The Forest Lovers

by Maurice Hewlett

  CHAPTER XIV

  A RECORDER

  In these delicate times of crisis Isoult found an advocate, a recorder,if you will be ruled by me. It was none too soon, for the brother andsister of High March had reached that pretty stage of intimacy whenlong silences are an embarrassment, and embarrassments compact equallyof pleasure and pain. As far as the lady was concerned the pleasurepredominated; the pain was reduced to sweet confusion, the air madetremulous with promise. I do not say that for Prosper the relationshipdid more than put him at his ease--but that is a good deal. Say theCountess was a fire and High March an armchair. Prosper had settledhimself to stretch his legs and drowse. Poor Isoult was the wailingwind in the chimney--a sound which could but add to his comfortablewell-being. It needs more than a whimper to tempt a man to be cold inyour company. The recorder was timely.

  Prosper and his Countess were hawking in the fields beyond the forest,and the sport had been bad. They had, in fact, their birds jessed andhooded and were turning for home, when Prosper saw some fields away awhite bird--gull he thought--flying low. He sprang his tercel-gentle;the same moment the Countess saw the quarry and flew hers. Both hawksfound at first cast; the white bird flew towards the falconers,circling the field in which they stood, with its enemies glancing aboutit. It gradually closed in, circling still round them and round, tillat last it was so near and so low as almost to be in reach of Prosper'shand. He saw that it was not a gull, but a pigeon, and started on areminiscence. Just then one of the towering falcons stooped andengaged. There was a wild scurry of wings; then the other bird dropt.The Countess cheered the hawks: Prosper saw only the white bird with awound in her breast. Then as the quarry began to scream he rememberedeverything, and to the dismay of the lady leapt off his horse, ran tothe struggling birds, and cuffed them off with all his might. Hesucceeded. The wounded bird fluttered, half flying, half hopping,across the grass, finally rose painfully into the air and soared out ofsight. Meantime Prosper, breathless and red in the face, had hooded andbound the hawks. He brought hers back to the Countess without a word.

  "My dear Prosper," said she, "you will forgive me for asking if you aremad?"

  "I must seem so," he replied. "But I suppose every one has his tenderpart which some shaft will reach. Mine is reached when two hawks wounda white bird in the crop."

  He spoke shortly, and still breathed faster than his wont. The Countesswas piqued.

  "It seems to me, I confess, inconvenient in a falconer that he shouldbe nice as to the colour of his quarry. There must be some reason forthis. I will forgive you for making a bad day's sport worse if you willtell me your story."

  Prosper was troubled. He connected his story with Isoult, though hecould hardly say why. He had merely seen a white bird before hismarriage; yet without that sequel the story could have no point. He didnot wish to speak of his marriage, if for no other reason than that itwas much too late to speak of it. The other reasons remained as validas ever; but he was bound to confess the superior cogency of thispresent one. Meanwhile the Countess clamoured.

  "The story, Prosper, the story!" she cried. "I must and will have thestory. I am very sure it is romantic; you are growing red. Oh, it iscertainly romantic; I shall never rest without the story."

  Prosper in desperation remembered a hawking mishap of his boyhood, andclutched at it.

  "This is my story," he said. "When I was a boy with my brothers ourfather used to take us with him hawking on Marbery Down. There is afamous heronry in the valley below it whence you may be sure of a kill;but on the Down itself are great flocks of sheep tended by shepherdswho come from all parts of the country round about and lie out by theirfires. One day--just such a windy morning as this--my father, mybrother Osric, and I were out with our birds, and did indifferentlywell, so far as I can remember. I had new falcon with me--a haggard ofthe rock which I had mewed and manned myself. It was the first time Ihad tried her on the Down, and she began by giving trouble; then didbetter, but finally gave more trouble than at first, as you shall hear.Towards noon I found myself separate from our company on a great ridgeof the Down where it slopes steeply to the forest, as you know it doesin one place. The flocks were out feeding on the slopes below me, andtheir herds--three or four boys and girls--were lying together by apatch of gorse, but one of them stood up after a while and shaded hereyes to look over the forest. Then I saw a lonely bird making way forthe heronry. I remember it plainly; in the sun it looked shining white.I flew my haggard out of the hood at her, sure of a kill. She raked offat a great pace, as this one did just now; but in mid air she checkedsuddenly, heeled over, beat up against the wind, stooped and fellheadlong at the shepherds. I could not tell what had happened; it wasas if the girl had been shot. But, by the Saviour of mankind, this isthe truth: I saw the girl who was standing throw her arms up, I heardher scream; the others scattered. Then I saw the battling sails of myfalcon. She was on the girl. I spurred my pony and went down the hillheadlong to the music of the girl's screaming. Never before or sincehave I seen a peregrine engage at such a quarry as that. She had herwith beak and claws below the left pap. She had ripped up her clothesand drawn blood, sure enough. The poor child, who looked very starved,was as white as death: I cannot think she had any blood to spare. Asfor her screaming, I have not forgotten it yet--in fact, the bird westruck to-day reminded me of it and made me act as I did. To cut downmy story, I pulled the hawk off and strangled it, gave the girl whatmoney I had, said what I could to quiet her, and left her to be patchedup by her friends. She was more frightened than hurt, I fancy. As Itold you, I was a boy at the time; but these things stay by you. It isa fact at least that I am queasy on the subject of white birds. BeforeI came to High March, indeed it was almost my first day in Morgraunt, Isaw and rescued a white bird from two hen-harriers; and now I have beentroubled by another. I seem beset by white birds!"

