On the evening of Tuesday, the 13th of May, the Barons lay amid the
woods about Fletching, knowing that they were to march on the morrow to
offer the King battle outside Lewes town. All hope of peace had gone,
and both parties had thrown away the scabbard. Henry believed that he
had Earl Simon at his mercy, for the royal host far outnumbered the
Earl’s, and where De Montfort could count in part only on burgher
levies, the King and his favourites had the flower of the foreign
mercenaries in their pay. Henry had refused to listen to the Bishops of
London and Worcester, who had come from the Earl. God was delivering
Simon and his turbulent following into the royal hands, and the King was
not to be cheated of his opportunity by the tongues of meddlesome
priests.
As the evening sun sank towards the west, the Barons’ host gathered and
stood to their arms with the fresh green of the May woods spreading a
virgin canopy above their spears. It was no gorgeous pageant so far as
pomp and circumstance were concerned. There were many banners and
pennons brilliant in the evening sunshine, but the bulk of De Montfort’s
army was made up of the lesser gentry, and their retainers, and the
burghers of the towns, plain men, but men who were in grim and sober
earnest. Many of them had never fought in their lives before, and
Gaillard, and such gallants in the King’s service, laughed when they
spoke of the herd of hogs they were to chase through the Sussex
woodlands. But the stocky, brown-faced men of the English towns, and the
English manors were not to be trampled on so easily. Men who could fell
timber, and handle the scythe, the bill and the hammer, were tough in
the arms, and sound and strong at heart.
The Barons’ host went on its knees that evening, its lines of steel
seaming the green woods. Lords, knights, gentlemen, yeomen, burghers,
knelt with their shields before them, their swords naked in the grass,
their heads uncovered. Between the ranks of these silent, steel-clad
figures came the Bishop of Worcester, and many priests with him,
chanting as they came. The whole host was confessed, absolved, and
blessed under the oak trees of the Fletching woods. It was as though the
heart of England was shrived that day, before the national ordeal of
battle.
“Holy Cross, Holy Cross.”
Men came running and shouting through the ranks, carrying bales of white
cloth which they spread on the grass, and tore into hundreds of strips.
Every fighting man was to carry the White Cross on his breast. And in
the midst of it all Earl Simon and a great company of lords and
gentlemen came riding through, wearing the White Cross on their
surcoats. Swords and spears were tossed aloft, and the heart of the host
went up in sound like the long roar of a stormy sea.
Under a great oak tree De Montfort knighted many of the younger lords
and gentlemen, among them Robert de Vere, John de Burgh the son of the
great justiciary, and young Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester. Then he and his
sons and his captains went everywhere, heartening their men, bidding
them rest and eat, and keep strong and lusty against the morrow.
As De Montfort was riding back with young Gloucester, and a few knights
and gentlemen of his own household to the manor house where he had his
quarters, he came upon several women standing under the shade of an old
yew. It happened that Earl Simon had put abroad an order that no women
should be suffered to follow the army on the march. If the King and his
host had seven hundred courtesans in their camp, that was the King’s
affair; De Montfort would have none of it.
Earl Simon ordered his gentlemen to halt, and turned aside alone towards
the yew tree. Two of the women had come forward, and were waiting as
though to speak with the Earl. De Montfort had a frown on his face.
Great soldier that he was, he had his rough and passionate moods; his
strong sincerity sometimes ran away with his tongue.
The two women went on their knees before Earl Simon’s horse.
“Sire,” said the elder of the two, “put your anger away. We are here for
love of the White Cross.”
Straight speaking, and a straight look of the eyes were things that De
Montfort loved. The armed men who watched and waited, wondered why Earl
Simon tarried there talking, and did not send the women away.
De Montfort’s face had begun to shine like the face of a saint. He
looked very thoughtfully at the two women as they laid their lives in
the hollow of his hand. The plan was Marpasse’s, but Denise would not
suffer her comrade to carry it out alone. Their plan was to go as spies
to Lewes that night, and bring back any news that they could gather as
to what the King purposed to do on the morrow.
Earl Simon would have none of it at first. Perhaps he doubted their
honesty; yet the two women contrived to convince him, Marpasse sly and
valiant, Denise with the quiet eyes of one who has chosen a certain
part.
