FALVE THE CHARCOAL-BURNER
While Prosper is galloping after Dom Galors, and Dom Galors is
galloping after Isoult, let us turn to that unconscious lady who hides
her limbs in a pair of ragged breeches, and her bloom under the grime
of coal-dust. Her cloud of hair, long now and lustrous, out of all
measure to her pretence, she was accustomed to shorten by doubling it
under her cap. An odd fancy had taken her which prevented a second
shearing. If Prosper loved her she dared not go unlovely any more. Her
hair curtained her when she bathed in the brook and the sun. Beyond
doubt it was beautiful; it was Prosper's; she must keep it untouched.
This gave her an infinity of bother, but at the same time an infinity
of delight. She took pride in it, observed its rate of growth very
minutely; another fancy was, that before it reached her knees she
should give it with all herself to its master. It is so easy to confuse
desires with gratifications, and hopes with accomplishments, that you
will not be surprised if I go on to say, that she soon made the growth
of her hair _data_ by which to calculate her restoration to his side.
She was to have a rude awakening, as you shall judge.
The July heats lay over the forest like a pall, stilled all the leaves
and beat upon the parched ground. Isoult, seduced by the water and her
joy to be alone with her ring, audacious too by use, took longer leave.
So long leave she took one day that it became a question of dinner. The
one solemn hour of the twenty-four was in peril. Falve was sent to find
her, and took his stick. But he never used it; for he found, not Roy
indeed, but Roy's rags on the brookside, and over the brook on the high
bank a lady, veiled only in her hair, singing to herself. He stood
transported, Actaeon in his own despite, then softly withdrew. Roy got
back in his time, cooked the dinner, and had no drubbing. Then came the
meal, with an ominous innovation.
They sat in a ring on the grass round an iron pot. Each had a fork with
which he fished for himself. Down came Falve smirking, and sat himself
by Isoult. He had a flower in his hand.
"I plucked this for my mistress," says he, "but failing her I give it
to my master."
She had to take it, with a sick smile. She had a sicker heart.
The horrid play went on. Falve grinned and shrugged like a Frenchman.
He fed her with his fork--"Eat of this, my minion;" forced his cup to
her lips--"Drink, honey, where I have drunk." He drank deep and,
blinking like a night-bird, said solemnly--
"We have called you Jack, to our shame. Your name shall properly be
called Roy, for you should be a king."
The men made merry over this comedy, finding appetite for it; but to
the girl came back that elfin look she had almost lost since she had
known Prosper. She had worn it the night she came plump on Galors, but
never since. Now again hers were a hare's eyes, wide and quaking.
From that hour her peace left her, for Falve never did. Escape was
impossible; the man eyed her as a cat a mouse, and seemed to play upon
her nerve as if she had been a fine instrument. He became astonishingly
subtle, dealt in images like a modern poet, had the same art of meaning
more than he said to those who had the misfortune to understand him. He
never declared what he knew, though she could not but guess it; did not
betray her to the others; seemed to enjoy the equivoque, content to
wait. So he kept her on tenterhooks; she felt a cheat, and what is
worse, a detected cheat. This filled her deep with shame. It made her
more coy and more a prude than she had ever need to be had she gone
among them kirtled and coifed. At last came the day when that happened
which she had darkly dreaded. A load of coals went off to Market
Basing; to dinner came herself only, and Falve.
She trembled, and could neither eat nor drink. Falve made amends, ate
for three and drank for a dozen. He grew sportive anon. He sang tavern
songs, ventured on heavy play, would pinch her ear or her cheek, must
have her sit on his knee. But at this her fortitude gave way; she
jumped up to shake herself free. There was a short tussle. Her cap fell
off, and all the dusky curtain of her hair about her shoulders ran
rippling to her middle. No concealment could avail between them now.
She stood a maid confessed, by her looks confessing, who watched him
guardedly with lips a-quiver.
Falve did not hesitate to take her hand. "Come and see," he said, and
led her away. Across the brook he showed her a but newly made, covered
with green boughs--his work, it appeared, under the cover of a week of
sweating nights. He led her in, she saw all his simple preparations:
the new-stamped floor, the new-joisted roof, a great bed in the corner.
Then he turned to her and said--
"Your name is not Roy, but Royne. And you shall be queen of me, and of
the green wood, and of this bed."
Isoult began to shake so violently that she could hardly stand.
"How! does not the prospect please you?" said Falve. She could only
plead for time.
"Time?" asked he, "time for what? There is time for all in the forest.
Moreover, you have had time."
"Would you have me wed you, Falve?" she faltered.
"Why, I set no store by your church-music, myself," rejoined Falve.
"But I set great store by Holy Church. You would never dishonour me,
Falve?"
"My dear," said Falve, "you will have guessed by now that I am a lady's
man. I am wax in their pretty hands--red wax or white wax. According as
you squeeze me, my dear, you make me a Golias or a bishop, as you wish.
You would have me a bishop, eh?"
"I do not understand, Falve."
"The husband of one wife, my lass, as the Scripture saith. Is that your
fancy?"
"I would like to be a wife."
"Then a wife you shall be, my honey, though a friend or a bondmaid is
equally good Scripture, to say nothing of simplicity. Now that being
settled, and a bargain a bargain, let us seal."
