A halt was called at noon, and Denise, who had walked for four long
hours, felt that hopeless weariness that yearns only for some corner
where the body may lie relaxed. Her feet were burning, and she and
Marpasse had been trudging in the dust made by the horses, dust that had
clogged the air, and made the eyes tingle. Denise was glad to throw
herself on the grass beside Marpasse, who was much less weary, being
tougher, and more used to the road.
Marpasse was very wide awake. She looked narrowly at Denise, and rolled
to the side on one elbow so as to be nearer.
“We have our chance now, are you strong enough?”
Denise’s dull eyes brightened, and she moistened her lips with her
tongue.
“If we only had water! What can we do—here, Marpasse, with the men all
round us?”
Marpasse gave her the stone bottle of wine that Gaillard had sent them
that morning.
“Drink,” she said in a loud voice, “nothing like wine on a dusty road.
Heigh-ho, I shall soon be sleepy,” and she rolled on her back so that
she touched Denise, and stretched her arms and yawned.
“Listen,” she said in a whisper, “there is that wood yonder, I have my
plan,” and she went on speaking softly to Denise, and still stretching
and yawning as though there was nothing hazardous to be considered.
It was plodding along an endless road, with aching feet, and gloom in
her heart, that had made Denise’s courage droop for the moment. Above
all it was the hopelessness that had tired her. Marpasse’s words were as
warm and as heartening as strong wine. The spark fell on the tinder and
red life began to run again through Denise’s being.
“I am strong enough, Marpasse.”
Marpasse seized her hand, and pretended to bite it, like a dog at play.
“Don’t look red and eager, my dear. Limp, as though you had worn your
feet to the bone. Now, good St. George, bless all fools!”
Marpasse jumped up, and crossed the road to where the two men-at-arms
who had charge of them were making a meal. She spoke to them jauntily,
her hands on her hips, her brown face insolent and laughing, her eyes
unabashed. The men laughed in turn, and nodded. Marpasse recrossed the
road, held out a hand to Denise, and pulled her roughly to her feet.
Marpasse put an arm about Denise, and Denise, prompted by her comrade,
limped as she walked, and leant her weight upon Marpasse.
Fifty yards from the road was a patch of scrub that jutted out like a
pointed beard from the broad chin of an oak wood. Marpasse and Denise
went slowly towards the trees, thinking each moment that they would hear
some voice calling them back roughly to the road. Marpasse felt Denise
straining forward instinctively upon her arm. She was breathing rapidly
like one in a fever.
They reached the scrub, and skirting it, came to the ditch that bounded
the wood. Marpasse still kept her arm about Denise.
“Gently, sister, gently; it would be a shame to spoil everything by
bolting like a hare. Be sure, our friends behind are watching us.”
Marpasse turned her head to look.
“Curses!” and the strain of the moment showed in her impatience, “one of
the fools is strolling after us. We cannot go far with only our shadows
for company. Over! No muddy shoes this time.”
They were across the ditch, and on the edge of the wood, Marpasse still
holding Denise as they went in amid the trees. She kept looking back
till the open land and the sky were shut out by the dense lattice work
of the boughs. The men had not followed them across the ditch, and
Marpasse blessed their luck when she saw that the underwood had been cut
that winter so that it would be quicker running between the stubs. Only
the dead leaves troubled Marpasse, rustling and crackling under their
feet.
“Now for it, run, run!”
She let go of Denise, and they gathered up their skirts and started off,
scudding between the tree boles, never stopping to look back. Denise did
not feel her feet under her. The brown leaves, the coarse grass, and the
wild flowers were like so much water over which she seemed to skim, yet
not so swiftly as her fear fled. She was quicker than Marpasse, because
her passion to escape burnt at a greater heat. Marpasse had torn her
skirt on a stub and was panting when they came to the farther edge of
the wood.
They paused a moment, and stood listening, and could hear the confused
hum of the host like the humming of bees. A meadow lay before them,
bounded by a second wood that towered up the steep slope of a hill.
Against the blue a lark hung with quivering wings, and quivering song.
