ROY
That clear and mild evening, fluted as April by a thrush in the lilacs,
Prosper and the Countess walked together on the terrace. A guard or
two, pike in hand, lounged by the balustrade; the deer-hound, with his
muzzle between his paws, twitched his ears or woke to snap at a fly: it
seemed as if the earth, sure of the sun at last, left her conning tower
with a happy sigh. It turned the Countess to a tender mood, where she
suffered herself to be played upon by the season--_L'ora del tempo e la
dolce stagione._ The spring whimpered in her blood. Prosper felt her
sighing as she leaned on his arm, and made stress to amuse her, for
sighs always seemed to him unhealthy. He set himself to be humorous,
sang, chattered, told anecdotes, and succeeded in infecting himself
first and the lady afterwards. She laughed in spite of herself, then
with a good will. They both laughed together, so that the guards nudged
each other. One prophesied a match of it.
"And no bad thing for High March if it were so," said the other, "and
we with a man at the top. I never knew a greater-hearted lord. He is
voiced like a peal of bells in a frolic."
"He's a trumpet in a charge home."
"He's first in."
"Fights like a demon."
"Snuffs blood before 'tis out of the skin."
"Ah, a great gentleman!"
"What would his age be?"
"Five-and-twenty, not an ounce more. So ho! What's this on the road?"
The other man looked up, both looked together. The porter came on to
the terrace, followed by a dark youth who walked with a limp.
"A boy to speak with Messire," said the porter, and left his convoy.
"Name and business?" asked one of the guards.
"Roy, the page from Starning, to speak with my lord."
"Wait you there, Roy. I will ask for you."
The guard went off whistling. Isoult fixed long looks again on the two
at the end of the terrace. She was nearly done.
"You have made a push for it, my shaver," said the second guard, after
a study from head to toe.
"My business pushed me."
"Ah, trouble in the forest, eh? Are the roads clear?"
"I met with a company."
"How many pikes?"
"Nearer sixty than fifty."
"Where bound?"
"Goltres, I understood."
"Who led?"
"A black knight."
"Ah. Were you mounted, my lad?"
"Not then. I was in hiding."
"Ah. You know what you're about, it seems."
"Yes," said Isoult.
The messenger returned.
"You are to go and speak to Messire," he said.
Isoult saw Prosper coming towards her. Her heart's trouble began; her
knees knocked together, she swayed a little as she walked.
"That boy's had as much as he can stand," said the guard who had
questioned.
"What, a'ready?" laughed his mate.
"Not beer, you fool--travel. He's extended--he will hardly reach
another yard."
The fact was wholly, the reasoning partly true. Doubt had lain as dregs
at the bottom of the draught which had fed her. Now she was at the
lees--brought so low that she had to depend upon the worth of her news
for assurance of a hearing. True, she had asked no more, nor looked for
it--but you cannot tame hopes. A dry patch in her throat burned like
fire, but she fought her way. He was close: she could see the keen
light in his eyes. Alas! alas! he looked for Roy. A thick tide of
despair came surging over her, closing in, beating at her temples for
entrance. She lost her sight, fluttered a very rag in the wind, held
out her hands for a balance. Prosper saw her feeling about like a blind
man. He quickened.
"Danger! danger!" she breathed, and fell at his feet.
He picked her up as if she had been a baby and carried her into the
house. As he passed the guards one of them came forward to help.
"The lad's been pushed beyond his strength, my lord," the man ventured.
"So I see," said Prosper, and shook him off. The business must be got
through alone.
"A great gentleman," said the man to his mate. "But he fags his
servants."
"Bless you, Jack, they like it!" the other assured him, with a laugh at
the weakness of his own kind.
Wine on her lips and brows brought her to, but it was a ghost of a boy
that lay on the bed and held fixed upon Prosper a pair of haunted eyes.
But Prosper stayed at his post. He was very tender to weak things. Here
in all conscience was a weak thing! That look of hers, which never
wavered for a second, frightened him. He thought she was going to die;
reflected that death was not safe without a priest: the thought of
death suggested his dream, the dream his old curiosity to see again
that which had so stirred him asleep. Well, here she was before
him--part of her at least; for her soul, which he had helped her to
win, was fighting to escape. The sounds of the duel, the shuddering
reluctance of the indrawn breath, the moan that told of its
enlargement, these things, and the motionless open eyes which seemed to
say, Look! Body and soul are fighting, and we can only watch! turned
him helpless, as we all are in actual audience of death. He sat,
therefore, waiting the issue; and if he had any thought at all it was,
"God, she was mine once, and now I have let her go!" For we do not pity
the dying or dead; but ourselves we pity, who suffer longer and more
than they.
