The Forest Lovers

M >> Maurice Hewlett >> The Forest Lovers

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"Galors," said he, "we have done well enough for the turn. Rest, and
let me rest."

"As you will," said Galors thickly.

The two men sat facing each other on either side of the way. Galors
unlaced his helm and leaned on his elbows, taking long breaths.
Prosper unlaced his; and then followed a lesson to Isoult in warfare,
as he understood it. The girl had run down the hill-side to the brook,
so soon as she saw they must give over. She now came back, bearing
between her hands a broad leaf filled with water. This she brought to
her lord. Prosper smiled to her.

"Take it to Galors, Isoult, whom we must consider as our guest," he
whispered.

She turned at once and went dutifully, with recollected feet and bosom
girt in meekness, to give him the cold water cupped in her palms.
Galors drank greedily, and grunted his thanks. As for Prosper, he
praised men and angels for a fair vision.

She came back after another journey to feed her lover, and afterwards
stood as near to him as she dared. Galors, the alien, looked ever at
the ground.

"Galors," said Prosper presently, "how do you find my harness?"

"It has served me its turn," he answered.

"That also I can say of yours," replied Prosper, with a little laugh;
"for it has taken me into places where, without it, I should have
found a strait gate in. For that I can thank you more than for the
head-ache and cold bath at Goltres."

"Ha!" said the other, "that was a sheer knock. I thought it had
finished you, to be plain. But do not lay it to my door. I fight truer
than that."

"Truly enough you have fought me this night," Prosper allowed
heartily, "and I ask no better. But will you now tell me one thing
about which I have been curious ever since our encounter in this place
a year ago?"

"What is it?"

"Your arms--the blazon--do you bear them as of right?"

"I bear them by the right a fighter has. They have carried me far, and
done my work."

"They are not of your family?"

"My family? Messire, you should know that a monk carries no arms. My
family, moreover, was not knightly, till I made it knightly."

"The arms you assumed with your new profession?"

"I did."

"May I know whence you took them?"

"No, I cannot tell you that. They are the arms of a man now dead,
Salomon de Montguichet"

"They are the arms," said Prosper slowly, "of a man now dead. I saw
him dead, and helped to bury him. I knew not then how he died, though
I have thought to be sure since. But you are wrong in one thing. The
bearer of those arms was not Salomon de Montguichet."

"It is you who are wrong, Messire. It is beyond doubt; and the proof
is that on the shield are the _guichets_, taken from the name."

"Galors, the name was taken from the _guichets_, and the
_guichets_ from Coldscaur in the north. The man's name was
Salomon de Born."

Galors gave a dry sob, and another, and another. He threw up his arms,
twisting with the gesture of a man on the rope. Prosper and Isoult
rose also, Prosper pale and hard, the girl wide-eyed. Galors seemed to
tear at himself, as if at war with a fiend inside him. Prosper stepped
forward; you would not have known his voice.

"Man," he said, "our account is not yet done. But I know what I know.
If you have accounts to settle, settle them now. I will bear you
company and wait for you where you will."

The words steadied Galors, sobered and quieted him. He began to mutter
to himself. "God hath spoken to me. Out of my own deeds cometh His
judgment, and out of my own sowing the harvest I shall reap. _Entra
per me_, saith God." He turned to Prosper. "Sir, I accept of your
allowance. I will not take you far. One more thing I will ask at your
hands, that you give me back my own sword--Salomon's sword. After a
little you shall have it again."

"I will do it," said Prosper, knowing his thought.

They changed swords. Prosper set Isoult on his horse and himself
walked at her stirrup. The three of them moved forward without another
word given or exchanged. Galors led the way.

Instead of following the line of the chase, which had been north, they
now struck east through the heavy woodland. So they went for some
three hours. It must have been near midnight, with a moon clear of all
trees, when they halted at a cross-ride which ran north and south.
Before them, over the ride, rose a thick wall of pine-stems, so
serried that there was no room for a horse to pass in between them.
Isoult started, looked keenly up and down the ride, then collected
herself and sat quite still. Prosper took no notice of anything.

"Prosper," said Galors quietly, "you will wait here for me. You know
that I shall return. It will be within half-an-hour from now."

"Good. I shall be here."

Galors dismounted and plunged into the wall of pines; they seemed to
move and fold him in their mazes, and nothing spoke of him thereafter
but the sound of his heavy tread on dry twigs. When this was lost an
immense stillness sat brooding.