As they stood listening a shout rose in the deeps of the wood behind
them. Denise was off like a deer, her whole soul quivering like the
wings of the lark overhead. Marpasse stayed a second to pull up a
stocking that had slipped to her ankle, and then ran on after Denise
across the meadow.
They were close to the outstanding trees of the second wood, when Denise
looked back and saw that they were followed. The two men-at-arms who had
had the guarding of them had been too shrewd to go beating through the
trees on foot when they had begun to suspect Marpasse of playing a trick
on them. They had mounted their horses, and ridden different ways so as
to circle the wood and gain a view of the two vixens when they took to
the open.
Marpasse cursed them for their pains.
“Another minute, and we should have been out of sight,” she said; “we
may yet trick them in the wood.”
They kept together now, labouring uphill with faces that began to betray
distress. Marpasse had a stitch in her side, her stockings were at her
ankles, and her hair over her shoulders. They could hear the men
shouting, but paid no heed to it, for if there were but thicker cover on
the other side of the hill, they might take to it and escape.
As they topped the slope they heard the trampling of horses in the
valley behind them. Marpasse looked eagerly to right and left, and an
angry cry escaped her, for a wood of great forest trees dipped gently
away from them, the trunks pillaring broad aisles that were carpeted
with sleek and brilliant sward. A man could see through the wood as
though looking along the aisles of a church, where children could do no
more than play hide-and-seek round the piers and pillars.
“No luck for us! They can ride us down here almost as well as in a
meadow.”
Denise caught Marpasse’s arm.
“The knife, Marpasse; give it me.”
Marpasse was panting, one hand at her side.
“No, no, not that, my dear!”
“I will not be taken alive, Marpasse. Give me the knife, and run. They
will not trouble you when they find me here.”
Marpasse drew Denise behind the trunk of a great tree, for she had seen
a helmet come up over the edge of the hill, to be followed by the
tossing mane of a horse.
Marpasse took Denise in her arms.
“My sister,” and she was greatly moved, “take it not to heart. In a
week, or a month, it may seem different.”
But Denise was in earnest as her white face showed.
“No, no, Marpasse, I cannot. Give me the knife.”
Marpasse fumbled for it, great passionate tears rushing to her eyes. Had
she not once passed through the same pain, and shirked the crisis, only
to become a stroller and a courtesan! Denise had a more sensitive
surface, a deeper courage. Yet Marpasse’s heart cried out against the
thing.
The two men were close upon them now, riding slowly and at some distance
from one another so that the two women should not play hide and seek
behind the trees. Marpasse turned her head away as she gave Denise the
knife.
“My sister, am I wrong in this?”
Denise caught her, and kissed her on the mouth.
“Truest of friends, go, now. It will not be so hard to end it, for I am
very tired.”
Marpasse broke away with a spasm of the throat. The thought seized her
suddenly that by running she might draw the men away from Denise. Yet
she had not gone three steps before her wet eyes saw something that made
her start, and then stand like a deer at gaze.
What Marpasse saw was a knight on a black horse riding up furiously
through the wood. He was bending low in the saddle behind his shield,
with spear feutered, and the steel mass of his great helmet flashing in
the sunlight that sifted through the trees. His horse seemed to gallop
almost silently over the soft turf. Yet he came on like the wind, and
with no doubtful intent.
Marpasse whipped round, and ran back to Denise.
“Not death yet,” she said, “nor the devil either, pray God.”
There was the thud of hoofs on the soft turf of the woodland rides, and
the two women saw the man on the black horse go by at the gallop,
bending low behind his shield. Marpasse stood out to watch him, her
mouth wide open as though howling a blessing. She saw one of Gaillard’s
men kicking his heels into his horse’s flanks as though to gather speed
against the shock of that feutered spear. The knight on the black horse
was on him before the fellow could gain much ground. Marpasse saw a
spear break in the middle, and a body go twisting over the grass like a
bird with an arrow through it, while the dead man’s horse went off at a
canter.
Marpasse caught Denise by the hand, and drew her from behind the tree.
