The Forest Lovers

M >> Maurice Hewlett >> The Forest Lovers

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But with all her help they made a slow pace. The forest grew more and
more dense; there seemed no opening, no prospect of an opening. She
knew what must be in store for them if the Abbot had uncoupled his
bloodhounds, so she strained every nerve in her young body, listened
to every murmur or swish of the trees, every one of the innumerable,
inexplicable noises a great wood gives forth. She suffered, indeed,
intensely; yet Prosper never knew it. He played upon her, quite
unconsciously, by wondering over the difficulties of the road, the
slowness of their going, the probable speed of the Abbot's dogs and
foresters, and so on. Her meekness and cheerful diligence delighted
him. The nuns of Gracedieu, he promised himself, should know what a
likely novice he was bringing them. He should miss her,
_pardieu_! after two or three days' companionship. So they
struggled on.

Towards the time of dusk, which was very soon in that gloomy solitude,
Isoult heard in the far distance the baying of the dogs, and began to
tremble, knowing too well what all that meant. Yet she said nothing.
Prosper rode on, singing softly to himself as his custom was, his head
carried high, his light and alert look taking in every dark ambush as
a thing to be conquered--very lordly to look upon. The girl, who had
never seen his like, adored him, thought him a god; the fact was, she
had no other. Therefore, as one does not lightly warn the blessed
gods, she rode silent but quaking by his side, with her ears still on
the strain for the coming danger, and all her mind set on the fear
that Prosper would find out. Above all she heard a sound which shocked
her more, her own heart knocking at her side.

Then at last Prosper reined up, listening too. "Hush!" he said, "what
is that?"

This was a new sound, more hasty and murmurous than any girl's heart,
and much more dreadful than the music of the still distant hounds; it
was very near, a rushing and pattering sound, as of countless beasts
running. Isoult knew it.

"Wolves!" she said; "let be, there is no harm from them save in the
winter."

As she spoke a grey bitch-wolf came trotting through the trees,
swiftly but in pain, and breathing very short. She was covered with
slaver and red foam, her tongue lolled out at the side of her mouth
long and loose, she let blood freely from a wound in the throat, and
one of her ears was torn and bleeding. She looked neither to right nor
left, did not stay to smell at the scent of the horse; all her pains
were spent to keep running. She broke now and again into a rickety
canter, but for the most part trotted straight forward, with many a
stumble and missed step, all picked up with indescribable feverish
diligence; and as she went her blood flowed, and her panting kept pace
with her padding feet. So she came and so went, hunted by what
followed close upon her; the murmur of the host, the host itself--dogs
and bitches in a pack, making great pace. They came on at a gallop, a
sea of wolves that surged restlessly, yet were one rolling tide. Here
and there a grinning head cast up suddenly out of the press seemed
like the broken crest of some hastier wave impatient with his fellows;
so they snarled, jostled, and snapped at each other. Then one, playing
choragus, would break into a howl, and there would be a long anthem of
howls until the forest rang with the terror; but the haste, the
panting and the padding of feet were the most dreadful, because
incessant; the thrust head would be whelmed, the sharp voice drowned
in howls; the grey tide and the lapping of it never stopped.

The fugitives watched this chase, in which they might have read a
parable of their own affair, sweep past them like a bad dream. In the
dead hush that followed they heard what was a good deal more
significant for them, the baying of the dogs.

"What now?" said Prosper to himself, "there are the dogs. If I make
haste they can make it better; if I stay, how on earth shall I keep my
convoy out of their teeth?"

It was too late to wonder; even at that moment Isoult gasped and
caught at his arm, leaning from her saddle to cling to him as she had
done once before. But this was a danger not to be shamed away by a man
armed. He followed her look, and saw the first dog come on with his
nose to the ground. A thought struck him. "Wait," he said.

Sure enough, the great dog hit on the line of the wolves and got the
blood in his nostrils. He was puzzled, his tail went like a flag in a
gale as he nosed it out.

Prosper watched him keenly, it was touch-and-go, but never troubled
his breath. "Take your choice, friend," he said. The dog beat to and
fro for some long minutes. He could not deny himself--he followed the
wolves.

"That love-chase is like to be our salvation," said Prosper. "Wait
now. Here are some more of the Abbot's friends." It was as good as a
play to him--a hunter; but to Isoult, the wild little outcast, it was
deadly work. Like all her class, she held dogs in more fear than their
masters. You may cajole a man; to a dog the very attempt at it is a
damning proof against you.

