CHAPTER XXX
THE CHAINED VIRGIN OF SAINT THORN
The Abbot Richard of Malbank Saint Thorn went hunting the deer inMorgraunt with a good company of prickers and dogs. In Spenshaw heunharboured a stag, and he followed him hard. The hart made straightfor Thornyhold Brush where the great herd lay; there Mellifont, who wassentry for the time, heard him and gave the alarm. Fern brakes willhide man from man, but here were dogs. The hunted hart drove sheer intothe thicket on his way to the water; a dog was at his heels,half-a-dozen more were hard on him. The herd had scattered on all handslong before this. Mellifont saved herself with them, but Belviseetarrying to help Isoult was caught. A great hound snapped at her as hepassed; she limped away with a wounded side. Isoult, too much of awoman and too little of a hind, stood still. She had closed with Fatebefore.
Up came the Abbot's men with horns and shouting voices for the bayingof the deer. He, brave beast, was knifed in the brook and broken up,the dogs called off and leashed. Then one of the huntsmen saw Isoult.She had let down her hair for a curtain and stood watching themintently, neither defiant nor fearful, but with a long, steady,unwinking gaze. Her bosom rose quick and short, there was no otherstressful sign; she was flushed rather than white. One of the menthought she was a wood-girl--they all knew of such beings; he crossedhimself. Another knew better. Her mother Mald was a noted witch; hewhistled.
A third thought she was uncommonly handsome; he could only look. Thedogs whimpered and tugged at the leash; they doubtless knew that therewas blood in her. So all waited till the Abbot came up much out ofbreath.
Isoult, cloaked in her panoply of silence, saw him first. In fact theAbbot had eyes only for the dead hart which had led him such a race.One of the prickers ran forward and caught at his stirrup-leather.
"Lord Abbot, here is the strangest thing my eyes have ever seen inMorgraunt. As we followed the chase we drove into a great herd whichran this way and that way. And in the thick of the deer were threeyoung women scantily attired, as the one you see yonder, going with thebeasts. Of whom two have got clear (one bitten by the mouse-colouredhound), and this one remains speechless. And who the others were,whether flesh and blood or wind and breath, I cannot tell you; but ifthis laggard is not Isoult, whom we call La Desirous,Matt-o'-the-Moor's daughter, I am no fit servant for your Holiness'diversions."
The Abbot had pricked up his ears; now he looked sharply at Isoult.
"You are right, Sweyn," he said; "leave her to me. Girl," he turned toher, "this time it shall likely go hard with thee. Trees are plenty andropes easy to come by. I warned thee before. I shall not warn thee now."
Isoult bowed her head.
"What dost thou do here, herding in the wood with wild beasts?" he wenton.
"Lord, none but the beasts will give me food or rest or any kindness atall. There is no pity in man nor woman that I have seen, save in two,and one is dead. Prosper le Gai, my lord, and husband, hath pity, andwill come to me at last. And whether he shall come to my body alone ormy spirit alone, he will come. And now, lord, hang me to a tree."
"Dost thou want to be hanged?" he asked.
"Nay, lord, I am too young to be hanged," she said. "Moreover, though Iam wedded to my lord, I am not a wife. For only lately he hath lovedme, and that since we were put apart."
"Wed, and a virgin, girl? Where is thy husband?"
"Lord, he is searching for me."
"Where hath he been, what hath he done--or thou, what hast thou done,for such a droll fate as this?"
Isoult very simply told him everything. Of Galors he already had somenews--enough to dread more. But when he heard that the girl hadactually been in High March Castle, had been expelled from it, hecrossed himself and thanked God for all His mercies. He became a devoutChristian at this critical point in Isoult's career, whereby her neckwas saved a second time from the rope. He felt a certain pity--she ahandsome girl, too, though his type for choice was blonde--for hersimplicity, and, as he certainly wished to obtain mercy, reflected uponthe possible blessings of the merciful. Besides, Galors was at large,Galors who knew the story, to say nothing of Prosper, also at large,who did not know the story, but did know, on the other hand, theCountess Isabel. Difficult treading! But so the habits of a lifetimefor once chimed in with its professions. Even as he stood pitying heroughed out another set of shifts. Prosper and his unconsummatedmarriage might be set aside--the fool, he thought with a chuckle,deserved it. There remained Galors. He would get the girl married to amesne of the abbey, or stay! he would marry her elsewhere and get adowry. She had filled out astonishingly, every line of her spoke ofblood: there would be no trouble about a dowry. Then he might supplantGalors by being beforehand with him at the Countess's ear. Gratitude ofthe mother, gratitude of the daughter, gratitude of the son-in-law!Thus Charity walked hand in hand with Policy. The girl was a beauty.What a picture she made there, short-frocked, flushed and loose-haired,like an Amazon--but, by Mars, not maimed liked an Amazon. The Abbot wasa connoisseur of women, as became a confessor and man of the world.