De Montfort appeared puzzled by Denise. Marpasse saw the look, and broke
in in her blunt, bold way:—
“She is not of my clay, sire, but we were baked in the same oven. She
has seized this trick of mine, and will not let it out of her hands.”
“Is that so, child?”
Denise’s eyes met his.
“I am not afraid, sire,” she answered.
The Earl still shirked accepting a possible sacrifice. Marpasse put in a
final word.
“Though it be to my shame, lord,” she said, “I have learnt how to tread
among thorns. There is only one thing that I would ask, and that is the
right to choose the man who shall take us within two miles of Lewes
town.”
She flashed a look at Denise as though to silence her, and went close to
De Montfort’s horse. A smile came over his face as he listened to
Marpasse, and there was sadness in the smile, and the quiet compassion
of a man who had held children in his arms.
“God guard you both,” he said, “it shall be as you desire.”
Aymery had command of the guard that evening at the manor house where
Simon, the Earl of Gloucester, and the great lords had their quarters.
Word was brought him by an esquire of De Montfort’s son Guy, that the
Earl was calling for him, and that Simon was to be found in the great
barn where the Bishop of Worcester was to preach to the lords and
gentlemen before sundown. Aymery found the Earl sitting on a barrow that
stood on the threshing floor, a knot of knights standing behind him, and
the evening sunlight that poured in striking silver burs from their
battle harness.
Simon looked straight into Aymery’s eyes as he gave him his orders.
“Go down to the yew tree near the pond where we water our horses,
messire. You will find two women waiting there. They have sworn to spy
out the land for us. Take a guide and ten spears, and see the women as
near to Lewes as you can without breaking cover.”
Earl Simon always eyed his men as though he were looking into the brain
behind the eyes. Aymery saluted, and turned to obey. His face betrayed
no surprise, though it was a new thing for De Montfort to rely on the
wits of two women.
Simon called him back.
“Wait, and keep watch in the woods,” he said, “the women will try to
bring back news. We shall be on the move before dawn.”
He rose from the barrow, and crossing the threshing floor, laid a hand
on Aymery’s shoulder.
“It is in my heart to catch the King napping to-morrow,” he said. “I
trust England with you, in this, and some of us may have to suffer.”
He stood considering something a moment, frowning a little, his hand
still on Aymery’s shoulder.
“The two women yonder, brave hearts, have talked me into suffering this.
I would not put such work upon a woman, but then, my son, we all carry
the Cross. Hasten, and God speed you.”
And Aymery went out from before him, thinking of the two women as women,
and nothing more.
Marpasse, who had spun her net very cleverly, and whose hope had been to
catch and entangle a man and a woman therein, was bitterly disgusted at
the way things happened. She had made up her mind that she herself would
go to Lewes, but she had no intention of taking Denise into the hell of
the royal camp. She certainly caught these two people in her net, but
they broke the threads, and would not do as she desired. Yet Marpasse
might have seen how it would be had she not been too eager to sweep away
Denise’s pride.
Denise was standing by her, with the sunlight on her hair and face,
waiting in all innocence for the escort that Earl Simon was to send for
them. A prophetic fore-gleam of self-sacrifice played in the deeps of
her brown eyes. She had seized on Marpasse’s plan and clasped it as
something precious and something actively alive. The solemn shriving of
that great host under the oaks of the Fletching woods had sent the blood
to Denise’s brain. She felt herself in the midst of strong men who held
their swords aloft and prayed. She was as one who saw a sacred fire
burning, and was driven to throw herself therein with the ardour of a
soul that seeks martyrdom in some great cause.
Marpasse, who had a corner of each eye very wide awake for the coming of
the man on the black horse, began to wonder how Denise would meet the
truth. And Marpasse’s expectations came back limply to roost like birds
that had been drenched in a thunder shower. She had struck a spark into
Denise’s soul, and the spark blazed up into a beacon that Marpasse could
not smother.