As Prosper had predicted, the dogs, coming on by twos and threes, got
entangled in the cross-trail. They hesitated over it, circled about it
as the first had done, and like him they followed the hotter and
fresher scent. One, however, in a mighty hurry, ran clean through it,
and singled out his own again. They saw him coming; in his time he saw
them. He stopped, threw up his head, and bayed a succession of deep
bell-notes at them, enough to wake the dead.

"I must deal with this beast," Prosper said. "Leave me to manage him,
and stay you here." He dismounted, ungirt his sword, which he gave to
Isoult to hold, then began to run through the wood as if he was
afraid. This brought the dog on furiously; in fifty yards he was up
with his quarry. Prosper went on running; the dog chose his time, and
sprang for his throat. Prosper, who had been waiting for this, ducked
at the same minute; his dagger was in his hand. He struck upwards at
the dog as he rose, and ripped his belly open. "That was your last
jump, my friend," quoth he, "but I hope there are no more of you. It
is a game that not always answers."

It was while he was away upon this errand that Isoult thought she saw
a tall woman in a black cloak half-hidden behind a tree. The woman,
she could have sworn, stood there in the dusk looking fixedly at her;
it was too dark to distinguish anything but the white disk of a face
and the black mass she made in her cloak, yet there was that about
her, some rigid aspect of attention, which frightened the girl. She
turned her head for a moment to see Prosper homing, and when she
looked again into the trees there was certainly no woman. She thought
she must have fancied it all, and dismissed the thought without saying
anything to Prosper.

They took up their journey again, safe from dogs for the time. The
music had died away in the distance; they knew that if the wolf-pack
were caught there would be work enough for more hounds than the Abbey
could furnish. Then it grew dark, and Isoult weary and heavy with
sleep. She swayed in her saddle.

"Ah," said Prosper, "we will stay here. You shall sleep while I keep
watch."

"It is very still, my lord. Wilt thou not let me watch for a little?"
she asked.

Prosper laughed. "There are many things a man's wife can do for him,
my dear," he said, "but she cannot fight dogs or men. And she cannot
sleep with one eye open Eat what you have, and then shut your pair of
eyes. You are not afraid for me?"

Isoult looked at him quickly. Then she said--"My lord is--," and
stopped confused.

"What is thy lord, my girl?" asked he.

"He is good to his servant," she whispered in her low thrilled voice.

They ate what bread was left, and drank a little water. Before all was
finished Isoult was nodding. Prosper bestirred himself to do the best
he could for her; he collected a heap of dried leaves, laid his cloak
upon them, and picked up Isoult to lay her upon the cloak. His arms
about her woke her up. Scarce knowing what she did, dreaming possibly
of her mother, she put up her face towards his; but if Prosper noticed
it, no errant mercy from him sent her to bed comforted. He put her
down, covered her about with the cloak, and patted her shoulder with
an easy--"Good-night, my lass." This was cold cheer to the poor girl,
who had to be content with his ministry of the cloak. It was too dark
to tell if he was looking at her as he stooped; and ah, heavens! why
should he look at her? The dark closed round his form, stiffly erect,
sitting on the root of the great tree which made a tent for them both,
and then it claimed her soul. She lost her trouble in sleep; he kept
the watch all night.

CHAPTER X

FOREST ALMS

Towards the grey of the morning, seeing that the whole forest was at
peace, with no sign of dogs or men all that night, and now even a rest
from the far howling of the wolves, Prosper's head dropt to his
breast. In a few seconds he slept profoundly. Isoult awoke and saw
that he slept: she lay watching him, longing but not daring. When she
saw that he looked blue and pinched about the cheekbones, that his
cheeks were yellow where they should be red, and grey where they had
been white, she knew he was cold; and her humbleness was not proof
against this justification of her desires. She crept out of her snug
nest, crawled towards her lord and felt his hands; they were ice.
"Asleep he is mine," she thought. She picked up the cloak, then crept
again towards him, seated herself behind and a little above him, threw
the cloak over both and snuggled it well in. She put her arms about
him and drew him close to her bosom. His head fell back at her gentle
constraint; so he lay like a child at the breast. The mother in her
was wild and throbbing. Stooped over him she pored into his face. A
divine pity, a divine sense of the power of life over death, of waking
over sleep, drew her lower and nearer. She kissed his face--the lids
of his eyes, his forehead and cheeks. Like an unwatched bird she
foraged at will, like a hardy sailor touched at every port but one.
His mouth was too much his own, too firm; it kept too much of his
sovereignty absolute. Otherwise she was free to roam; and she roamed,
very much to his material advantage, since the love that made her rosy
to the finger-tips, in time warmed him also. He slept long in her
arms.