Presently Isoult fetched a long sigh, and moved a hand ever so
slightly. Prosper took it, leaning over her.
"Isoult," he said, "child, do you not know me?"
He affected more roughness than he felt, as a man's way is. He will
always dictate rather than ask. At his words a shiny veil seemed to
withdraw from her eyes, whereby he learned that she had heard him. He
put the cup to her lips again. Some was spilt, but some was swallowed.
She motioned an answer to his question. "Yes, lord," he made of it.
"Isoult, I ought to be angry with you," said he; and she looked
untroubled at him, too far gone to heed the blame of lords or men.
"No, no," her lips framed as she closed her eyes.
She fell asleep holding his hand, and he watched by the bed till
midnight, warning off with a lifted finger any who came from the
Countess for news of him. Hard thinking sped the vigil: he wondered
what could have happened to bring her so near her death or ever he
could have word of her. Galors, he was pretty sure, had got to work
again; it was good odds that he had been running in couple with the
lady of the dead knight. Their connection was proved to his mind. Then
Isoult, having escaped by some chance, had naturally headed straight
for him--very naturally, very properly. It was his due: he would fight
for her; she was his wife. Ah, Heaven, but she was more than that!
There were ties, there were ties now. What more precisely she was he
could not say; but more, oh, certainly more. Weak things moved him
always: here was a weak enough thing, white and shadowy in a bed! He
felt the stirring of her hand in his, like a little mouse. Poor
frightened creature, flying from all the forest eyes to drop at his
feet at last! By God, he would split Galors this time. And as for the
woman--pooh, give her a branding and let her go.
At midnight Isoult woke up with a little cry. Her first words were as
before--"Danger! danger!"
"You are safe with me, dear," said Prosper.
"Danger to you, my lord!"
"To me, my child? Who can be dangerous to me?"
"Maulfry and Galors. Maulfry most of all."
"Maulfry? Maulfry?" he echoed. Ah, the lady!
She told him everything that had passed from the hour she left
Gracedieu, and even Prosper could not but see that she had had one
thought throughout and one stay. Maulfry's smiling treachery had
shocked her to the soul; but the very shock had only quickened her
alarms about his safety. He could not avoid the reflection that this
startled creature loved him. Prosper would have been more grateful than
he was, and more shrewdly touched, had he not also felt astonishment
(tinged, I think, with scorn) that any one should be anxious about his
conduct of the war. Women's ways! As if a man-at-arms did not live in
danger; and for danger, pardieu. He did not show any of this, nor did
he leave the girl's hand. Besides, the affair was very interesting. So
he heard her to the end, adding nothing by way of comment beyond an
occasional "Good child," or "Brave girl," or the wine cup to her dry
lips. Seeing too how deeply her alarms had sunk into her, he had tact
enough not to let her guess his intent, which very nakedly was to
follow up Galors towards Goltres or Wanmeeting. Upon this matter he
contented himself with asking her one question--whether she had ever
heard speak of a knight called Salomon de Born? The answer made him
start. Isoult shook her head.
"I never heard of him, my lord; but I know that Dom Galors' name is De
Born."
"Hum," said Prosper; "he has taken all he can get, it appears. And does
he still carry the shield and arms he had before?"
She told him, yes; and that all his company carried his colours, black
and white, upon their banneroles and the trappings of their horses.
"In fact our monk sets up for a lord--Messire Galors de Born?"
"So he is named among his men, lord," said Isoult.
"But wait a minute. Do you know the man's name before he entered
religion?"
"It was De Born, my lord, as I understood. But I have heard him also
called Born."
Prosper thought again, shook his head, made nothing of it, and so kept
it for his need.
Next day before dinner he came into the hall leading a black-haired boy
by the hand. He went up to the Countess's chair between the ranked
assembly.
"My lady Countess," says he, "suffer my page Roy to kiss your hand. He
loves me, and I him, if for no better reason than that he does me so
much credit. He alone in my father's house has dared it, I may tell
you. Take him in then for my sake, madam. The master's master should be
the servant's master."
The Countess smiled.
"He is certainly welcome on this showing," she said, "as well as on
others. That must be a good servant for whom his master forsakes not
only his friends but his supper." Then turning to Isoult, "Well, Roy,"
she asked, "and art thou whole again?"
"Yes, please my lady," said Isoult.
"Then thou shalt kiss my hand for thy master's sake!" returned the
Countess, after looking keenly at the girl.
Isoult knelt and kissed the white hand. The Countess beckoned to one of
her pages.