Neither Prosper nor Isoult could speak. Her presence was to him a warm
consolation, to be apprehended by flashes in the course of a long
battle with black and heavy thoughts; her also the pause (more fateful
than the battle it had interrupted) affected strangely, the more
strangely because she did not know the whole truth. I may say here
that Prosper never told her of it; nor did she ask it of him. It was
the one event of their lives, joint and disjoint, upon which they were
always as dumb as now when they thought apart. Thoughtful apart though
they were, they felt together. Prosper's hand stole upwards from his
side; Isoult's drew to it as metal to magnet; the rest of that heavy
hour they passed hand-in-hand. So children comfort each other in the
dark.

Very faint and far off a solitary cry broke the vast dearth of the
night. It rose like an owl's hooting, held, shuddered, and then died
down. Prosper's clasp on the girl's hand suddenly straightened; it
held convulsively while the call held, relaxed when it relaxed. Then
the former hush swam again over the wood, and so endured until, after
intolerable suspense, they heard the heavy tread of Galors de Born.

His bulk, his white impassive mask, were before them.

"I have settled my account, Prosper," he said. "Now settle yours."

Prosper shivered.

"I am quite ready," said he.

They changed, then crossed swords, and began their second rally on
foot. You would have said that they were sluggish at the work, as if
their blood had cooled with the long wait or sense of still more
dreadful business in the background, and needed a sting to one or
other to set it boiling again. They fenced almost idly at first; it
was cut and parry--formalism. Galors was very steady; Prosper,
breathing tightly through his nose, very wary. Gradually, however,
they warmed to it. Galors got a cut in the upper arm, and began making
ugly rushes, blundering, uncalculated bustles, which could only end
one way. Prosper had little difficulty in evading most of these;
Galors lost his breath and with it his temper. The sight of his own
shield and sword, ever at point against him, made him mad. He could
never reach his adroit enemy, it seemed. For a supreme effort he
feigned, drew back, then made a rush. Prosper parried, recovered, and
let in with a staggering head-cut which for the time dizzied his
opponent. Galors lowered his head under his shield, made another
desperate blind rush, and got to close quarters. The two men struggled
together, fighting as much with shields as swords, and more with legs
and arms than anything else. They were indistinguishable, a twisting
and flashing tangle; they locked, writhed, swayed, tottered--then rent
asunder. Galors fell heavily. He got on his feet again, however, for
another rush. As he came on Prosper stepped aside, knocked out his
guard and slashed at the shoulder--a dreadful thirsty blow. Galors
staggered, his shield dropped; but he came on once more. Another side-
cut beat his weapon down, and then a back-handed blow crashed into his
gorget. He threw up his arms and staggered backwards; a last cut
finished him. Galors with a cough that ended in a wet groan fell like
lead. He never spoke nor moved again.

Prosper sank on his knees, beaten out. Isoult started from the wood to
hold him, but he waved her back. All was not done. He put his sword in
his mouth and crept on all fours to his enemy, lifted his visor,
looked in his face. Then he got up and stood over him. He swung back
the bare sword of Salomon de Born with both hands. It came down, did
its last work and broke.

Prosper threw the pommel from him and lifted up the head of Galors.
The times were grim times. He tied it to his saddle-bow. Then he
turned to Isoult.

"Come," he said, "the fight is done."

They did not stay. He took his own shield and sword from the dead,
girt on the first and slung the latter to the spare saddle. He took
his wife in his arms, not daring to kiss her in such a place, and put
her on Galors' horse; and so they went their way into the misty woods.

Dark Tortsentier took up the watch amid the sighing of its pine-tree
host. Its array of shields, its swords and mail kept their counsel.
The figures in the singular tapestry of Troilus went through their
aping unadmired, and the grey dawn found them at it. Then you might
see how idle Cresseide, peering askance at Maulfry with her sly eyes,
watched the black pool drown her hair.

CHAPTER XXXIV

LA DESIREE

Prosper broke the silence there was between them.

"Whither should we go?" he said.

Isoult took the lead. "Follow me, I will lead you. I know the ways."

A great constraint kept him tongue-tied. The prize was his; the
silence, the emptiness, the night, gave him what his sword had earned.
He trembled but dared not put out his hand. What was he--good Lord!--
to touch so rare a thing? He hardly might look at her. The moon showed
him a light muffled figure swaying to the rhythm of the march, the
round of her hooded head, the swing of her body, the play of her white
hand on the rein. Whenever he dared to look her face was turned to
his; he saw the moon-glint in her eyes. He absolutely had nothing to
say, and for the first time in his life felt a clumsy fool.