She began to be very hungry.

"He too will be hungry when he wakes," she thought; "what shall I do?
We have nothing to eat." She looked down wistfully at his head where
it lay pillowed. "What would I not give him of mine?" The thought
flooded her. But what could she do?

She heard the pattering of dry leaves, the crackle of dry twigs snapt,
and looking up, saw a herd of deer feeding in a glade not very far
off.

Idly as she watched them, it came home to her that there were hinds
among them with calves. One she noticed in particular feed a little
apart, having two calves near her which had just begun to nibble a
little grass. Vaguely wondering still over her plight, she pictured
her days of shepherding in the downs where food had often failed her,
and the ewes perforce mothered another lamb. That hind's udder was
full of milk: a sudden thought ran like wine through her blood. She
slid from Prosper, got up very softly, took her cup, and went towards
the browsing deer. The hind looked up (like all the herd) but did not
start nor run. A brief gaze satisfied it that here was no enemy,
neither a stranger to the forest walks; it fell-to again, and suffered
Isoult to come quite close, even to lay her hand upon its neck. Then
she stood for a while stroking the red hind, while all the herd
watched her. She knelt before the beast, clasping both arms about its
neck; she fondled it with her face, as if asking the boon she would
have. Some message passed between them, some assurance, for she let go
of the hind's neck and crawled on hands and knees towards the udder.
The deer never moved, though it turned its head to watch her. She took
the teat in her mouth, sucked and drew milk. The herd stood all about
her motionless; the hind nuzzled her as if she had been one of its own
calves; so she was filled.

Next she had to fill her cup. This was much more difficult. The hind
must be soothed and fondled again, there must be no shock on either
side. She started the flow with her mouth; then she knelt against the
animal with her head pressed to its side, took the teat in her hand
and succeeded. She filled the cup with Prosper's breakfast. She got
up, kissed the hind between the eyes, stroked its neck many times, and
went tiptoe back to her lord and master. She found him still sound
asleep, so sat quietly watching him till he should wake, with the cup
held against her heart to keep it warm.

Broad daylight and a chance beam of sun through the trees woke him at
last. It would be about seven o'clock. He stretched portentously, and
sat up to look about him; so he encountered her tender eyes before she
had been able to subdue their light.

"Good-morning, Isoult," said he. "Have I been long asleep?"

"A few hours only, lord."

"I am hungry. I must eat something."

"Lord, I have milk for thee."

He took the cup she tendered, looking at her.

"Drink first, my child," he said.

"Lord, I have drunk already."

He drained the cup without further ado.

"Good milk," he said when he had done. He took these things, you see,
very much as they came.

His next act was to kneel face to the sun and begin his prayers.
Something made him stop; he turned him to his wife.

"Hast thou said thy prayers, Isoult?"

"No, lord," said she, reddening.

"Come then and pray with me. It is a good custom."

She obeyed him so far as to kneel down by his side. He began again.
She had nothing to say, so he stopped again.

"Dost thou forget thy prayers since thou art a wife, Isoult?"

"Lord, I know none," said she with a shameful face.

"Thou art not a Christian then?"

"If a Christian prays, my lord, I am not a Christian."

"But thou hast been baptized?"

"Yes, lord."

"How knowest thou?"

"The Lord Abbot once reproached me before my parents that I had
disgraced Holy Baptism; and my father beat me soundly for it, saying
that of all his afflictions that was the hardest to bear. This he did
in the presence of the Lord Abbot himself. Therefore I know that I
have been beaten for the sake of my baptism."

Prosper was satisfied.

"It is enough, Isoult. Thou art certainly a Christian. Nevertheless,
such an one should pray (and women as well as men), even though it may
very well be that he knows not what he is saying. Prayer is a great
mystery, look you. Yet this I know, that it is also a great comfort.
For remember that if a Christian prays--knowing or not knowing the
meaning of the act and the upshot of it--he is very sure it is
acceptable to Saint Mary, and through her to God Almighty Himself. So
much so, indeed, that he is emboldened thereafter to add certain
impertinences and urgent desires of his own, which Saint Mary is good
enough to hear, and by her intercession as often as not to win to be
accepted. Some add a word or two to their saint or guardian, others
invoke all the saints in a body; but it is idle to do one or any of
these things without you have prayed first. So you must by all means
learn to pray. Sit down by me here and I will teach you."

