The Forest Lovers
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Maurice Hewlett >> The Forest Lovers
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He sent, therefore, a man to ring the great bell of the parish church.
This assembled the citizens pell-mell, for the times were stirring.
The High Bailiff, being assured of his auditory, summoned the
garrison, put himself at the head of them on a black stallion, sounded
trumpets, and marched into the Market-place. The cheers clipped him
like heady wine; but it was the eloquence of the women's handkerchiefs
that really gave him heart. Standing in his stirrups, hat in hand, he
made a short speech.
"Men of Wanmeeting and brothers," he said, "to-day you shall prove
yourselves worthy of your Lady Paramount, of your late master, and of
me. Galors de Born, the arch-enemy, is skulking in his strong tower,
not daring to attack us. Men of Wanmeeting, we will go and bait him.
Hauterive is ours. Follow me, crying, Ha! Saint James!"
"Ha! Saint James!" shouted the men, with their caps pike-high.
The Bailiff glowed in his skin. He drew his sword.
"Forward!" He gave the word.
The entire ardent garrison marched out of the town, and Wanmeeting was
left with its women and elders, anybody's capture.
The consequence of these heroical attitudes was, that Prosper, riding
hard to Hauterive, came in sight of a besieging army round about it--a
tented field, a pavilion, wherefrom drooped the saltire of De Forz, a
long line of attack, in fine, a notable scheme of offence. He saw a
sortie from the gates driven back by as mettlesome a cavalry charge as
he could have wished to lead.
"The Bailiff of Wanmeeting, as I live by bread!" he cried out.
He stayed for some time watching the fray from a little rising ground.
The cavalry, having beaten in the defenders, retired in good order;
the archers advanced to cover a party of pikemen with scaling-ladders.
"Now is my time to board the Bailiff," said Prosper, and rode coolly
across the field.
The High Bailiff saw, as he thought, Galors himself riding unattended
towards him.
"Ha! negotiations," said he; "and in person! I have hit a mark it
seems. I may take a high tone. Unconditional surrender and all arms,
hey?"
Prosper rode up, saluting.
"Messire de Born," said the Bailiff.
"Prosper le Gai," said the other.
"Madam Virgin! I thought you had perished, Messire."
"Not at all, Bailiff. Was that why you took over my command?"
The Bailiff bowed. "I gladly relinquish it, Messire."
Prosper nodded pleasantly.
"That last charge of yours could hardly have been bettered, though I
think you might have got in. How many men did you drop?"
"Ten, Messire. We brought off the wounded."
"Ten is enough. You shall lose no more. Call off that scaling party."
The Bailiff repeated the order.
"Your men know their work," said Prosper; "but why do they cry for
Saint James?"
The High Bailiff coloured.
"Well, Messire," he said, "there is undoubtedly a Saint James, an
Apostle and a great Saint."
"Of the greatest," said Prosper. "But, pardon. I thought your burgh
was devoted to Saint Crispin?"
"Messire, it is so. But there were reasons. First, your battle-cry
should be familiar----"
"As Saint Crispin to Wanmeeting?"
"As the name of James, Messire. For it is my own poor name."
"Ah," said Prosper, "I begin to see."
"Then," said the Bailiff, pursuing his reasons, "a battle-cry should
be short, of one syllable----"
"Like Saint Dennis?" Prosper asked.
"Like Saint George, Messire."
"Or Saint Andrew?" said Prosper sweetly.
"Or--"
Or Montjoy, or Bide the Time, eh, Bailiff?"
"Messire, you have me at a disadvantage for the moment. The name is,
however, that of a Saint."
"Say no more, Bailiff, but listen. There need be no more bloodshed
over this place. Get your men together, to advance at a signal from
within. I will go alone into the town. Now, do you notice that little
square window in the citadel? When you see the Saltire hang there you
will march in and meet me at the Bishop's Gate."
"Oh, Messire, what will you do?"