"Go now, Roy, with Balthasar," said she. "He will show thee whatever is
needful to be known. Afterwards thou shalt come into hall and serve at
thy lord's chair. And so long as he is here thou shalt serve him, and
sleep at his chamber door. I am sure that thou art faithful and worthy
of so much at my hands. And now, Prosper," she turned to say, as if
that business were happily done, "you shall finish your story of the
Princess of Tunis and the Neapolitan barber, which you broke off so
abruptly yestereven. Then we will go to supper."
The audience was over; Prosper received his wife's reverence with a
blush, sighed as he saw her back out of the presence, and sighed still
more as he turned to his task of entertaining the great lady his
hostess.
Isoult was led away by Balthasar into the pages' quarters, and escaped
thence with an examination which was not so searching as it might have
been had she not passed for squire to such a redoubtable smiter. She
was not long finding out that Prosper was the god of all the youth in
High March. His respect won her respect, though it could win him no
more from her. She heard their glowing reports, indeed, with a certain
scorn--to think that they should inform her of him, forsooth! From the
buttery she was taken to run the gauntlet of the women in the servants'
hall. Here the fact that she made a very comely boy--a boy agile,
dark-eyed, and grave, who looked to have something in reserve--worked
her turn where Prosper's prowess might have failed her. The women found
her frugality of speech piquant; it laid down for her the lines of a
reputation for experienced gallantry--the sort which asks a little
wearily, Is this worth my while? It seemed to them that in matters of
love Roy might be hard to please. This caused a stir in one or two
bosoms. A certain Melot, a black-eyed girl, plump, and an easy giggler,
avowed in strict confidence to her room-fellow that night, that her
fate had been told her by a Bohemian--a slight and dark-eyed youth was
to be her undoing. You will readily understand that this was duly
reported by the room-fellow to Balthasar, and by him to Isoult,
following the etiquette observed in such matters. Isoult frowned, said
little of it, and thought less.
With the other pages she waited behind her master's chair at supper. He
still sat at the Countess's right hand as the principal guest
(evidently) in her esteem, if not in degree. Isoult had prepared
herself for what was to come as best she could. She had expounded, as
you have been told, her simple love-lore to Alice of the Hermitage; but
it is doubtful if she had known how much like a cow beset by flies in a
dry pasture a lover may be made. Every little familiar gesture was a
prick. Their talk of things which had happened to them counselled her
to despair. When the Countess leaned to Prosper's chair she measured
how long this could be borne; but when by chance her hand touched on
his arm, to rest there for a moment, Isoult was as near jealousy as a
girl, in the main logical by instinct and humble by conviction, could
ever be. Then came doubt, and brought fear to drag her last hand from
the rock and let her fall. Fear came stealthily to her, like a lurking
foe, out of the Countess's unconscious eyes. Isoult had nothing to hope
for that she had not already: she knew that now she was blessed beyond
all women born; she loved, she was near her beloved; but her heart was
crying out at the cold and the dark. There was love in the Countess's
looks; Isoult could not doubt it. And Prosper did not take it amiss.
Here it was that Isoult was blind, for Prosper had no notions whatever
about the Countess's looks.
He was in very high spirits that supper. He liked Isoult to be by him
again, liked it for her sake as well as for the sake of the escapade.
He had watched her a good deal during the day, and found her worth
perusal. She had picked up her good looks again, went bravely dressed
in his livery of white and green, with his hooded falcon across her
bosom and embroidered slantwise upon the fold of her doublet. Thus she
made a very handsome page. She was different though. He thought that
there was now about her an allure, a grave richness, a reticence of
charm, an air of discretion which he must always have liked without
knowing that he liked it. Yet he had never noticed it before. The child
was almost a young woman, seemed taller and more filled out. No doubt
this was true, and no doubt it braved her for the carrying of her boy's
garnish, otherwise a risky fardel for a young woman. He was pleased
with her, and with himself for being pleased. So he was very merry, ate
well, drank as the drink came, and every time Isoult brought him the
cup he looked at her trying to win an answer. Since no answer was to be
had he was forced to be satisfied with looking. Once or twice in
serving him their hands touched. This also pleased him, but he was
shocked to find this rosy girl with the shining eyes had hands as cold
as ice. And he so well disposed to her! And she his wife! He pursued
his researches in this sort at the cost of more stoups of wine than
were needful or his rule. He grew enthusiastic over it, and laid up a
fine store of penalties for future settlement. The enthusiast must
neglect something; Prosper, being engrossed with his page and his wine,
neglected the Countess. This lady, after tapping with her foot in her
chamber till the sound maddened her, withdrew early. Immediately she
had gone Prosper announced great fatigue. He sent for his page and a
torch. Isoult escaped from the noisy herd round the buttery fire, lit
her torch at a cresset, disregarded Melot languishing in a dark corner,
and met her lord in mid hall.
