Ursula the Prioress was a prim woman, a woman with a long, thin face,
and a small mouth. She had no knowledge of life, but being very devout
and religious, her devotion and her religiosity made her conceive
infallibility within herself.
Ursula had seen nothing more in Denise than a young woman with gorgeous
hair, a deathly face, and blood upon her bosom, and Ursula’s nostrils
had caught a rank flavour of godlessness from the affair. The woman had
stabbed herself or been stabbed. She was probably nothing more than a
common courtesan, for Ursula had a vague knowledge that the sisterhood
of Rahab still existed. And like many religious women, Ursula was very
sure of her own cleanliness, and very suspicious of the cleanliness of
others.
The woman could not be left to die, there was her “state of sin” to be
remembered; yet Ursula was conscious of great graciousness in suffering
Denise to be carried within her doors. Then there was the knight to be
dealt with, and the Prioress who knew nothing of men, minced before
Aymery with prim haughtiness, folding her hands over her lean body,
giving him to understand that it was no concern of hers to please him.
Aymery, in the deeps and on the heights in one and the same hour, and
stricken to the inmost humanism of his soul, had no eyes for Ursula’s
prinnickings and prancings. He was in the throes of a tragedy, a strong
and impassioned man whose thoughts and desires moved with the headlong
naturalness of a stream in flood.
Ursula, half eager to be rid of the man, and yet equally curious, and
prying, received him, under a hinted protest, in her Prioress’ parlour.
To be sure, she had a couple of nuns outside the door, but some of her
prejudicial tartness vanished when she heard the name of Simon the Earl.
Even the pinpoint of the Prioress’ womanliness caught the gleam of
Aymery’s intensity that burnt at a white heat. She showed herself
old-maidishly ready to hear the truth about Denise, since a knight
trusted by Earl Simon could not be wholly a dissolute rogue.
Aymery made a mistake that day, a mistake that many a generous and
impassioned man has made. Here was a devout woman, a mother of souls,
and Aymery took her for what her religion should have made her. Denise,
poor child, with the flicker of life still in her, was to be laid to
rest in Ursula’s lap. No woman could withhold pity in such a case, and
Aymery told Ursula some part of Denise’s tale, not seeing that he was
throwing a rose into a pot of sour wine.
The Prioress’ starched figure looked lean and stiff. She was interested,
but, dear St. Agnes!—greatly shocked. Aymery’s words fell on an ass’s
hide like blows on an empty drum. The drum resounded, made some godly
stir, but held nothing more than air.
Aymery had money in his purse. It was not much, but Ursula was a woman
whose skin had the colour of gold. She took the money, and his promises
of a bequest should the people’s cause prosper, thinking it easily
earned by burying a lost woman and putting up prayers for her soul.
Ursula would have prayed religiously. She was perfectly sincere in her
own corner of the world.
“God give rest to all sinners,” she said sententiously, “we will do what
we can for the girl. It is a pity that she should not have been
shrived.”
Aymery’s face would have made Marpasse weep. It had no meaning for
Madame Ursula.
“I would see her, before I go,” he said.
And his heart added:
“Perhaps for the last time.”
Ursula’s sympathy was purely perfunctory. They had carried Denise into
the little infirmary, and laid her upon a bed. She still breathed, and
two of the nuns who had some knowledge of leech-craft, had unwound the
swathings, but feared to touch the pad that Marpasse had forced into the
wound. They had poured oil and a decoction of astringent herbs thereon,
wiped the blood-stains from the bosom, and swathed Denise in clean
linen. Then they had given her into the hands of the saints, and sat
down to watch, whispering to each other across the bed.
The slant of the late sunshine came into the room when Aymery entered at
the trail of Ursula’s gown. The sunlight struck upon the bed where
Denise lay white as a lily with the glory of her hair shining like
molten gold. And to Aymery it seemed that she smiled sadly like one
dreaming the end of some sad dream.
Ursula’s starched wimple creaked in the still room. She stood looking
down from a pinnacle of righteousness; the two nuns rose and went to the
window, taking care to see all that passed.
Their bodies shut off the sunlight from Denise’s face, and threw it into
shadow. Aymery was standing beside the bed. The two nuns glanced at one
another, and were ready to titter when he knelt down in his battle
harness as though praying, or taking some vow.
Before he rose he touched one of Denise’s hands, and it was as cold as
snow when he laid it against his lips. Ursula made a sharp sound in her
throat. Such happenings were not discreet before women who were
celibates.
Aymery rose and, looking at none of them, marched to the door.
“If she lives,” he would have said, “be kind to her until I can return.”
But death seemed to hover so close above Denise that he went out in
silence, putting all human hope aside.