Aymery came riding down past the great pool where troopers were watering
their horses, the beasts trampling and splashing in the oozy shallows,
and sucking lustily despite the mud. Marpasse soon marked him down, and
watched his face as they came within his ken. Marpasse saw Aymery go red
as a boy, and being comforted by the man’s colour, she stole a glance at
Denise. Denise’s face had been shining like the face of one inspired.
Marpasse saw it cloud suddenly as though a shadow had fallen across it.
So they met, with the women under the yew tree fifty paces away watching
them, and the splashing of the horses and the voices of the men merging
into the great murmur that seemed to fill the woods. For the moment
Aymery had nothing to say. Marpasse could have pricked him with the
point of her knife to make him leap out of that slough of silence.
Denise stood in the long grass, a whorl of golden flowers brushing her
grey gown, her face white and troubled in the sunlight. Marpasse might
have had a pair of dumb and irresponsive puppets on her hands. There was
nothing left for her but to pull the strings.
“I am the brown woman who mended a wound, lording,” she began.
Aymery remembered her well enough. His face resembled a grey sky through
which the sun was trying to shine and could not. He had his heart in his
mouth but Denise did not help him. She stood there, as though her
thoughts soared into some cold and brilliant corner of heaven. Yet only
the surface had the sheen of ice. The deeps beneath were full of flux
and tumult.
Marpasse, being a plain and impetuous woman, could have nudged both of
them, and prompted both, at one and the same moment. Matters were not
moving as she had forecasted, and these two people looked afraid of one
another.
“A kiss on the mouth, lording, and your arms round her,” that was what
she would have said.
Her words were:—
“Earl Simon may have told you the news.”
By the sharp look that Aymery gave Denise, Marpasse guessed that he knew
the truth.
“To Lewes?” he asked her, with the uneasy air of a man urging himself to
do something that seemed strangely difficult.
“Oh, we women, lording, can be of use.”
He repeated the words, looking at Denise.
“To Lewes?”
Marpasse grimaced.
“God knows, we shall be walking on hot bricks,” she said; “but then,
this blue gown, and this face of mine, are better than passwords.”
Aymery’s eyes were still upon Denise, as though waiting for one word or
look from her. He could not see that she was as passionately mute as he
was, and that a spasm of self-consciousness held her in thrall.
Marpasse broke in, feeling the silence like thorns in her flesh.
“I can do without her, lording. Listen to me, Golden-head. They shall
put me within a mile of Lewes town, and wait in the woods for any news
that I can gather. You need not play the moth to the candle.”
Marpasse saw Aymery’s eyes flash something at her that made her less
uneasy. The judgment lay with Denise. They looked at her and waited.
Denise looked at neither. She hid everything, nor was there a ripple of
emotion about her mouth.
“I shall go with you, Marpasse,” she said.
The big woman shrugged her shoulders.
“Bah, I can as well take one of the others with me. They would play the
part better, and look less dangerous.”
Denise kept her eyes from Aymery, as though her pride had set itself a
pilgrimage, and would not see anything that might hinder it.
“Say what you please, I shall go with you, as I promised.”
Marpasse nodded her head, and seemed to consider the situation. Biting
her lips, she looked from Aymery to Denise. Neither of them helped her,
and Marpasse could have stamped her foot at the man, and told him what
to do. “Fool, take her away from me, and hold her fast!” She shrugged
her broad shoulders, and laughed a little mockingly.
“We are all talking so much,” she said, “that we shall get nowhere
to-night unless we tie up our tongues. You, lording, can find us a
couple of mules or asses.”
Marpasse’s sarcasm sank into sand, for Denise turned and walked back
towards the rest of the women who were making a meal under the yew tree.
Some of them were using their needles, and sewing the white crosses on
to the surcoats of the men.
“I will say good-bye to them.”
Perhaps there was a set purpose in this act of hers, for Denise would
have Aymery see the comrades with whom she had travelled.
Aymery was turning his horse when Marpasse caught his bridle.
“Lording,” she said, “keep the fog out of your eyes. We, and the rest
yonder, followed the host to do what we could when men were knocked out
of the saddle. I have changed my cloth, if not the colour of it. She has
done that for me.”
She looked up almost fiercely into Aymery’s eyes.
“Speak to her on the way, lording. Women are not won by looking, charge
home, and let the trumpets blow, unless,” and she let go the bridle,
“unless my lord has changed.”