"Take me to bed, Roy," said he, looking at her strangely.
Isoult led the way; he followed her close.
She went into the dark room with her torch while Prosper stood in the
doorway. She lighted the candles: he could see how deliberately she did
it, without waver or tremor. His own heart thumping at such a rate, it
was astounding to him to watch. Then she beat out the torch on the
hearth, and waited. Three strides brought him into the middle of the
room, but the look of her stopped him there. She was rather pale, very
grave, looked taller than her height; her eyes seemed like twin lakes
of dark water, unruffled and unwinking. Neither of them spoke, though
there was fine disorder in two hearts, and one was crying inwardly to
Love and the Virgin. Isoult spoke first in a very low voice.
"Lord, now let me go," she said.
The next minute he had her in his arms.
She had been prepared for this, and now suffered what she must,
lifeless and pleasureless, with a dull pain in her heart. This was the
stabbing pain (as with a muffled knife) with which true love maims
itself in its own defence. His aim for her lips was parried; as well he
might have embraced a dead woman. Soon his passion burned itself out
for lack of fuel; he set her down and looked moodily at her, panting.
"Are you my wife? By the saints, are you not my wife? Why are you here?"
"To serve my lord."
"Serve! serve! And is this the service you do me? Are you not my wife?"
"I am she, lord. I am what you made me. I serve as you taught."
"Does a wife not owe obedience? Hath a lord--hath a husband no right to
that?"
"Love is a great lord--"
"By Heaven, do I not love you?"
He could have sworn he did; but Isoult knew better.
"Yesterday my lord loved me not; to-morrow he will not love me. I am
his servant--his page."
"Isoult, you know that you are my wife."
"I am your servant, lord," said Isoult. "Listen."
As he stood hiding his face in his hand, this tall and lordly youth,
Isoult took up her parable, but so low you could hardly hear it.
"Lord," she said, "when you wed me in the cottage it was for honour and
to save my body from hanging. And when you had saved my body you showed
me soul's salvation, and taught me how to pray, saying, Deal justly,
live cleanly, breathe sweet breath. And when you went away from
Gracedieu saying you would come again, I waited for you there, doing
all that you had taught me. So I did when I was made a prisoner in the
dark tower, and so I would do now that I am blest with sight of you and
service. But when I cried for you at Gracedieu you came not, and when I
came to warn you of your peril you hoped for Roy, and seeing me your
looks fell. And I knew this must be so, and would have gone back to
Gracedieu had you told me. For then I should still have been rich with
what you had given me once. Now even I will go, asking but one thing of
you for a mercy, that you do not send me away beggared of what you gave
me before."
"And what did I give you, Isoult?" he whispered.
"'Twas your honour to keep, my lord," said the girl.
He had been looking at her long before she made an end, but not before
she had gathered strength from her theme. When he did look he saw that
her eyes were large and dark; honesty and clear courage burned steadily
there; the candles reflected in them showed no flickering. She had her
hands crossed over her bosom as if to hold a treasure close: her
treasures were her ring and her faithful heart. He knew now that he
could not gain her for this turn, wife or no wife; in this great mood
of hers she would have killed herself sooner than let him touch her;
and when she had ended her say he knew that she had spoken the truth, a
truth which put him to shame. Like a spoilt boy rather than a rogue he
began to plead, nevertheless. He went on his knees, unbound her two
hands and held them, trying to win his way by protestations of love and
desire. The words, emptied of all fact by this time (for the boy was
honest enough), rang hollow. She looked down at him sadly, but very
gently, denying him against all her love. The fool went on, set on his
own way. At last she said--
"Lord, such love as thou hast for me Galors hath also. And shall I let
my looks undo me with thee, and thee with me? I will follow thee as a
servant, and never leave thee without it be thy will. I beseech of thee
deface not thine own image which I carry here. Now let me go."
She touched herself upon the breast. This was how she drove the evil
spirit out of him. He got up from his knees and thanked her gruffly.
His words came curt and sharp, with the old order in the tone of them;
but she knew that he was really ordering himself. She held out her
hand, rather shyly--for, the battle won, the conquered had resumed
command--he took and kissed it. She turned to go. The evil spirit
within him lifted up a bruised head.
"By God!" cried he, "you shall lie in the bed and I at the door."
And so it was, and so remained, while High March held the pair of them.
By which it will appear that the evil spirit was disposed in pious uses.