The Forest Lovers
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Maurice Hewlett >> The Forest Lovers
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Afterwards came something which they understood--Isoult between her
two women, the monk behind. A girl chained by the middle to a monk--
Oh, miracle! She sat very still in her carved chair, folding her
patient hands. So thin, so frail, so transparent she was, they thought
her pure spirit, a whisp of gossamered breath, or one of those gauzy
sublimations which the winter will make of a dead leaf. The cowed
audience watched her wonderfully; some of the women snivelled. The
white monks, the singing boys, the banners and tapers, Ceremoniar,
Deacon, Subdeacon, the vested Abbot himself, passed like a shining
cloud through the nave. All their light came from the Chained Virgin
of Saint Thorn. And then the Mass began.
There was a ring of hoofs outside, but no one looked round, and none
came in. A shadow fell across the open door. At a _Dominus
Vobiscum_ you might have seen the ministrant falter; there might
have been a second or two of check in his chant, but he mastered it
without effort, and turned again with displayed hands to his affair.
The choir of white hoods, however, watched the shadow at the west
door. Isoult saw nothing and heard nothing; she was kneeling at
prayer. It may be doubted if any prayed but the girl and the priest.
The holy office proceeded; the Sanctus bell shrilled for the first
time. Hoofs shattered scandalously on the flags, and Galors, with an
armed man on either hand of him, rode into the nave. The choir rose in
a body, the nave huddled; Isoult, as she believed, saw Prosper, spear,
crest, and shield. Her heart gave a great leap, then stood still.
Perhaps there was a flicker in the Abbot's undertone; his lips may
have been dry; but his courage was beyond proof. He held on.
Isoult was blanched as a cloth; lips, fingers and ears, the tongue in
her open mouth--all creeks for the blood were ebbed dry. Her awful
eyes, fixed and sombre stars, threatened to gulf her in their dark.
Love was drowned in such horror as this.
Galors swung out of the saddle. In the breathless place the din of
that act came like a thunder-peal, crackling and crashing, like to
wreck the church. He drew his sword, with none to stay him, and strode
forward. If the Abbot Richard heard his step up the choir the man is
worthy of all memory, for he went on with his manual acts, and his
murmur of prayer never ceased. He may have heard nothing--who knows
what his motions were? He was a brave man.
The bell rang--rang again--God beamed in the Host. The people wavered,
but use held. They bowed prone before God in His flake of new flesh.
"_Deus in adjutorium_," muttered the Abbot to himself.
"_Entra per me!_" thundered Galors, and ran him through the body.
After the first shudder had swept through the church there was no
sound at all, until some woman hidden began a low moan, and keened the
Abbot Richard. No one dared to stir while those grim horsemen in the
nave sat like rocks.
Galors turned to Isoult where she froze rigid in her throne, severed
the chain at a blow, and went to take her. Some sudden thought struck
him; he turned her quickly round to the light and without ceremony
fumbled at her neck. She grew sick to feel him touch her.
"The Abbot hath it." Her lips formed the words. Galors went back to
the dead priest and pulled off chain and locket.
"Oh, my ring, my ring!" whined the girl as he slipt the chain over
her. He did not seem to hear her, but snatched her up in his arms as
if she had been a doll and set her on his horse. He swung himself into
the saddle behind her as he had swung himself out of it, reined up
short and turned. The three men rode out with their burden. When they
had gone the Deacon (who got a mitre for it) solemnly laid the fallen
host between his lord's lips. The act, at once pious and sensible,
brought up the congregation from hell to earth again. At such times
routine is the only saving thing.
Once free of the Abbey precincts the three horsemen forded Wan. At a
signal pre-arranged one of them fell back to keep watch over the
river. Galors went forward with one in his company on to the heath,
dropped him after three or four hours' steady going, and rode on
still. His third man was to meet him at the edge of Martle Brush.
Never a word had he spoken since his great "_Entra per me!_" but
without that the act had been enough to tell his prize, that whatever
her chains had been before, the sword-stroke had riveted them closer.
There had been no chain like his mailed arm round her body.
Nothing could be done. Indeed she was as yet paralyzed; for wild work
as had been done in her sight, this was savagery undreamed. She could
get no comfort, she never thought of Prosper. Even Prosper, her lord,
could not stand before such a force as this. As for good Saint
Isidore, the pious man became a shade, and vanished with his Creator
into the dark.
Night came on, but a low yellow moon burnt the fringe of the rising
woods. They were retracing almost the very stones of the track she and
Prosper had followed a year before.