  "It is fortunate you have other hues to choose from," said the Countesswith a smile, "or otherwise you would be no falconer. But your story isvery strange. Have you ever consulted about it?"

  "I have said very little about it," Prosper replied, remembering as hespoke the forest Mass which he had heard, and that he had discoursedupon this adventure with Alice of the Hermitage.

  "The hawk pecked at the girl's heart," said the lady.

  "It did not get so far as that, Countess."

  "You speak prose, my friend."

  "I am no troubadour, but speak what I know."

  "The heart means nothing to you, Prosper!"

  "The heart? Dear lady, I assure you the girl was not hurt. She is ayoung woman by now, probably wife to a clown and mother ofhalf-a-dozen."

  "Prosper, you disappoint me. Let us ride on. I am sick of theseshivering grey fields."

  The Countess was vexed, for the life of him he could not tell why. Hemade peace at last, but she would not tell him the cause of hermorning's irritation.

  That was not the only reminder he had that day--in fact, it was but thefirst. In the evening came another.

  He was in the Countess's chamber after supper. She was embroidering abanner, and he had been singing to her as she worked. After his musicthe Countess took the lute from him, saying that she would sing. And soshe did, but in a voice so low and constrained that it seemed more tocomfort herself than any other.

  Prosper sat by the table idly turning over a roll of blazonry--thecoats of all the knights and gentlemen who had ever been in the serviceof High March. It was a roll carefully kept by the pursuivant, veryfine work. He saw that his own was already tricked in its place, andrecognized many more familiar faces. Suddenly he gave a start, and satup stiff as a bar. He looked no further, but at the end of theCountess's song said abruptly--

  "Tell me, Countess, whose are these arms?"

  She looked at the coat--sable, three wicket-gates argent. "There is astory about that," she said.

  "I beg you to tell it to me," said Prosper; "story for story."

  "That is only fair," she laughed, having quite recovered her easymanner
with him. "Come and sit by the fire, and you shall hear it. Thearms," she began, "are those which were assumed by a young knight aftera very bold exploit in my service. He came to me as Salomon de Born,and I think he was but eighteen--a mere boy."

  Prosper, from the heights of his three-and-twenty years, noddedbenignly.

  "So much so," said the Countess, "that I fear I must have wounded hisvanity by laughing away what he asked of me. This was no less than tolead a troop of my men against Renny of Coldscaur, an enemy andslanderer of mine, but none the less as great a lord as he was rascal.However, he begged so persistently that I gave in, finding other thingsabout him--a mystery of his birth and upbringing, a steadfastness alsoand gravity far beyond his years--which drew me to put him to the proofof what he dared. He went, therefore, with a company of light horse,some fifty men. He was away eight weeks, and then came back--with butsix men, it is true; but youth is prodigal of life, knowing so littleof it."

  "Life is given us to spend," quoth Prosper here.

  "He came back with six men. But he brought the tongue of Blaise Rennyin a silver cup, and three wicket-gates, which took two men apiece tocarry."

  "He had saved just enough men. That was wise of him, and like the kinghis namesake," Prosper said, approving of Salomon.

  "It was what he said himself", pursued the Countess, "that it was afortunate circumstance."