“Glory of God, my dear,” and her eyes glistened, but not with tears,
“Lord, how I love a lusty fighter. Here is a man who can strike a blow.
And here are we like damoiselles in a French romance, my dear. Save us,
Sir Launcelot, or Sir Tristan of Lyonnesse, whatever your name may be!
La, I could kiss you for being so lusty!”
The second of Gaillard’s men had ridden in to help his comrade. Swords
were out, and sweeping in gyres of light under the boughs of the oak
trees. But he of the black horse set about Gaillard’s man as though he
were thrashing corn. There was only one sword at work so far as the
issue was concerned.
Denise looked on with dull eyes, and feverish face. It was like a
violent dream to her, those struggling figures, and the body lying there
thrust through with the broken spear. Marpasse was dancing from foot to
foot, her brown face flushed, her eyes flashing.
She threw up her arms, and shouted in triumph.
“He has it, he has it, in the throat. Oh, brave blow! Would I were a
man, and that I had an arm like that!”
The man on the black horse had beaten Gaillard’s fellow out of the
saddle. He slid down his horse’s belly, a dishevelled figure with limp
arms and fallen sword. One foot had caught in the stirrup, and the horse
took fright, and cantered off through the wood, dragging the body after
it.
The knight watched the body go sliding over the grass, tossing its arms
as though in grotesque terror. He turned his horse, and rode back slowly
towards the two women, and they saw that he carried a hawk’s claw in
gold upon a sable shield. His surcoat was a dull green, a colour that
was not too crude and conspicuous for forest tracks. The great helmet,
with its eye cleft in the shape of a cross, hid his face completely.
Marpasse, impetuous wench, ran forward and kissed the black muzzle of
his horse.
“Lording, good luck to you,” and her blue eyes laughed in her brown
face, “never were distressed damsels in greater need. King Arthur’s
gentlemen were never more welcome.”
The man did not look at Marpasse, but at Denise. She was leaning against
the tree trunk, her hair hanging about her shoulders like red light, her
face a dead white by contrast. Her brown eyes had a feverish look, and
she still held Marpasse’s knife in her right hand.
The man on the black horse waved Marpasse aside with his sword. And
there was something about the silent, massive figure with its iron mask
that made Marpasse move back.
“Go yonder, and watch,” he said, pointing towards the outskirts of the
wood.
“But, lording——?”
“Go. Is my blood the blood of that dead thing yonder!”
And Marpasse, who had obeyed very few people in her life, obeyed him
without a word.
When she had gone the man put his sword up into its scabbard,
dismounted, and stood holding the bridle of his horse. Denise’s eyes
were fixed upon the helmet with its shadowy cleft in the shape of a
cross. The man saw her bosom rising and falling, and that her eyes were
troubled. Marpasse’s knife was half hidden by the grey folds of her
gown.
The man put both hands to the helmet, lifted it, and let it fall upon
the grass. And it was Aymery whom Denise saw.
She looked at him with wide, eloquent, and frightened eyes, a rush of
colour crimsoning her face, for Denise remembered the Aymery of Reigate
Town, the stern-faced captain hounding Gaillard into the night. And all
the shame and ignominy that she had suffered seemed to fall and break
upon her head. She stood speechless, her eyes looking at him like the
eyes of one who expects a blow.
“Denise!”
He held out his hands to her, but she covered her face, and leant
against the trunk of the tree. Yet she did not weep or make any sound.
It was a dry, frozen anguish with her that could neither move nor speak.
Aymery watched her as a man might watch one in bitter pain, knowing not
what to do to help or comfort.
“Denise!”
Perhaps the pity in his voice stung her. God, that it should have come
to this, for she had read the truth upon his face. Denise raised her
head, and their eyes met. Her mouth was quivering, but she looked at
Aymery as though challenging the whole world in that one man. Perhaps
Denise could not have told what made her do the thing she did. The fever
of fatalism was in her blood, and Marpasse’s knife was in her hand. And
Aymery, stupefied, watched the red stain start out against the grey
cloth of her gown.