Matt's intake they passed, she saw a light in the window. The heath
loomed ghostly before them, with the dark bank of trees rising
steadily as they neared. Athwart them rose also the moon; there was
promise of a fine still night. They entered the trees, heading for
Martle Brush.
Suddenly Galors pulled up, listening intently. There was no sound save
that strange murmur the night has (as if the whole concave of heaven
were the hollow of a shell), and the secret rustling of the trees.
Still Galors listened. It was so quiet you might almost have heard two
hearts beating.
As an underchant, sinister accompaniment to the voices of the night,
there came to them the muffled pulsing of a horse's hoofs; a quick and
regular sound--a horse galloping evenly with plenty in hand.
Both heard it. Galors drove in the spurs, and the chase began. They
were yet a mile away from Martle Brush. If they could cross the brook
and gain the ridgeway, it was long odds on their being overtaken that
night.
CHAPTER XXXII
'BIDE THE TIME'
Walking the rounds at Hauterive the night of his coming there, a man
sprang out at Prosper from a black entry and stabbed at him between
the shoulders. "For the ravisher of Isoult!" was all the message that
did not miscarry, for Galors' mail of proof stopped the rest. Prosper
whipt round in an instant, but the assassin had made up the passage-
way. There was a quick chase through the break-neck lanes of the steep
little town, then blood told. Prosper ran his man to earth in a
churchyard. He proved to be a red-haired country lout, whose bandy
legs had been against him in this work. He asked for no quarter,
seemed beside himself with rage.
"Friend," said Prosper, "you struck me from behind. You must have
wished to make very sure. Why?"
Said Falve, "Thou ravisher, Galors."
"I cannot be called Galors to my face; politics may go to the devil.
Keep my secret, countryman; I am in Galors' shell, but I will be
Galors no more."
Falve dropped on his knees. "Oh, my lord, my lord--" he began to cry
out.
"Enough of lords," said Prosper. "Some of them do not very lordly, I
grant you. Your words touched me nearly. Be so good as to make
yourself plain. Who is Isoult?"
"Isoult la Desirous, my wife, Messire."
"Your wife!" cried Prosper, grinding his teeth.
"As good as that, my lord. I should have married her in the morning if
my mother hadn't played the Turk on me."
So he had the whole story out of him. Prosper learnt that Isoult had
been put in her way to safety by the old woman, who immediately after
had made that way the most perilous of all--with the best intentions
always.
"Master Falve, I am your debtor," said Prosper at the end; "I wish you
good evening."
"Messire, will you not find my wife?"
"Your wife again, sirrah!" cried he, turning sharply.
"Ah, my lord, if you have any ill-will to that----"
"I have the greatest possible ill-will, my man, because she is already
my own."
"Heaven round about us, was there ever such a married woman!" cried
poor Falve, tearing his hair.
The politics of a lady to whom, so far as he then knew, he owed no
service held Prosper till the morning. The rest of the night he spent
walking the ramparts. At the first flutter of light he beat up the
garrison, assembled the men of both parties, and declared himself.
"Hauterive returns to its allegiance," said he. "Conradin de Lamport
is commandant. The former garrison will deliver up all arms and take
the oath of fealty. A declaration of hue-and-cry is posted for Galors,
with a reward for his head. In three days' time the Countess will send
her Viceroy to claim the keys. Gentlemen, I bid you good morning."
Conradin de Lamport was the name of the man who had accompanied him
into Wanmeeting. Prosper knew he was to be trusted. Then with
conscience cleared he mounted his horse and left Hauterive.
Keeping a sharp look-out as he went, he was rewarded by the find of a
shoe, glowing like a crimson toadstool in the moss. Not far off were
its fellow, and a pair of drenched silk stockings. He kissed the
vestiges of the feet of Isoult, hung them to the peak of the saddle,
and forward again like a westerly gale. After this came a fault which
delayed him the best part of three days. The deer were dumb animals
for him, whose business had hitherto been to bleed not milk them.
There were deer feeding in the glades of Thornyhold; but Belvisee was
nursing her wound under the oak by the pool, and Mellifont was beside
her. The deer snuffed an enemy in the friend of their friend; they
gave him a lead astray, which unconsciously he took. Thus he found
himself, after two days' aimless wandering and two nights' dreamless
sleep, on the high ground by Deerleap, with the forest behind and the
rolling purple fells stretched out before him, and at last a blue
gauzy ribbon which he knew for the sea. Out of heart he turned and
beat back to Thornyhold, this time to better purpose.