  "And how did he win his adventure, and what had the wicket-gates to dowith the business?"

  "You shall hear. It seems that Coldscaur, which is in North Marvilionbeyond the Middle Shires, stands on a fretted scarp. It is stronglydefended by art as well as nature, for there are three ravines about itwith a stepped path through each up to the Castle. These were defendedabout midway of each by a wicket-gate and a couple of towers. Thegorges are so narrow that there is barely room for a man and horse toget through; the gates of course correspond."

  "Fine defences," said Prosper.

  "Very. Well, Salomon de Born with my fifty men seized and occupied avillage at the foot of the scarp one night. In the morning there werehis defences thrown up man-high, and my standard on the church tower.Renny was furious, and despatched a stronger force than he could affordto re-take the village. Salomon, counting upon this, had left two menin it to be killed; with the rest he scaled the scaur and waited inhiding to see what force Renny took out. He knew to a nicety thestrength of the garrison, saw what there was to see, made hiscalculations, and thought he would venture it. He got over the rock, heand his men, by some means; came down the gorges from the top, securedthe defences, and posted a couple of men at each wicket. With the resthe surprised the Castle. I believe, indeed, that all the men in it werekilled as well as most of mine. Yet for three or four hours Coldscaurwas in my hands."

  "It should have been yours now," said Prosper, "with fifty of your menonce in it."

  "My friend, I didn't need Coldscaur. I have castles enough. But it wasnecessary to punish Renny."

  "And that was done?"

  "It was done. Salomon posted his men in the towers by the wicket-gates,and waited for Renny to return from the village. Luckily for him itgrew dusk, but not dark, before he could be certain by which gorgeRenny himself was coming in. When he had made sure of this he took allthree wickets off their hinges, and sent six men to carry them home toHigh March. With the rest he waited for Renny. Finally he saw himriding up the stepped way, and, as his custom was, far ahead of histroop. You must know that these people are besotted with pride; thestate they kept (and still keep, I suppose) was more than royal. No onemust ride, walk, or stand within a dozen yards of Renny of Coldscaur.Salomon had calculated upon it. Well, it was dark before Renny reachedthe wicket. Someone (Salomon, no doubt) called for the word. Renny gaveit; but it was his last. Salomon stabbed him at the same instant andpulled him off his horse out of the way. He sent the horse clatteringup the hill. Renny's men followed it, nothing doubting. I might havehad the better part of my men but for the subsequent foppery of theyouth. He had Renny dead. He had Renny's tongue. He must needs have asilver dish to put it in, so as to present it honourably to me. He wentto the Castle to get this. He got it; but he was discovered andpursued, and only he escaped--he and the six bearers of thewicket-gates. That is my story of the coat in return for yours of thebird. The hero of it took the name of Salomon de Montguichet after thisperformance, and my pursuivant devised him a blazon, with the legend,_Entra per me_."

  "He did very well," said Prosper, "though he should have fought withRenny, and not stabbed him in the dark. But why did he bring thewicket-gates?"

  "He said that since they had for once been held by honest men, he couldnot let them backslide. Moreover, they were in his way, and he knew notwhat else to do with them."

  "And why did he take the man's tongue?"

  "He said that the head must stay tongueless at Coldscaur to warn alltraducers of me. True enough, the man has come to be remembered asBlaise Sanslang."

  "I should have done otherwise," said Prosper.

  "What would you have made of it, Prosper?"

  "I should have brought the man alive to your feet; I should haveadvised you to give him a whipping and let him go."

  "That would have been more merciless to Renny, my friend, than whatSalomon de Montguichet did. I have told you that they are the proudestfamily in Christendom."

  "I never thought of Renny," he answered; "I was thinking of myself inSalomon's place."

  "Montguichet thought of me, Prosper."

  "I also was thinking of you, Countess."

  Presently he grew keen on his own thoughts again and asked--

  "What became of Salomon de Born?"

  "I cannot tell you," she replied, "except this, that he took serviceunder the King of the Romans and went abroad. Of where he is now, orhow he fares, I know nothing."

  "I think he is dead," said Prosper.

  "What is your reason?"

  "I have seen another carrying his arms."

  "But it may have been the man himself. A thin man, hatchet-faced, withhot, large eyes; a pale man, who looked not to have the sinew he provedto have."

  Prosper looked thoughtful, a little puzzled too. "The description isfamiliar to me. I may have seen the man. But certainly it was not hewho carried the Montguichet shield."