"Leave that to me," Prosper said, as he rode off.
He rode close to the moat and kept by it, making a half circuit of the
walls. He had calculated on Galors' armour, and calculated well, for
nobody molested him from the defenders' side. At the Bishop's Gate he
reined up, and stood with his spear erect at the length of his arm.
"Who comes?" cried the sentry.
"_Entra per me_," growled Prosper, with a shot for Galors' sulky
note.
The gate swung apart, the bridge fell, the portcullis was drawn up.
Prosper rode through the streets of Hauterive amid the silence of the
inhabitants and the cheers of the garrison--two very different sets of
persons. He went into the citadel, displayed the appointed signal,
then returned on horseback to the Bishop's Gate. He had not a word to
say, but this was quite in character. So he stood waiting.
There was presently a fine commotion at the gate; a man came running
up to him.
"Messire, they are going to attack the gate!"
"Open it," said Prosper.
"Messire?"
"Open it, hound!"
The man reeled, but carried the order. Prosper rode stately out; and
when he returned a second time it was at the head of the Countess
Isabel's troops.
"Bailiff," said he, when they were in the citadel and all the news
out, "I am no friend of your mistress, as you know; but I am not a
thief. Hauterive is hers. To-morrow morning I shall declare it so;
until then Galors, if you please, is Lord. Let me now say this," he
continued. "I admire you because you have a high heart. But you lack
one requisite of generalship, as it appears to me. You have no head.
Get back at once to Wanmeeting with one thousand of your men, and
leave me five hundred of them to work with. You may think yourself
lucky if you find one stone on another or one man's wife as she should
be. By the time you are there you will no doubt have orders from High
March. You may send news thither that this place is quiet and
restored, as from to-morrow morning, to its allegiance. Good morning,
Bailiff"
The Bailiff was very much struck with Prosper's sagacity, and went at
once. Prosper and his five hundred men held the citadel.
He confided his secret to those whom he could trust; the remainder
fraternized in the wine shops and dealt liberally in surmise. The
general opinion seemed to be that Galors had married the Countess
Isabel.
* * * * *
Having thus ridded him of all his charges, Prosper could steer the
ship of his mind whither his soul had long looked--to Isoult and
marriage. Marriage was become a holy thing, a holy sepulchre of peace
to be won at all costs. No crusader was he, mind you, fighting for
honour, but a pitiful beaten wayfarer longing for ease from his
aching. He did not seek, he did not know, to account for the change in
him. It had come slowly. Slowly the girl had transfigured before him,
slowly risen from below him to the level of his eyes; and now she was
above him. He shrined her high as she had shrined him, but for
different reasons as became a man. What a woman loves in man is
strength, what a man loves in women is also strength, the strength of
weak things. The strength of the weak thing Isoult had been that, she
had known how to hold him off because of her love's sake. There is
always pity (which should become reverence) in a man's love. He had
never pitied her till she fought so hard for the holiness of her
lover.
Oddly enough, Isoult loved him the more for the very attack which she
had foiled. Odd as it may be, that is where the truth lies. As for
him, gratitude for what she had endured for his sake might go for
nothing. Men do not feel gratitude--they accept tribute. But if they
pity, and their pity is quickened by knowledge of the pitiful, then
they love. Her pleading lips, her dear startled eyes stung him out of
himself. And then he found out why her eyes were startled and why her
lips were mute. She was lovely. Yes, for she loved. This beseeching
child, then, loved him. He knew himself homeless now until she took
him in.