A rustle in the fern, a start, a glint of the sun on a side not furry,
a flash of flying green and russet, a streamer of hair like a litten
cloud--by Heavens, how the brown girl ran! Prosper, laughing but keen,
gave chase. She led him far, in and out of the oak stems, doubling
like a hare; but he rode her down by cutting off the corners: flushed,
panting and wild, defiant she stood, ready to flinch at the blow.
Prosper's horse was properly breathed; as for him he burst into a
laugh.
"My child, you bolted like a rabbit. But own that I gave you a good
run."
"You beat me," said Mellifont.
"Well, and now I am going to do what I like with you."
"Of course."
"You must be obedient. Answer my question now. Why did you run?"
"Because you came."
"Why did you run?"
"Because you are a man."
"Madam Virgin, what a prude! Did you think I should hurt you?"
"Yes."
"Well, have I?"
"Not yet."
"Look at me now. Do I look like hurting you?" He put up his visor. The
softest brown eyes a girl can have trembled over him.
"No--o. Oh!" The negative was drowned in discovery. Prosper followed
her gaze. He held up the red stockings.
"Do you know them, child?"
"I know to whom they belong. Are you going to hunt her?"
"Hunt her! I am going to find her. I think she has had hunting enough,
God bless her."
"Yes, she has," said Mellifont gravely.
Prosper stooped in his saddle and laid a hand on her head.
"My dear," said he, "I love that hunted lady beyond everything in the
world; I never knew how much until I had lost her. But no wrong will
happen to her till she hears me tell her the truth. If you know
anything you must not hide it from me."
Mellifont peered up at him through her hair.
"Are you Prosper?" she asked.
"Yes, I am indeed. Did she speak to you about me?"
"Often."
"Is she--ah, Lord of Hosts! she is not here?"
"No, not now. She was here. Come with me. But you must leave your
horse and sword behind you."
Prosper obeyed her without a thought. Mellifont took his hand and led
him to the hollow under the oak. Belvisee was there, dumbly nursing
her side, which a stooping hind was licking when the pair came up.
Prosper received the red robe and the sequins from her hands, and in
time pieced the story together. It cut him to the soul.
"Take me to the place where the dogs got her," he said in a whisper.
Belvisee and Mellifont led him there. Once more, then, he wasted his
eyes on crushed herbage, black fern, and stained earth; again loathed
himself very heartily for what he had not done; but in time understood
what he had done. He turned deliberately to the sisters. "Belvisee and
Mellifont, listen to what I shall tell you. There is no strength like
a woman's, and no blindness like that of a man. For the woman is
strong because she is blind and cannot see the man she loves as he is;
therefore she makes him in her own glorious image. But the man is
blind because he is strong, and because he seeth himself so glorious
that he can abide no other near him save as a servant. In that he doth
deadly sin to Love, because the food of Love is service, and he that
serves not Love starves him. But the woman feedeth him with her own
milk; so Love is with her till she dies. I, by the mercy of God, have
learned what Love is, and can feed him with service. And Isoult la
Desirous has taught me, who is now Isoult la Desiree."
Prosper ceased. Mellifont was crying on Belvisee's shoulder. The
latter said--
"Prosper, if all men were like thee, we might leave the forest and
dwell with them."
"Come with me," he said, "and I will see you safely bestowed."
"No, no; we will stay where we are known and with whom we know. All
men are not like you."
"As you must, it must needs be," replied Prosper. He kissed each on
the cheek, and watched them go hand-in-hand down the glade. The herd
closed in upon them, so neither he nor the Argument knows them any
more.
Prosper knelt down to pray; but what he found set him to better work.
He found Isoult's wedding-ring.
"By God," he cried, "who made men to labour, I will pray with my hands
this turn!"
He ran for his horse and sword. Courage came with his gallop, courage
and self-esteem, without which no man ever did anything yet. With
self-esteem returned sober thought.
"I can do Malbank in three or four hours. There is light enough for
what I have to settle there. I will spare my horse and save time in
the end. Meantime I will think this affair out." So said Prosper
galloping to Prosper on his feet, the late moralist. His plan was very
simply to confront the Abbot with his ring. If that failed he would
scour his own country, raise a troop, and lay leaguer on Saint Thorn.
He had forgotten Galors. He was soon to have a reminder of that grim
fighter.
The doors of the great church stood open, so Prosper rode in. It was
cold and dark, and smelt of death and candle-fumes. The pilasters of
the nave were already swathed in black velvet; in the choir were great
lights set on the floor, in the midst of them a bier. A priest was at
a little altar by the bier's head, other cowled figures crouched about
it. There was a low murmur of praying, even, whining, and mechanical.