She escaped with his tarnish on her hand; but he respected her promise,
and troubled her no more by contact. Nevertheless she had to pay. His
dwarfish propensity to wit led him the wildest lengths. The rogue began
to sigh and gesture and slap his ribs. He affected the lover
preposterously; he was over weary of his rough life, he would say; he
must marry and settle down in the hut by the brook.
"And then," he ran on, "thou, Roy, shalt come and live there, serving
me and my wife. For I love thee, boy, and will not leave thee. And I
warrant that she will not be jealous when I play with thee; nor shall I
grudge thy love of her--nay, not if thou shouldst love her as myself.
For thus Moses bade us in the Commandments." And so on. "By Saint
Christopher, that long man of God," he swore at another bout, "thou and
my wife shall sleep in one bed, and I not be dishonoured!"
The other men began to prick up their ears at these speeches, and
looked shrewdly at their boy more than once. As for Isoult, she knew
not where to turn. She seemed to be quavering over an abyss.
Meantime the hour of her wedding, as Falve had appointed it, drew near.
In middle July the whole gang were to go to Hauterive with coal for the
Castle. Falve's mother, I have told you, lived there in a little
huckster's shop she had. Falve's plan was to harbour Isoult there for
the night, and wed her on the morrow as early as might be. But he told
the girl nothing of all this.
They set out, then, betimes in the morning, and by travelling late and
early reached Hauterive in two days. And this in spite of the weather,
which was cold and stormy. The town stands high on the hither shoulder
of that ridge which ends at Wanmeeting, but by reason of the dense
growth of timber in that walk of the forest you do not get a view of it
from below until you are actually under the walls. Isoult, who had no
reason to be interested in any but her own affairs just then, and was,
moreover, wet through and shivering, did not notice the flag flying
over the Castle--_Party per pale argent and sable._ It was not till the
whole caravan stood within the drawbridge that she saw over the
portcullis an escutcheon whereon were the redoubtable three white
wicket-gates, with the legend, _Entra per me._ She realized then that
she was being drawn into the trap-teeth of her grim enemy, and went
rather grey. There was nothing for it, she must trust to her disguise.
It had deceived the colliers, it might deceive Galors. Ah! but there
was Maulfry. It would never deceive her. All the comfort she could take
was that Galors was lord of the town, and she collier's knave. Now
colliers' knaves do not see much of their lords paramount, nor rulers
of cities look into the love-affairs of colliers or seek for such among
them. If Maulfry were there, Heaven help her! But she began to think
she might cope with Galors.
When the asses were unloaded in the inn-yard, and the coal stacked
under cover, Falve took his prisoner by the hand and led her by many
winding lanes to his mother's shop. This was in Litany Row, a crazy
dark entry over against the Dominican convent. The streets and alleys
were empty, the rain coursed down all the gutters of the steep little
town; its music and their own plashy steps were all they could hear.
Knocking at a little barred door in Litany Row, they were admitted by a
wrinkled old woman with wet eyes.
"Mother," said the fellow, "this boy is no boy, but a maid with whom I
intend to marry at cockcrow. Let her sleep with thee this night, and in
the morning dress her in a good gown against I come to fetch her."
The old woman looked her up and down in a way that made the girl blush.
"Well," she said, "thou art a proper boy enough, I see, and I will make
thee a proper girl, if God hath done His part."
"That He hath done, mother," says Falve with a grin. "See here, then."
With that he pulls off Isoult's green cap. All her hair tumbled about
her shoulders in a fan.
"Mother of God," cried the old woman, "this is a proper girl indeed, if
other things are as they should be, to accord with these tresses."
"Never fear for that, mother," said Falve. "Trust me, she will be a
good wife out and in. For, let alone the good looks of the girl, she is
very meek and doeth all things well, even to speaking little."
"And what is she named, this pretty miss?" asked the crone.
"Tell her your fancy name, wife," said Falve, giving her a nudge; "show
her that you have a tongue in your round head."
"I am called Isoult la Desirous, ma'am," said the girl.
"La, la, la!" cried the old dame, "say you so? The name hath promise of
plenty; but for whose good I say not. And who gave you such a name as
that, pray?"
"I have never known any other, ma'am."
"Hum, hum," mumbled the dame. "I've heard more Christian names and
names less Christian, but never one that went better on a bride."
"Mother, a word in your ear," said Falve.
The couple drew apart and the man whispered--
"Keep her close; let her never out of your sight, that I may marry her
to-morrow, for since I set eyes on her as a maiden whom I first took to
be a boy, I have had no peace for longing after her."
"Have no fear, my son Falve," said his mother, "she shall be as safe
with me as the stone in a peach. I'll get her dry and her natural shape
to begin with, and come morning light, if you have not the comeliest
bride in the Nor'-West Walk, 'twill be the Church's doing or yours, but
none o' mine. Have ye feed a priest, boy?"
"Why, no," said the fellow.
"Seek out Father Bonaccord of the new Grey Friars. 'Tis the
happiest-go-lucky, ruddiest rogue of a priest that ever hand-fasted a
couple. He'll wed ye and housel ye for a couple of roses. [Footnote:
Silver coins of those parts, worth about three shillings a-piece.] The
Black Friars 'ull take three off ye and tie ye with a sour face at
that. Bonaccord's the man, Brother Bonaccord of the Grey Brothers, hard
by Botchergate."
"Bonaccord for ever!" roared Falve. He blew a kiss to his wife and went
off on his errand.