CHAPTER XXX
THE CHAINED VIRGIN OF SAINT THORN
The Abbot Richard of Malbank Saint Thorn went hunting the deer in
Morgraunt with a good company of prickers and dogs. In Spenshaw he
unharboured a stag, and he followed him hard. The hart made straight
for Thornyhold Brush where the great herd lay; there Mellifont, who
was sentry for the time, heard him and gave the alarm. Fern brakes
will hide man from man, but here were dogs. The hunted hart drove
sheer into the thicket on his way to the water; a dog was at his
heels, half-a-dozen more were hard on him. The herd had scattered on
all hands long before this. Mellifont saved herself with them, but
Belvisee tarrying to help Isoult was caught. A great hound snapped at
her as he passed; she limped away with a wounded side. Isoult, too
much of a woman and too little of a hind, stood still. She had closed
with Fate before.
Up came the Abbot's men with horns and shouting voices for the baying
of the deer. He, brave beast, was knifed in the brook and broken up,
the dogs called off and leashed. Then one of the huntsmen saw Isoult.
She had let down her hair for a curtain and stood watching them
intently, neither defiant nor fearful, but with a long, steady,
unwinking gaze. Her bosom rose quick and short, there was no other
stressful sign; she was flushed rather than white. One of the men
thought she was a wood-girl--they all knew of such beings; he crossed
himself. Another knew better. Her mother Mald was a noted witch; he
whistled.
A third thought she was uncommonly handsome; he could only look. The
dogs whimpered and tugged at the leash; they doubtless knew that there
was blood in her. So all waited till the Abbot came up much out of
breath.
Isoult, cloaked in her panoply of silence, saw him first. In fact the
Abbot had eyes only for the dead hart which had led him such a race.
One of the prickers ran forward and caught at his stirrup-leather.
"Lord Abbot, here is the strangest thing my eyes have ever seen in
Morgraunt. As we followed the chase we drove into a great herd which
ran this way and that way. And in the thick of the deer were three
young women scantily attired, as the one you see yonder, going with
the beasts. Of whom two have got clear (one bitten by the mouse-
coloured hound), and this one remains speechless. And who the others
were, whether flesh and blood or wind and breath, I cannot tell you;
but if this laggard is not Isoult, whom we call La Desirous, Matt-o'-
the-Moor's daughter, I am no fit servant for your Holiness'
diversions."
The Abbot had pricked up his ears; now he looked sharply at Isoult.
"You are right, Sweyn," he said; "leave her to me. Girl," he turned to
her, "this time it shall likely go hard with thee. Trees are plenty
and ropes easy to come by. I warned thee before. I shall not warn thee
now."
Isoult bowed her head.
"What dost thou do here, herding in the wood with wild beasts?" he
went on.
"Lord, none but the beasts will give me food or rest or any kindness
at all. There is no pity in man nor woman that I have seen, save in
two, and one is dead. Prosper le Gai, my lord, and husband, hath pity,
and will come to me at last. And whether he shall come to my body
alone or my spirit alone, he will come. And now, lord, hang me to a
tree."
"Dost thou want to be hanged?" he asked.
"Nay, lord, I am too young to be hanged," she said. "Moreover, though
I am wedded to my lord, I am not a wife. For only lately he hath loved
me, and that since we were put apart."
"Wed, and a virgin, girl? Where is thy husband?"
"Lord, he is searching for me."
"Where hath he been, what hath he done--or thou, what hast thou done,
for such a droll fate as this?"
Isoult very simply told him everything. Of Galors he already had some
news--enough to dread more. But when he heard that the girl had
actually been in High March Castle, had been expelled from it, he
crossed himself and thanked God for all His mercies. He became a
devout Christian at this critical point in Isoult's career, whereby
her neck was saved a second time from the rope. He felt a certain
pity--she a handsome girl, too, though his type for choice was blonde
--for her simplicity, and, as he certainly wished to obtain mercy,
reflected upon the possible blessings of the merciful. Besides, Galors
was at large, Galors who knew the story, to say nothing of Prosper,
also at large, who did not know the story, but did know, on the other
hand, the Countess Isabel. Difficult treading! But so the habits of a
lifetime for once chimed in with its professions. Even as he stood
pitying he roughed out another set of shifts. Prosper and his
unconsummated marriage might be set aside--the fool, he thought with a
chuckle, deserved it. There remained Galors. He would get the girl
married to a mesne of the abbey, or stay! he would marry her elsewhere
and get a dowry. She had filled out astonishingly, every line of her
spoke of blood: there would be no trouble about a dowry. Then he might
supplant Galors by being beforehand with him at the Countess's ear.