On the bier Prosper saw the comely Abbot Richard Dieudonne, in cope
and mitre, holding in his hand the staff of his high office. This
pastor of the Church was at peace; the man of the world was sober with
access of wisdom; the man of modes smiled pleasantly at his secret
thoughts. Very handsome, very remote, very pure he looked; for so
death purges off the dross which we work into the good clay.
Prosper, meditative always at the sight of death, stood and pondered
upon it. Everything was well, no doubt; such things should be! but the
indifference of the defunct seemed almost shocking. Do they not care
for decent interment? Then he turned to a bystander.
"You mourn for your father?" he asked.
"Master, we do indeed. What! a great lord, a throned and pompous
priest, to be felled like a calf; his body spitted like a lark's! No
leave asked! You may well judge whether we mourn. I suppose there
never was such a mournful affair since a king died in this country."
"Murdered?" cried Prosper, highly scandalized.
"Murdered by Prosper le Gai for the sake of the Chained Virgin."
"By Prosper le Gai?"
"'Tis so indeed. And well he did his work, if there's anything in
wrist play. For first he spits the Abbot, and then he sunders the
chain, and next he overhauls the girl, and next the Abbot. And he puts
her under his arm like a marketable hen, and away he gallops over the
heath. Hot work!"
"Galors' work," said Prosper to himself as he turned away.
He prayed at three altars for the man's soul, turned, mounted, and
galloped. He forded Wan. A horseman met him on the further bank,
shouting. Prosper lowered his head and shot at him as from a catapult.
The spear drove deep, the man threw his arms out, sobbed, and dropped
like a stone. Prosper went on his race.
It was growing dusk when he stood on the threshold of Matt's intake,
battering at the door. The hag-ridden face of old Mald stared out. She
parted her tattered hair from her eyes and pointed a shaky finger at
him.
"Galors," she wailed, "Galors, thou monk forsworn, thinkest thou to
have the Much-Desired? No, but her husband has her at last, and shall
have her with all that is hers--ah, though he have done murder to get
her. Swear back, Galors, and pray for thy dead master."
Prosper held up his hand to stay the tide.
"Mother, I am Prosper, the husband of the Much-Desired. No murder have
I done, though I have seen murder. And I have not my wife; but I
believe she is with Galors."
Old Mald came fawning out to him at this, and took his hands in her
own trembling hands.
"He passed an hour agone," said she. "He will do her no wrong till he
hath her at High March, trust him for that. And by now he should be
near Martle, and she before him on the saddle-bow."
She began to weep and wag her silly head. Prosper made to go, having
no time to waste; but, "Stop," she quavered, "and hear me out. Though
the Abbot Richard was murdered at his prayers, yet withal he got his
deserts, for he hatched a worse wrong than ever Galors did. The child
was chained by the middle, and came to me chained riding a white
palfrey. In green and white she came, and round her middle was a
chain, long and supple, and a monk on horse-back held the end thereof.
She came to me to the hearth at the length of her chain, and held me
in her dear arms, and kissed me, cheeks and forehead. Down I sat on my
stool and she on the knees of me, and she hid her face on my leanness
while she spoke of you, my lord--called you her dear heart, and told
of all the bitter longings she had. Ah, now! Ah, now! If you but
knew."
"God forgive me," cried the lacerated wretch, "but I know it all! Yet
tell me what else she said."
"There was little more," said Mald, "for the monk pulled at her, and
she went as she came."
"Have they passed an hour gone?" said Prosper in a dry whisper.
"Ah, and more."
"God be with you," said he; "pray for her."
"Pray!" mocked the crone in a rage; "and pray what will that do?"
"No more than I, mother, just now. God is all about us. Farewell!"
And he was gone amid flying peats.
Midway of the heath a second knight met him, challenged him, and
charged. Prosper was not for small game that night. His head grew
cooler, as always, for his haste, his arm steady as a rock. Thereupon
he ran his man through the breastbone. He broke his spear, but took
the other's, and away. At the edge of the wood the moon-rays gleamed a
third time upon mail. It was Galors' last sentry, who hallooed to stay
him. Prosper was on him before he was ready, and hurled him from the
saddle. He never moved. Prosper galloped through the wood.
The snapping branches, thunder of hoofs, labouring belly and hard-won
breath of his beast, more than all the wind that sang in his ears,
prevented him from hearing what Galors and his prey had already heard.
He went headlong down the slope of the ground; but before anything
more welcome he caught the music of the brook in the bottom.
There was a gap in the trees just there; the moon swam in the midst
large and golden. Then at last he saw what he wanted, and knew that
the hour had come.