The man’s eyes answered her that.
“Marpasse, have you forgotten that night?”
“No, not I, nor you, lording.”
“It seemed death then, but now——”
Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him.
“Man, man, what makes the hills blaze, a wet fog, or the sunset?”
Dusk was beginning to fall when they set off into the woods, Denise upon
a grey palfrey that a priest had lent them, Marpasse perched on a mule,
Aymery and his men in full battle harness, their spears trailing under
the trees. They had a guide with them, a swineherd who knew every path
and ride even by night, and though the sun was touching the horizon,
they had before them the long twilight of a clear evening in May.
Aymery sent the guide on ahead with the men-at-arms, and Marpasse,
knowing what she knew, manœuvred her mule so as to leave Aymery with
Denise. But the priest’s palfrey seemed to have conceived a great
affection for Marpasse’s mule. Denise had hardly a word to say. She kept
close beside Marpasse and appeared blind to the glimmerings of that good
woman’s impatience.
Marpasse could bear it out no longer. She struck her mule several
resounding smacks with her open hand, and the beast went away at a lazy
canter, leaving Denise and the man on the black horse together.
“May God untie their tongues,” Marpasse said to herself; “it is a curse
to have too quick a conscience. I shall be hoisted on my own fire unless
the man can bring her to reason.”
So Marpasse rode on behind the men-at-arms, leaving the two to work out
their own salvation.
The woods were steeped in a green twilight, and a great stillness
reigned everywhere, save for the song of the birds. Here and there a
great tree stood tongued as with fire. The foliage grew black against
the golden glow in the west, while long slants of light still stole in
secretly along the solemn aisles. The birds were at their vespers, and a
cold dew was falling, drawing out the fresh perfume of the woods at
night.
Aymery and Denise were riding side by side, the woman pale, sad-eyed,
yet resolute, the man sunk in that deep silence that follows some
ineffectual and passionate outburst of the heart. They seemed afraid of
one another, nor could they meet each other’s eyes. Denise’s white face
might have stood for the moon. And though the birds sang, their voices
gave the dusk a sadder and a stranger mystery.
Aymery spoke at last, passing a hand over his horse’s mane.
“Our Lady keep you,” he said, “I will not quarrel with your desire.”
Denise’s lips were dry, and she felt as though the old wound had broken
over her heart.
“If I have suffered,” she said simply, “I have learnt what life is.”
“Self-martyrdom?”
His voice woke echoes that she strove to smother.
“It is God’s whim in me, perhaps, that I should prove myself. Marpasse
and I will go together.”
Night had come and the glare of many fires lit the southern sky when
they reached the edge of the woodland and saw the great downs black, and
vague and ominous. The men were waiting under the woodshaw, and Marpasse
stood rubbing the nose of her mule. She could hear voices, slow,
suppressed, stricken into short, pregnant sentences like the disjointed
fragments of a song struck from untuned lutes.
Denise had left her palfrey under a tree. She came out from the shadows,
and taking Marpasse in her arms, kissed her.
“We go together, you and I,” she said. “No, no, say nothing to me, it is
my heart’s desire.”
Marpasse held her, and was mute. She looked towards a shadowy figure on
a shadowy horse, and Denise understood the look.
“I have told him, he will not hinder me in this.”
“Heart of mine, stay here in the woods. I can go alone, my carcase is of
no account.”
Denise would not be put away.
“Marpasse,” she said, “this is our Lord’s true passion working in me.
Nor shall the cup from which He drank be snatched from me to-night.”
Marpasse was silent, feeling a greatness near her that awed her
rebellious impulses. She kissed Denise, and was very humble, thinking
that she herself had brought this thing to pass.
“Come then,” she said, “it may be that God goes with us to-night.”
Aymery, standing with one arm over his horse’s neck, watched them
disappear into the darkness, the swineherd going with them to show them
the road to the town. The whole northern sky still burnt with a faint
glow of gold, and in the south a hundred fires flickered amid the black
folds of the downs. And Aymery watched these distant fires, thinking
with grim impatience of the King’s host that lay yonder like a great
dragon ready to tear and slay.