Ursula followed him, debonair by reason of her good birth, and
superficially courteous after the habit of such a gentlewoman. Would
Aymery take wine and meat? Aymery had the heart for neither, but he
remembered Marpasse. Ursula had his wallet filled for him, and he took
leave of her, finding little to say to show his gratitude. The old
portress had watered his horse, and given the beast a few handfuls of
corn.
It was growing dusk when Aymery rode out of the gate, and found Marpasse
still sitting there on the bench. The figure looked lonely, with a
dejected droop of the shoulders, and a hanging of the head. Marpasse’s
worldliness was down in the dust that evening.
She got up from the bench and made Aymery a reverence. A spirit of
bitter mockery possessed her, for the day’s tragedy had hurt Marpasse
more than she would confess.
Aymery reined in. He said nothing concerning Denise, but held out the
wallet that the nuns had filled for him.
“There is food there. You must be hungry.”
Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him, and dropped into a hard and sidelong
stare. She took the wallet, and stood biting her lower lip.
“How are things, yonder?” she blurted.
Aymery’s fingers twisted themselves into his horse’s mane.
“Still, a little breathing. They have put her to bed.”
Marpasse nodded.
“I have no great hope——”
“The devil will make sure of that,” said Marpasse; “he loves a nunnery,”
and she grimaced.
Aymery walked his horse along the track, but Marpasse did not follow
him. She stood there morosely, biting her lip, and holding Aymery’s
wallet in her hands. He glanced back, and finding that she had not
moved, he reined in again and waited.
Marpasse came on slowly, one hand in the wallet, her eyes on the grass.
When she had rejoined Aymery she stopped and stood unsolicitous and
silent. The man appeared to be considering something. Yet he saw that
the woman’s face was hard and gloomy in the twilight.
“What are your plans?” he asked suddenly.
Marpasse stared.
“A ditch has often served me well enough, lording. We strollers count
for little.”
She laughed, fished a loaf out of the wallet, and broke off a crust.
“Do not trouble your head about me, lording,” she said, “go your way.
One pull at the bottle, and you shall have your wallet back.”
She took out the flask, drank, and replaced it in the leather bag.
“Good-night to you, lording. We have our own ways to go. Mine is a
common track, and I know the tread of my own shoes.”
Aymery still held his horse in hand. He had something to say to
Marpasse, and the words did not come to him easily. The woman was more
human than Ursula, and his heart went out to her because of Denise. But
before he had spoken twenty words, Marpasse broke in with a rough and
bitter laugh.
“Lording,” said she, “you cannot make silk out of sackcloth, however
much you try. Go your way, I am safe enough on the road. I have a bit of
bread here, and I shall sleep soundly under a bush. And to-morrow and
the next day, I shall be, just what I have been these five years.”
Aymery’s eyes were still troubled on her behalf. Marpasse shook her
hair, and shrugged her shoulders.
“The mule must carry its load, and be given the stick if it kicks, or
turns aside. Bah, I know what I am! Denise, there, that was a piece of
gold to be picked up out of the dust. Go your way, lording, and do not
waste your words. I should only laugh in your face to-morrow, and call
you a fool.”
She sat down in the grass and began to eat her bread, ignoring the man
on the horse, as though that were the surest way of answering him. There
was nothing for Aymery to do but to go, and leave Marpasse to her own
road.
“God’s speed, lording,” she said as he turned his horse.
“God’s speed to you, sister.”
“Ah, that would be too slow for me, sir!” and her laughter rang out with
forced audacity.
So the night came, and these two solitary ones took up the strands of
their several lives, strands that had been tangled by the martyrdom of
Denise. Earl Simon’s trumpets called Aymery into the east, whither the
King’s host went marching with dust and din. No sword could stay in the
scabbard those days, and Aymery had pledged his to Earl Simon, who
needed every sword.
Marpasse had watched Aymery ride away into the gathering darkness. She
sat there in the grass, sullen, brooding, yet touched by what he had
said.
“Bah!” said she, “what would be the use? Brave heart, go your way, and
God bless you, for being brave, and honest. Wake up, fool! What, thick
in the throat, and ready to blubber like a sot in his cups! Marpasse, my
dear, you are a slut and a fool! This is what comes of letting your
heart run away with your heels. You will be back to-morrow on the old
devil-may-care road.”
But for all her self-scorn—Marpasse could not conjure her own emotion.
Her heart hurt her and was troubled, nor could she sleep that night,
though she huddled close under the forlorn remnant of a haystack that
she found in a meadow. Marpasse felt alone, utterly alone in the world,
and conscious of the raw night and the darkness. Who would have cared,
she thought, if she had used her knife as Denise had used it? Strangers
would have kicked her into a hole, and covered her with sods; that would
have been the end.