By all which it would seem that love is a virtue going out of a man as
much as any that enters in.

Isoult was in very different plight, enjoying her brief moment of
triumph, making as it were the most of it. When a woman loves she
humbles herself, and every prostration is matter for an ecstasy. Her
love returned, she ventured to be proud; but this is against the
grain. It is more blessed to give. The freed soul welcomes the prison-
gates and hugs the yoke and the chain.

Just now she was on the verge of her freedom. In thus looking at him
who had been her lord yesterday and would be her lord to-morrow, she
was taking his measure. In her exalted mood she found that she could
read him like a book. There was no doubt about his present docility,
but could she dare to mould it? She must woo, she saw; dare she trail
this steel-armed lord of battles, this grim executant, this trumpet of
God, as a led child by her girdle-ribbons? If hero he had proved in
his own walk, to be sure he shambled pitifully on the edge of hers.
Her superiority sparkled so hard and frosty-bright that she began to
pity him; and so the maid was thawed to be the mother of her man.
Isoult knew she must beguile him now for his soul's ease and her own.

When the ride grew broad and ran like a spit into a lake of soft dark
she stopped. There was moss here, there were lichened heather-roots,
rowan bushes, and a ring of slim birches, silver-shafted, feather-
crowned and light; more than all there was a little pool of water
which two rills fed.

"We will stay here," said Isoult.

Prosper dismounted and helped her down. She felt him trembling as he
held her, whereat her courage rose clear and high.

"I will disarm you"--had she not done it, indeed!--"and dress your
hurts. Then you shall rest and I look at you at last."

"I am not much hurt. We could well go on."

"Nay, you must let me do as I will now. I must disarm you. 'Tis my
right."

She did it, kneeling at his knees or standing before him. For once he
was that delight of a woman in love, her plaything, her toy--her baby,
in a word. She girdled him with her arms at need; her fingers busy at
neck or cheek-pieces unlaced the helm.

"Now kneel."

He obeyed her, and she grew tenderly deft over his wounds. She washed
them clean, bound them up with strips torn from her skirt. She pushed
back his hair from eyes and brows, and washed him clean of blood and
sweat and rage. Her petticoat was her towel; she would have used her
hair, but that she dared not lose command of herself and him. She
wished for once to draw him, not to be drawn.

She knelt down on the moss, touching her lap meaningly as she did so.

"Rest here," said the gesture; "rest here, my dear heart," said the
smile that flew with it.

He knelt beside her--all went well up to this. The moon was low, the
night wearing; but the pure light came flowing through a rent in the
trees, and she caught his look upon her. She tried, but she could not
meet it. Then it befell her that she would not meet it if she could.

Prosper took something from his breast.

"Look," he said, as he held it up.

She watched it quivering in the moonbeams; her eyes brimmed; she grew
blush-red, divinely ashamed.

"Hold your hand out," said Prosper. She had risen to her knees; they
were kneeling face to face, very near.

Isoult's hands were crossed at her neck. Prosper remembered the
gesture. Now she held out her left hand and let him crown it. He held
on--alas! he was growing master every minute.

"Isoult."

"Yes."

"Oh, my dear love, Isoult! Now I shall wed thee, Isoult the Much-
Desired."

She began to shake. But she put her hands up till they rested on his
shoulders. She laughed in a low thrilled tone.

"I am La Desiree now, and no longer La Desirous. For what I desired
was another's desire." Also she said--"Kiss my mouth, and I shall
believe that thou speakest the truth of the heart."

He held her with his hands, looking long and steadily; nor did her
eyes refuse him now. Love was awake and crying between the pair. He
drew her nearer, kissed her on the eyes and on the mouth; and she grew
red and loved him dearly.

So in the soft night, under the forest trees, in the hush that falls
before dawn, those two kissed and comforted one another. It was as in
a field of blood that the rod of love thrust into flower at last. But
the forest which had seen the graft held the flower by right. None
watched their espousal save the trees and the mild faces of the stars.

CHAPTER XXXV

FOREST LOVE

With the sun rose Isoult, transfigured and glorified, Love's rosy
priest. She slipped from her man's arms, hung over him wonderfully,
lightly kissed his forehead without disturbing his deep sleep. Then
she went to bathe herself in the pool, and to bind up her hair. The
woodland was jewelled with dew, it went in misty green and yellow, all
vocal of the joy she had. She was loved! she was loved!