She sat as close to him as she dared on the trunk of the beech, while
he taught her to say after him, _"Pater noster qui es in
coelis"_, and _"Ave Maria gratia plena."_ In this way they
spent a full hour or more, going over and over the Latin words till
she was as perfect as he. In the stress of the task, which interested
Prosper vastly, their hands met more than once; finally Prosper's
settled down over hers and held it. In time he caught the other.
Isoult's heart beat wildly; she had never been so happy. When she had
all the words pat they knelt down and prayed together, with the best
results.

"Now, child," said Prosper, "you may add what you choose of your own
accord; and be sure that our Lady will hear you. It is a great merit
to be sure of this. The greater the Christian the surer he is. I also
will make my petition. You have no patron?"

"No, lord, I have never heard of such an one."

"I recommend you to Saint Isidore. His name is the nearest to yours
that I can remember. For the rest, he is very strong. Ask, then, what
you will now, my child, and doubt nothing."

Isoult bent her head and shut her eyes for the great essay. What could
she say? What did she want? She was kneeling by Prosper's side, his
hand held hers a happy prisoner.

"Mary, let him take me! Saint Isidore, let him take me--all, all,
all!" This was what she panted to Heaven.

Prosper prayed, "My Lady, I beseech thee a good ending to this
adventure which I have undertaken lightly, it may be, but with an
honest heart. Grant also a good and honourable end to myself, and to
this my wife, who is a Christian without knowing it, and by the help
of thy servants at Gracedieu shall be a better. _Per Christum
dominum_, etc."

Then he crossed himself, and taught Isoult to do the same, and the
great value of the exercise.

"Now, child," he said, "I have done thee a better turn in teaching
thee to pray and sign thyself meekly and devoutly than ever I did by
wedding thee in the cottage. Thy soul, my dear, thy soul is worth a
hundred times thy pretty person. Saint Bernard, I understand, says,
'My son, think of the worms when thou art disposed to cherish thyself
in a looking-glass.' It is to go far. Saint Bernard was a monk, and
it is a monk's way to think of nastiness; but he was right in the
main. Your soul is the chief part of you. Now to finish: when we are
at Gracedieu thou shalt confess and go to Mass. Then thou wilt be as
good a Christian as I am."

"Lord, is that all I must do?" she asked meekly.

Prosper grew grave. He put his hand on the girl's shoulder, as he
said--

"Deal justly, live cleanly, breathe sweet breath. Praise God in thy
heart when He is kind, bow thy head and knees when He is angry; look
for Him to be near thee at all times. Do this, and beyond it trust thy
heart."

"Lord, I will do it."

"Thou art a good child, Isoult. I am pleased with thee," he said, and
kissed her. She turned her face lest he should see that she was
crying. Soon afterwards they set off towards Gracedieu.

The day, the night, the next morning found them on the journey. They
had to travel slowly, could indeed have made better pace on foot; for
Mid-Morgraunt is a tangle of brush and undergrowth, and the swamps
(which are many and of unknown depth) have all to be circled.

There seemed, however, to be no further pursuit; they could go at
their ease, for they met nobody. On the other hand, they met with no
food more solid than milk. There were deer in plenty. Isoult was able
to feed herself and her husband, and keep both from exhaustion,
without suspicion from him or much cost to herself. The second time of
doing it, it is true, she went tremblingly to work, and was like to
bungle it. What one may do on the flood one may easily miss on the
ebb; moreover, it was night-time, she was tired, and not sure of
herself. Nevertheless, she was fed, and Prosper was fed. Next morning
she was as cool as you choose, singled out her hind as she walked into
the herd, went on all fours and sucked like a calf. She grew nice,
indeed. The beast she tried first had rough milk; this would do for
her well enough, but my lord must have of the best. She chose another
with great care, played milk-maid to her, and drew Prosper full
measure.

