a man! Who is this
Gaillard, indeed? I tell you I am not afraid of him, Marpasse is a match
for any Gascon.”
She held out her arms, and the Denise she held in them was white-faced,
and very earnest.
“You have a knife, Marpasse,” she said, “you can strike me if needs be.”
Marpasse held her close.
“There, now, there, what mad things are you saying?”
But Denise clung to her passionately, looking straight into Marpasse’s
eyes.
“Promise to strike with the knife, Marpasse. Promise or I will run, and
take my chance.”
And Marpasse promised so far as the knife was concerned, knowing that
she would strike Gaillard before she struck Denise.