Gratitude of the mother, gratitude of the daughter, gratitude of the
son-in-law! Thus Charity walked hand in hand with Policy. The girl was
a beauty. What a picture she made there, short-frocked, flushed and
loose-haired, like an Amazon--but, by Mars, not maimed liked an
Amazon. The Abbot was a connoisseur of women, as became a confessor
and man of the world.
"If I do not hang thee, Isoult, wilt thou come with me to Saint Thom?"
"Yes, lord, I will come."
"Up with you then before me," said the Abbot, and stooped to lift her.
Her hair fell back as she was swung into the saddle. "My lady,"
thought the Abbot, "it is clear you are no Amazon; but I should like
to know what you wear round that fine little neck of yours."
He bided his time, and sent the men and dogs on ahead. Then at
starting he spurred his horse so that the beast plunged both his
riders forward. The burden of the chain slipt its harbourage, and the
next minute the Abbot had ring and locket in the palm of his hand.
"What is this ring, my girl?" he asked.
"My lord, it is my wedding-ring, wherewith I was wed in the cottage."
"Ah, is that it? Well, I will keep it until there is need."
Isoult began to cry at this, which cut her deeper than all the
severances she had known. She could confess to the ring.
"Don't cry, child," said the Abbot, whom women's tears troubled;
"believe me when I say that you shall have it for your next wedding."
"Oh, my ring! my ring! What shall I do? It is all I have. Oh, my lord,
my lord!"
This pained the Abbot extremely. He got what satisfaction there was
from the thought that, having dropt it behind him, he could not give
it back for all the tears in the world. He was busy now examining the
other token--a crystal locket whereon were a pelican in piety circled
with a crown of thorns, and on the other side the letters I and F
interlaced. He knew it better than most people.
"Isoult, stop crying," he said. "Take off this chain and locket and
give them to me."
So she did.
"Ah, my lord," she pleaded as she tendered, "I ask only for the ring."
"Plague take the ring," cried the Abbot very much annoyed. "I will
throw it away if you say another word about it."
The threat chilled her. She dried her eyes, hoping against hope, for
even hope needs a sign.
When he had his prize safe in Holy Thorn, the Abbot Richard, who had a
fantastic twist in him, and loved to do his very rogueries in the
mode, set himself to embroider his projects when he should have been
executing them. His lure was a good lure, but she would be none the
worse for a little gilding; there must be a pretty cage, with a spice
of malice in its devising, to excite the tenderer feelings. It should
be polite malice, however--a mere hint at a possible tragedy behind a
smirk.
He dressed her in green silk because she was fresh-coloured and had
black hair. If she had been pale, as when he first knew her, and as
she was to be again before he knew her no more, the dress would have
been red, depend upon it. He put a gold ring on her finger, a jewel on
her forehead, a silver mirror and a Book of Hours bound in silver
leaves to swing at her girdle. Her chamber was hung with silk arras,--
the loving history of Aristotle and a princess of Cyprus;--she had two
women to wait upon her, to tire her hair in new ways and set new
crowns upon it; she had a close garden of her own, with roses and a
fountain, grass lawns, peacocks. She had pages to serve her kneeling,
musical instruments, singing boys and girls. He gave her a lap-dog.
Finally he kissed her and said--
"You are to be queen of this place, Isoult the Much-Desired."
All this the Abbot did. This also he did--his crowning piece. He
caused her to wear round her waist a girdle made of bright steel in
which was a staple. To the staple he fixed a fine steel chain--a toy,
a mimicry of prisons, but in fact a chain--and the other end of a
chain was fixed to a monk's wrist. The chain was fine and flexible, it
was long, it could go through the keyhole--and did--but it was a
chain. Wherever the girl went, to the garden, to table, to music, to
bed, abroad, or to Mass, she was chained to a monk and a monk to her.