Fresh and full of light she came dancing back, without a trace of the
haggard beauty upon her which had stolen about the ways of Holy Thorn.
Her mouth had the divine childishness, the rippling curves of the
naked god's bow; her eyes were glossy-soft and rayed a light from
within. Warm arms stole round Prosper, a warm cheek was by his, warm
lips kissed him awake. The duet, as of two low-answering doves,
began--

"Is this Isoult la Desirous who cometh?"

"You called me Desiree."

"How long sought, how long prayed for!"

"Found now, and close at last."

"Closer yet, closer yet."

"Oh heart, oh desire! Prosper!"

"Yes."

"Tell me one thing."

"Ask."

"When began you to think of me?"

"Will you put me to shame, Isoult?"

"Never, never! There is no shame in you. Look what I am."

"The purest, the loveliest, the bride of all delight!"

"You are a great lord; and I----"

"The great lord's lady--out of his reach."

"Prosper! No, no. If I am out of reach, reach not for me. Tell me
instead what I ask you."

"But you know when I began, and what you said."

"Ah, it was then?"

"No, it was not then. It was after that. It was when I knew that you
loved me."

"Did you not know from the first? Oh, what men must be! And I called--
as I was called."

"La Desirous? Ah, yes. Tell me now why that was?"

"Yes, I will tell you now." She hid her face on his breast and
whispered her story. "I was twelve years old--a sheepgirl on Marbery
Down. There are many, many herds there, and five of us that kept them
that day, huddling together to be warm. For I was cold enough--in rags
as you have seen me, but worse; my shoulder and side went bare then.
Then there came riding over the brow a company of lords having falcons
on their wrists; and I stood up to watch them fly their birds. There
was an old man, tall and very noble, with white hair and beard, and a
brown keen face; and there were others, young men, and one was a lad,
his son. The lad it was who flew his bird at a heron. The falcon shot
up into the air; she towered over my head where I stood, and after
stooped and fell upon me, and clung to my raiment, pecking at my
heart. And I cried out at the sharpness of the pain, and wrestled with
the falcon to get her off me, but could not for the battling of her
sails. Then the lad, the owner of the hawk, rode up to me and took
away the bird and killed her. He was a ruddy lad, with the bright blue
eyes of his father; but his hair was long and yellow as gold. To me he
gave money, and what was dearer than money and rarer, gentle words.
For he said--'Maiden, my haggard hath done thee a wrong, and I through
her. But when I am a man I will amend it.' Now the wound over my heart
kept fresh and could never be healed; and I was thought shameful for
that, because men said I went bleeding for love. And God knows it was
a true saying."

"Oh, Isoult, was it true, was it true? For that old man was my father,
and the lad was I."

Said Isoult--

"Ah, when thou didst ride into the quarry and foundest me with Galors
there, I knew thee again; and when thou didst wed me the wound stayed
bleeding, but remained fresh. But now--now it is healed."

They turned their lips to each other and murmured comfort with kisses.

"By the Lord," cried he, "I could eat a meal."

"O greedy one, I will put you to shame. All my desire is to take God's
body. For I know that we have had no marriage-mass."

"That is a true saying. But the Host is harder to come by. There is a
place in Morgraunt, nevertheless, where you may hear Mass and break
good bread after. I have been there, but not from here."

"But I have been there too, Prosper, and from here, or near here. I
remember. I know the road."

"Come then, lead me, my bride."

She armed her lord, being now entered into her old self, radiant,
softly fair, guarded, and demure. He also was the man of her choosing,
invincibly lord. They found their beasts near by and were soon on the
way, with their pale trophy hidden in a cloth.

Mass was said by the time they reached the yew-tree close, and saw the
shrine and image of Saint Lucy of the Eyes. Alice of the Hermitage
came out into the open, shading her face against the sun. Prosper she
remembered not, but when she saw Isoult she gave a little cry. The two
girls were in each other's arms in no time.

"Oh, you!"

"Yes, yes, I have come back. And you know me like this?"

"I would know you anywhere, by what you can never cut off"

"Now you must know my lord," said Isoult with a great heart.

Prosper came up.

"Ah, damsel," says he, "you sped me into your forest, and so sped me
to my happiness in spite of myself. Have you forgotten the white bird?
Look again and tell me if I have redeemed the quest."

"Ah, ah," said glowing Alice, "now I remember my dream of the bird. Is
this possible?"

She looked at Isoult. Isoult blushed; but she was all for blushing
just now.

"If it is true," Alice continued, "you make me very happy. Now let me
serve you."

"You shall," said Prosper. "Pray give us something to eat."

"Alice," said Isoult, "it was my lord who taught me how to pray--to
Mother Mary and Saint Isidore. We have had no marriage-mass."