CHAPTER XXXIII
SALOMON IS DRIVEN HOME
Galors, too, knew that the hour had come; but his spirit came up to
meet it, and he made a push for it. He was over the brook; if he could
top the ridge he would have the advantage he had a year ago, which
this time he swore to put to better use. The girl knew his thoughts as
she had known the accolade of the thundering hoofs behind them. She
would have thrown herself if the steel trap had loosed ever so little;
as it was, she fluttered like a rag caught in a bush; the filmy body
was what Galors held, the soul shrilled prayers to the man's
confusion. He could not stay her lips; they moved, working against
him, as he knew well. "Mother of God, send him, send him, send him!"
It was ill fighting against a girl's soul, it slacked his rein and
drugged his heel. By God, let the boy come and be damned; let him
fight! "Mother of God, send, send, send!" breathed Isoult. The horse
below them shuddered, failed to come up to the rein, bowed his head to
the jerked spur. Galors left off spurring, and slackened his rein.
Though he would not look behind him he heard the plash of the ford,
heard also Prosper's low, "Steady, mare, hold up!" Prosper was over;
Galors halfway up the hill. It would be soon.
The black and white gained hand over hand; the red and green felt him
come. The soul of Isoult hovered between them. Black and white drew
level; red and green held on. Side by side, spears erect and tapering
into the moon, plumes nodding, eyes front, they paced; the soul of
Isoult took flight, the body crouched in the steel's hug. The gleam of
the white wicket-gates caught their master's eye; they were risen in
judgment against him. _Entra per me_ was to play him false. This
trifling thing unnerved him till it seemed to speak a message of doom.
But doom once read and accepted, nerve came back. By God, he would die
as he had lived, strenuously, seeking one thing at a time! But to be
killed by his chosen arm, overshrilled by his own shout--that sobered
him, little of a sentimentalist as he was. As for love-lorn Prosper,
he had still less sentiment to waste. True, he had not chosen his
arms, his motto had been found for him by his ancestors--they were
cut-and-dried affairs, so much clothing to which Galors at this moment
served as a temporary peg. Sweet Saviour! the Much-Desired was near
him, close by. He could have touched her head. She never moved to look
at him; he knew so much without turning his own head. And he knew
further that she knew him there. The soul of Isoult, you see, had
taken wings. Thus they gained the ridge and halted. Backing their
beasts, they were face to face, and each looked shrewdly at the other,
waiting who should begin the game.
Then it was that Isoult suddenly sat up and looked at Prosper. He
could not read her face, but knew by her stiff-poised head that she
was quivering. He said nothing, but made a motion, a swift jerk with
his head, to wave her out of the way. Galors responded by first
tightening, finally relaxing, his hold upon her waist. She slipt down
from the saddle, and stood hesitating what to do. She had waited for
this moment so long, that the natural thing had become the most
unnatural of all. Prosper never glanced at her, but kept his eyes
steadily on Galors. The times--in his mannish view--were too great for
lovers. Isoult stept back into the shadows.
The two men at once saluted in knightly fashion, wheeled, and rode
apart. The lists were a long alley between the pines, all soft moss
and low scrub of whortleberry and heather. Galors had the hill behind
him, but no disadvantage in that unless he were pushed down it; the
place was dead level. They halted at some thirty yards' interval,
waiting. Then Prosper gave a shout--_"Bide the time!" "Entra per
me!"_ came as a sombre echo; and the two spurred horses flung
forward at each other.
Each spear went true. Prosper got his into the centre of Galors'
shield, and it splintered at the guard. Galors' hit fair; but Prosper
used his trick of dropping at the impact, so that the spear glanced
off over his shoulder. Galors recovered it and his seat together. It
would seem that Prosper had taught him some civility by this, for he
threw his lance away as soon as the horses were free of each other.
Both drew their swords. Then followed a bout of wheeling and darting
in, at which Prosper had clear advantage as the lighter horseman on
the handier horse. Galors' strength was in downright carving;
Prosper's in his wrist-play and lightning recovery. He, moreover, was
cool, Galors hot. At this work he got home thrice to the other's once,
but that once was for a memory, starred the shoulder-piece and bit to
the bone. Left arm luckily. Prosper made a feint at a light canter,
spurred when he was up with his man, and, as his horse plunged, got
down a back-stroke, which sent Galors' weapon flying from his hand. He
turned sharply and reined up. Galors dismounted slowly, picked up his
sword, and went to mount again. He blundered it twice, shook the blood
out of his eyes, tried again, but lurched heavily and dropped. He only
saved himself by the saddle. Prosper guessed him more breathed than
blooded.
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