The Abbot Richard rested on the seventh day, contemplating his labours
with infinite relish. It seemed to him that this was to be politic
with an air. So far as he might he did everything in that manner.
Isoult bore the burden much as she had borne the thwackings of the
charcoal-burners, with ingrained patience. Seriously, one only cross
fretted her--the loss of her ring. This indeed cried desertion upon
her. Prosper had never seemed so far, nor his love so faint and ill-
assured. It would seem that kindness really killed her by drugging her
spirit as with anodyne. As she had fallen at Gracedieu, so she fell
now into a languid habit where tears swam in flood about the lids of
her eyes, where the eyes were too heavy for clear sight and the very
blood sluggish with sorrow. She grew pale again, hollow-eyed,
diaphanous--a prism for an unearthly ray. Her beauty took on its elfin
guise; she walked a ghost. Night and day she felt for the ring; though
she knew it was not there, her hand was always in her vest, her bosom
always numb and cold. Sometimes her urgent need was more than she
could bear. A trembling took her, an access of trembling which she
could not check. At such times, if others were about her, she would
sit vacant and speechless, smiling faintly for courtesy; her eyes
would brim over, the great drops fall unchecked. There would be no
sobbing, very little catching of the breath. The well of misery would
fill and overflow, gently and smoothly irresistible. Then the shaking
would cease and the fount be dry for a season. So she grew more a
spirit and less a maid; her eyes waxed larger, and the pupils whelmed
the grey in jet.
The people of Malbank frankly took her for a saint. Martyrs, virgins,
and such rare birds do not hop in every cage; but what more reasonable
than that the famous Abbot of Saint Thorn should catch one in his own
springes? Those who maintained that the chained white creature, who
knelt folded at the Mass, or on a white palfrey rode out on the heath
guarded by two monks, was the stormy girl who had kept swine about the
middens, Matt's bad daughter Isoult la Desirous, those were leagued
with the devil and his imps, who would not see a saint if all heaven
walked the earth.
The report fell in excellently with the Abbot's calculation. No one
believed in the Isoult fable save Mald, whom the girl had seen once or
twice, and himself; every one talked rather of the Chained Virgin of
Saint Thorn. She became an object of pilgrimage. The Abbot grew to
call her chamber the feretory; the faithful gave alms, particularly
the seamen from Wanmouth. Then others came to behold, more to his
liking, proposing barter. She was observed of the Lord of Hartlepe,
the young Lord of Brokenbridge, the Lord of Courthope Saint James; of
the Baron of Starning and Parrox, also, from the East Demesne. This
Baron Malise, thin and stooping, having Prosper's quick eyes without
his easy lordship over all who met them, and Prosper's high voice
twisted querulous, came to view his young brother's wife. She pleased,
but the price did not please. He and the Abbot haggled over the dowry;
Malise, as obstinate as Prosper, would not budge. So they haggled.
Finally came Galors de Born, Lord of Hauterive and many other places
in the north, not to be denied.
CHAPTER XXXI
'ENTRA PER ME'
When Galors overshot his mark in Thornyhold he flew very wide. It is
well known there are no roads. Thornyhold is but the beginning of the
densest patch of timber in all the forest. Malbank is your nearest
habitation; Spenshaw, Heckaby, Dunsholt Thicket, Hartshold, Deerleap
are forest names, not names of the necessities of men. You may wander
a month if you choose, telling one green hollow from another; or you
may go to Holy Thorn at Malbank, or endure unto Wanmouth and the sea.
If you were Galors and needed counsel you would not choose the wood;
naturally you would avoid Malbank. There would remain to you Wanmouth.