  Suddenly he sprang up with a shout. He stood holding the table, whiteand shaky. The Countess ran to him and put her arm on his shoulder:"Prosper, Prosper, you have frightened me! What is your thought? Areyou ill? I entreat you to tell me, Prosper."

  He collected himself at once to reassure her.

  "The man is dead," he said, "and I buried him. I remember his face; Iremember a badge on his breast; I remember it all. But I do notunderstand--I do not see clearly as yet. I must think. I beg you to letme leave you for the present. To-morrow I will go to avenge Salomon deMontguichet."

  The youth was quite wild and out of breath.

  "Prosper!" cried the Countess, clinging to him, "I conjure you to tellme what this means. You will never leave me this night without a word.You cannot know--"

  She could not finish what she longed to say. As for Prosper, he was inanother world; it is doubtful whether he heard her.

  "Countess," he said, "I can tell you nothing as yet. I know but half ofthe truth. But I must find out the whole, and to-morrow I will tell youwhat I mean to do. You must have me excused for this night."

  She knew that she could say nothing more, although she had never yetseen him in this mood. But he reminded her strongly of his father; shefelt that he and she had changed places and ages. So she bowed herhead, and when she lifted it he was gone.

  Pacing his room Prosper tried to reason out his tangle. This was not soeasy as fighting, for he was pulled two different ways. Salomon deMontguichet was the dead man whom the lady had in the wood--that wasclear. Galors had Salomon de Montguichet's arms--that too was clear.The trouble was to connect the two strings. What had Galors to do withthe lady? Which of them had killed Salomon de Montguichet, or de Born,to give h
im his real name? How did this threaten Isoult? For the massedevents of the long day drove him at last face to face with Isoult. Hehad sworn upon all knightly honour to save her neck. He thought he hadsaved it, but now he was not so sure. There was something undefinablysinister, some foreboding about the turn matters had taken (matters sodiverse in their beginning) that day. Was he sure he had saved her? Hemust certainly be sure, he thought. Had he not sworn? And after all,she was his wife. That should count for something. He was not disposedto rate marriage highly; he knew very little about it, but he felt thatit should count for something. The honour of the man's wife touched thehonour of the man. Again, she was a very good girl. He recalledher--submissive, patient, recollected, pacing beside him on her donkey,as they brushed their way through brown beechwoods and stained wetbracken. He remembered her at her prayers--how kindly she took to thedevotion. She was different from the hour she was a good Christian, heswore. Ah, so he had given her more than a free neck! He had given herpride in herself; nay, he had quickened a soul languid for want ofspiritual food. And she looked very well praying. She was good-looking,he thought. Oh, she was a good girl!

  But surely she was well where she was, could hardly be better. Galorshad a split throat; he would be in Saint Thorn, crying _peccavi_ inchapter, and gaining salvation with every sting of the scourge. Thewoman in the wood he had distrusted from the first moment he saw herwatching eyes. She was bad through and through; she might be a worseenemy than Galors, or a church-load of pursy monks. But it wasimpossible that she should have anything to do with Galors, cleanimpossible. And if she had--why, he was going to her to-morrow, andwould find out. Meantime, he would go to bed. Yes, he might go to bed.Was not Gracedieu sanctuary? Ah, he had forgotten that! All was well.

  He went to bed; but Tortsentier was not to see him on the morrow. Allwas not well. He had a dream which drew all the apprehensions andsuspicions of the day into one head. The hidden things were made plain,and the crooked things straight; for the first time, it seemed, he wasto see openly--when his eyes were shut. He had, in spite of himself,centred them one by one in Isoult, and now he dreamed of her as shewas, and of them as they were. This was his dream. He and she weretogether, lying under the stars in the open wood with his drawn swordbetween them, set edgeways as it had always been. He lay awake, butIsoult was asleep, and moaning in her sleep. The sound was like voicedsighs which came quickly with her breath. He lay and watched her in theperfectly clear light there was, and presently the moaning ceased, andshe opened her eyes to look at him. But though they were wide, theywere blank; he knew that she slept still. She moved her lips to speak,but without sound; she strained out her arms to him, but he could nottake her. And, leaning more and more towards him, the edge of the swordpressed her bare bosom, yet she seemed not to heed it; and presently itbroke the skin, and she pressed it in deeper, as if glad of the sharppain; and then the blood leapt out and flooded her night-dress. Herarms dropt, she sighed once, she closed her eyes languidly as ifmortally tired. Then she lay very still, white to the lips, and Prosperknew that she was dead. So in his own dream he cried out and tried tocome at her, but could not because of the red sword.