He, her sovereign, took every event with equal mind, and placidly,
whether it was a wedding, a fight, or a miraculous fountain of milk.
If she had drawn his food from herself he would not have questioned
her; if it had been her last ounce of life he would not have thanked
her the more. You cannot blame him for this. To begin with, he knew
nothing of her or her doings when he was asleep or on the watch. And a
young man is a prodigal always, of another's goods besides his own,
while a young woman is his banker, never so rich as when he overdraws.
Deprived of him by her own act, his wife in name, she was his servant
in reality. His servant and, just now, his sumpter-beast. Very
wistfully she served him, but very diligently, only asking that he
should neither thank nor blame her. It very seldom occurred to him to
do either; but so sure as he threw a "good child" at her, she had a
lump in her throat and smarting eyes. True, she had her little
rewards, to be enjoyed when he could not guess that her heart
was all in a flutter, or see that her cheeks were wet. Night and
morning they said their _Pater Noster_ and _Ave Maria_, out of
which (although she understood them as little as he did) she did not fail
to suck the comfort he had promised her. She learned also to speak
familiarly to Saint Isidore and Madonna. This served her in good stead
later in her career. Meantime, night and morning they knelt side by
side, their arms touched, sometimes their hands strayed and joined
company. Then hers ended by resting where they were, as in a warm
nest. Pray what more could a girl ask of the Christian faith?

By sunset of the second day passed in this fashion they were before
the great west front of Gracedieu Minster, knocking at the Mercy Door.
It opened. They were safe for the present, and Prosper felt his
horizon enlarged.

CHAPTER XI

SANCTUARY

After Vespers that day Prosper demanded an audience of the Lady
Abbess, and had it. He found her a handsome, venerable old lady, at
peace with all the world and, so far as that comported with her
religion, a woman of it. She had held high rank in it by right of
birth; she knew what it could do, and what not do, of good and evil.
Now that she was old enough to call its denizens her children, she
folded her hands and played grandmother. Naturally, therefore, she
knew Prosper by name; for that, as much as his frank looks, she made
him welcome. She did not ask it, but he could see that she expected to
be enlightened upon the subject of Isoult--doubtful company for a
knight; so having made up his mind how much he could afford to tell
her, he did not waste time in preliminaries.

"Madam," said he, after the first greetings of good company, "a knight
adventuring in this forest cannot see very far before his face, and
may make error worse by what he does to solve error. If by mischance
such a thing should befall him, he must not faint, but persist until
he has loosed not only the knot he has tied himself, but that as well
which he has made more inexorable."

The Lady Abbess bowed very graciously, waiting for him to be done with
phrases. Prosper went on--

"I found this damsel in the hands of a knave, who offered her a choice
of death or dishonour. I took her into my own, and so far have spared
her either. The rascal who had her now lies with a split gullet many
leagues from here, in such a condition that he will trouble her no
more I hope. Add to this, that I have questioned her, and find her
honest, meek, and a Christian. She is, as you, will see for yourself,
very good-looking: it was near to be her undoing. I cannot tell you,
nor will you ask me, first, her name (for I am not certain of it),
second, the name of her enemy (for that would involve a great company
whereof he is a most unworthy member), nor third, what means I
employed to insure immunity for her body, and honour for my own as
well as hers; for this would involve us all. In time I shall certainly
achieve the adventure thus thrust upon me, but for the present my
intention is for High March Castle, and the Countess of Hauterive, who
was a friend of my father's, and is, as I know, one of yours. If you
will permit it I will leave Isoult with you. She will serve you well
and faithfully in a hundred ways; she is very handy and quick, a good
girl, anxious to be a better. If you can make a nun of her, well and
good: by that means the adventure will achieve itself. I leave you to
judge, however; but if you cannot help me there, let her stay with you
for a year. After that I will fetch her and achieve the adventure
otherwise."

The Abbess smiled at the young man's judicial airs, which very ill
concealed the elevation of his mind. She only said that she would
gladly help him in the honourable task he had set himself, and doubted
not but that the girl would prove a good and useful servant to the
convent. But she added--

"It is easy to see, sir, that as a Christian your part is of the
Church militant. I would remind you that a nun is not made in a year."

"I mentioned a year because it was a long time, and for the sake of an
example of what I had designed," said Prosper calmly. "However, if it
takes longer, and you think well of it, I shall not complain."

"And what does the girl say?" the Abbess inquired. "For some sort of
vocation is necessary for the religious life, you must understand."

"I have not yet spoken to Isoult about it," he replied. "She will do
what I tell her. She is a very good girl."

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