Galors went to Wanmouth. It was the Countess's country of course; but
his disguise was good enough. People read the arms and hailed a le Gai
or one of that house. It was at Wanmouth that he learned what he
wanted. Malise, after one of his interminable chafferings with the
Abbot Richard, took it on his way to the east.
"My Lord Baron of Starning," said the Vice-Admiral of the port, "we
have had a friend of your house here a week or more."
"Eh, eh!" said Malise, feeling his pocket, "what does the rogue want
with his friendship? I'm as poor as a rat. Who is he?"
"Oh, for that," replied the other, "he seems a great lord in his way,
wears your blazon, is free with his money, and he swears like a
Fleming."
"Bring him to me, Admiral, bring him to me. I shall like this man."
So Galors was brought in, to be graciously received by the head of the
house of Gai. His blunt manner deceived Malise at once. In his
experience people who wanted to borrow dealt differently. Here was a
lofty soul, who might, on the other hand, be guided to lend! In the
course of a long conversation Melise unbosomed. He was newly a lover
and liked the part. The Baron ended his confession thus--
"So, my dear friend, you see how it is with me. I have never met you
before--the more's the pity. I accept your civilities, but I make no
promises--you know our legend? Well, I bide my time--he--he! No
boasting, but upon my honour, my reputation does not make me out
ungrateful. I say to you, go to Malbank; observe, watch, judge, then
report to me. The detail I leave to you. I should recommend a
disguise. The place has become one of pilgrimage--go as a pilgrim! You
will see whether the prize is worth my while. I am sure you have
taste--I know it. Observe, report. Then we will act."
"Ravishment of ward?" asked Galors dryly.
"Ward! She is not his ward. How can she be? Who is she? Nobody knows.
The thing is a crying scandal, my dear friend. A woman in an abbey
parlour! An alcove at Holy Thorn! Are we Mohammedans, infidels, Jews
of the Old Law? Fie!"
"You do not know her name, Baron?"
"She is the Chained Virgin of Saint Thorn, I tell you. She has no
other name. She sits in a throne in choir, pale as milk, with burning
grey eyes as big as passion-flowers! She is a chained Andromeda on the
rock of Peter. Be my Perseus!"
"Hum," said Galors, half to himself, "hum! Yes, I will go at once."
"My dear friend----"
"Not a word more, Baron. Go home to Starning, go where you like, and
wait. If you see me again the lady will be with me."
"You shall not find me ungrateful, I promise," cried Malise, going
out.
"Damn your gratitude," said Galors, when the door was shut.
A mortified Perseus in drab cloak and slouch hat, he went to Malbank
next day and verified his prognosis. The Abbot sang Mass, his old
colleagues huddled in choir; the place echoed with the chastened
snuffling he knew so well. Galors had no sentiment to pour over them.
Standing, bowing, genuflecting, signing himself at the bidding of the
bell, he had no eyes for any but the frail apparition whose crown of
black seemed to weigh her toward the pavement. The change wrought in
her by a year's traffic might have shocked, as the eyes might have
haunted him; but she was nothing but a symbol by now. A frayed ensign,
she stood for an earldom and a fee. The time had been when her beauty
had bewitched him; that was when she went flesh and blood, sun-
browned, full of the sap of untamed desires. Now she was a ghost with
a dowry; stricken, but holding a fief.
He judged the chain, the time, the place, the chances. He had three
men. It was enough. Next Sunday he would act. Then for the forest
roads and High March!
That next Sunday was Lammas Day and a solemn feast. All Malbank was in
the nave, a beaten and weather-scarred bundle of drabs packed in one
corner under the great vaulting ribs. Within the dark aisles the
chapels gloomed, here and there a red lamp made darkness darker; but
the high altar was a blaze of lights. The faces, scared or sharp-set,
of the worshippers fronted the glory open-mouthed, but all dull.
Hunger makes a bad altar-flame; when it burns not sootily it fires the
fabric.
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