  He woke in a cold sweat and lay trembling, blenched with fear. Thedream had been so vivid that involuntarily he turned in his bed to lookagain at what haunted him, the dying eyes, the white body, and theblood. Terror, when once he had accepted the fact that she was dead,gave place to pity--a pity more intense than he had ever conceived. Hehad pitied her on the night of their marriage, but never to such adegree that he felt heart-broken at the mere knowledge of such things.And now, as the principal actor in a play, she grew in importance. Hebegan to see that she was more than an incident; she was of the stuffof his life.

  What was more odd was, that in the dream he had wanted her, as she him;and that he could look back upon it now and understand the desire. Withall the shock that still crowded about him till the shadowy room seemedfull of it, there was this one beam of remembrance, like sunlight in adusty place. He too had held out his arms: he had wanted to take her,to hold her, white and unearthly though she might be--dying as shecertainly was. Waking, this seemed very strange to him, for he hadnever wanted her before; and though (as I say) the remembrance broughta glow along with it, he did not want her in that way now. Supposingthat she were alive and lying here, he knew that he should not wanther. But the red sword! He shuddered and closed his eyes; there shewas, pitifully dead of a wound in the breast. I suppose he was not moresuperstitious than most people of his day, but he knew that he must goto Gracedieu.

  He got up at once to arm himself; he had made all his preparationsbefore sunrise. Then he left word for the Countess that he would returnin a day or two, and set out.

  The journey could not be done under three days; that gave him twonights in the forest, each of which brought the same dream. He arrivedat the convent late in the evening, and asked to see the Abbess atonce. The tranquil monotony of the place, its bells and recurrentchimes, the subdued voices of the nuns chanting an office in choir,brought him like a beaten ship into haven. He was reassured before hesaw the Abbess.

  "Yes, indeed," said that lady in answer to his outburst of questions,"the child is well. Not so bright as during the winter season, it maybe; but the spring is no easy time for young people. I may tell you,Sir Prosper, that we have grown very fond of her. Indeed, I am oftensaying that I wonder how to do without her. She is so diligent and ofso toward a disposition. You will find her well cared for, sleek, andquite good-looking. We have great hopes for her future if she makes ahappy choice. But you will wish to see her and prove my words. I willsend for her this moment."

  The Abbess had her hand-bell in her hand. If she had rung it she wouldhave given Prosper justification of his hurry. But the complacent youthforestalled her.

  "I beg you, mother, to do nothing of the kind," he said. "She is well,you tell me, she is happy: that is all I cared to know. I have no wishto unsettle her, but leave her cheerfully and confidently with you,being well assured that you will not fail to send me word at High Marchshould need be."

  "I understand you, sir, and agree with you. You may be quite easy abouther. We are regular livers, as you may guess, and small events aregreat ones to us. So you return to High March? I will beg you to carrywith you my humble duty to her ladyship the Countess. She is well?"

  "She is very well," said Prosper, and took his leave.

  A frantic Gracedieu messenger started half a night behind him, but wasstopped on Two Manors Waste by a party of outlaws, robbed of hisletters, and hanged. Prosper's dream visited him for two nights of hisjourney back, and four nights at High March; but as no word or otherwarning came from Gracedieu to give it point, he grew to have somestrange liking for it, since he knew that it meant nothing. It gave himnew thoughts of Isoult; it convinced him, for instance, that since thegirl was so good she must be affectionate when you came to know her.His own share in the nightly performance he could now set in humorouscomparison with his waking state. He found it difficult to believe inthe self of his dream, and was almost curious to see Isoult that hemight pursue his juxtapositions. At this rate she filled his wakingthoughts as well as his nights. The Countess was not slow to perceivethat Prosper was changed, and she affected. His songs came lesswillingly from him, his sallies were either languid or too polite to befrom the heart of the youth, who could make hers beat so fast. Thinkingthat he wanted work, she devised an expedition for him which mightinvolve some danger and the lives of a dozen men. But she counted thatlightly. He went on the fourth day after his return from Gracedieu, andthe expedition proved effectual in more ways than one.

  The dream stopped, and he forgot it.