"Ah, that is serious. You are not yet wedded then?"

Isoult blushed again.

"Will the father wed us?" she contented herself to ask.

But Prosper would not have it.

"Nay, by God and His Christ, but we are one soul by now!" he cried.
"The year of agony for her, the year of schooling for me, is past. God
has upheld my arm, and her heart is mine. But I beg of you, Alice,
prevail upon the priest to give us his God and ours. For though we
have been wedded by a Churchman, we have not been wedded by the
Church."

"The father shall do it," said Alice. "Fear nothing."

There were two scruples in the good man's way. If he said Mass twice
in the morning he broke the law of the Church; if he put off his
breakfast, he broke that of nature, which bids a man fill when he is
empty. And the priest was a law-abiding man. In the end, however, the
bride and bridegroom had their marriage-mass. Kneeling on the mossy
stone they received the Sop. Alice of the Hermitage brought two crowns
of briony leaves and scarlet berries; so Morgraunt anointed what
Morgraunt had set apart; the postulants were adept. Afterwards, when
the priest had gone and all things were accomplished, Alice of the
Hermitage kissed a sister and a brother; and then very happily they
broke their bread sitting in the sun.

"Whither now, my lord?" asked Isoult when they had done.

"Ah, to High March, pardieu!" Prosper said; "there is a little work
left for me there. You shall go in as a queen this time. Clothe her as
a queen, Alice, and let us be off."

Alice took her away to be dressed in the red silk robe; she drew on
the silk stockings, the red slippers. Then she went to tire her hair.

"Stay," said Isoult, "and tell me something first."

"What is it, dearest?"

"My hair, how far does it reach by now?"

"Oh! it is a mantle to you, a dusky veil, falling to your knees."

"Now bind it up for me, Alice; it has run to its tether."

The glossy tower was roped with sequins, the bride was ready. Alice
adored her.

"Come and meet the bridegroom," said she.

Prosper watched them coming over the sunny plat. He was not lettered,
yet he should have heard the whisper of the Amorist--_"Behold, thou
art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair, thou hast dove's eyes."_

At least he bowed his knee before her. She could have answered him
then--_"I am as a wall, and my breasts like towers; then was I in
his eyes as one that found favour."_

"Good-bye, my sister Desiree," said Alice of the Hermitage. Tears and
kisses met and answered each other.

"Surely now, surely here is love enough!" she cried as they rode away.
For my part, I am disposed to agree with her. But Prosper found her
glorious.

"Can our lord have enough of incense, or his mother weary of songs?
Can La Desirous sicken of desire?"

For two more nights green Morgraunt made their bed.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE LADY PIETOSA DE BREAUTE

Evidently they were expected at High March; for no sooner the white
plumes had cleared the forest purlieus and came nodding over the heath
in view of the solemn towers, than a white flag was run up the keep.
It floated out bravely--a snow patch in a pure sky.

"Peace, hey?" quoth Prosper, asking. "Well then, there shall be peace
if they will take it. It is for them to settle."

Isoult said nothing. She had no reason to welcome High March, or to
attend a welcome. She might have doubted the wisdom of their adventure
had she been less newly a wife. As it was, she would have followed her
man into the jaws of hell.

When they drew closer still, they could see that the great gates were
set open and the drawbridge let down. Soon the guard turned out and
presented arms. Then issued in good order a white-robed procession,
girls and boys bare-headed, holding branches of palm. A rider in green
marshalled them with a long white wand which he had in his right hand.
It was all very curious.

"I should know that copper-headed knave," said Prosper.

"It is the seneschal, dear lord," said Isoult, who would know him
better, "with his white rod of office."

Prosper gave a mighty shout. "Master Porges, by the Holy Rood! Oh,
Master Porges, Master Porges, have you not yet enough of rods white or
black? Look how the rascal wags the thing. Why, hark, child, he has
set them singing."

The shrill voices, in effect, rose and fell along the devious ways of
a litany to Master Porges' household gods. Mention has already been
made of his curiosity in these commodities. The present times he had
judged to be times of crisis, big with fate. Who so apt as his newest
saint to propitiate the hardy outlaw Galors de Born, and the young
Demoiselle de Breaute?

For the shocked soul of Porges had fled into religion as your only
cure for esteem and a back cruelly scored. In such stresses as the
present it still took wing to the same courts. "_Sancta Isolda,
Sancta Isolda, Genetricis Ancilla,_" went the choir, "_Ora, ora
pro nobis._"

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