"If I do not hang thee, Isoult, wilt thou come with me to Saint Thom?"
"Yes, lord, I will come."
"Up with you then before me," said the Abbot, and stooped to lift her.Her hair fell back as she was swung into the saddle. "My lady," thoughtthe Abbot, "it is clear you are no Amazon; but I should like to knowwhat you wear round that fine little neck of yours."
He bided his time, and sent the men and dogs on ahead. Then at startinghe spurred his horse so that the beast plunged both his riders forward.The burden of the chain slipt its harbourage, and the next minute theAbbot had ring and locket in the palm of his hand.
"What is this ring, my girl?" he asked.
"My lord, it is my wedding-ring, wherewith I was wed in the cottage."
"Ah, is that it? Well, I will keep it until there is need."
Isoult began to cry at this, which cut her deeper than all theseverances she had known. She could confess to the ring.
"Don't cry, child," said the Abbot, whom women's tears troubled;"believe me when I say that you shall have it for your next wedding."
"Oh, my ring! my ring! What shall I do? It is all I have. Oh, my lord,my lord!"
This pained the Abbot extremely. He got what satisfaction there wasfrom the thought that, having dropt it behind him, he could not give itback for all the tears in the world. He was busy now examining theother token--a crystal locket whereon were a pelican in piety circledwith a crown of thorns, and on the other side the letters I and Finterlaced. He knew it better than most people.
"Isoult, stop crying," he said. "Take off this chain and locket andgive them to me."
So she did.
"Ah, my lord," she pleaded as she tendered, "I ask only for the ring."
"Plague take the ring," cried the Abbot very much annoyed. "I willthrow it away if you say another word about it."
The threat chilled her. She dried her eyes, hoping against hope, foreven hope needs a sign.
When he had his prize safe in Holy Thorn, the Abbot Richard, who had afantastic twist in him, and loved to do his very rogueries in the mode,set himself to embroider his projects when he should have beenexecuting them. His lure was a good lure, but she would be none theworse for a little gilding; there must be a pretty cage, with a spiceof malice in its devising, to excite the tenderer feelings. It shouldbe polite malice, however--a mere hint at a possible tragedy behind asmirk.
He dressed her in green silk because she was fresh-coloured and hadblack hair. If she had been pale, as when he first knew her, and as shewas to be again before he knew her no more, the dress would have beenred, depend upon it. He put a gold ring on her finger, a jewel on herforehead, a silver mirror and a Book of Hours bound in silver leaves toswing at her girdle. Her chamber was hung with silk arras,--the lovinghistory of Aristotle and a princess of Cyprus;--she had two women towait upon her, to tire her hair in new ways and set new crowns upon it;she had a close garden of her own, with roses and a fountain, grasslawns
, peacocks. She had pages to serve her kneeling, musicalinstruments, singing boys and girls. He gave her a lap-dog. Finally hekissed her and said--
"You are to be queen of this place, Isoult the Much-Desired."
All this the Abbot did. This also he did--his crowning piece. He causedher to wear round her waist a girdle made of bright steel in which wasa staple. To the staple he fixed a fine steel chain--a toy, a mimicryof prisons, but in fact a chain--and the other end of a chain was fixedto a monk's wrist. The chain was fine and flexible, it was long, itcould go through the keyhole--and did--but it was a chain. Wherever thegirl went, to the garden, to table, to music, to bed, abroad, or toMass, she was chained to a monk and a monk to her. The Abbot Richardrested on the seventh day, contemplating his labours with infiniterelish. It seemed to him that this was to be politic with an air. Sofar as he might he did everything in that manner.
Isoult bore the burden much as she had borne the thwackings of thecharcoal-burners, with ingrained patience. Seriously, one only crossfretted her--the loss of her ring. This indeed cried desertion uponher. Prosper had never seemed so far, nor his love so faint andill-assured. It would seem that kindness really killed her by druggingher spirit as with anodyne. As she had fallen at Gracedieu, so she fellnow into a languid habit where tears swam in flood about the lids ofher eyes, where the eyes were too heavy for clear sight and the veryblood sluggish with sorrow. She grew pale again, hollow-eyed,diaphanous--a prism for an unearthly ray. Her beauty took on its elfinguise; she walked a ghost. Night and day she felt for the ring; thoughshe knew it was not there, her hand was always in her vest, her bosomalways numb and cold. Sometimes her urgent need was more than she couldbear. A trembling took her, an access of trembling which she could notcheck. At such times, if others were about her, she would sit vacantand speechless, smiling faintly for courtesy; her eyes would brim over,the great drops fall unchecked. There would be no sobbing, very littlecatching of the breath. The well of misery would fill and overflow,gently and smoothly irresistible. Then the shaking would cease and thefount be dry for a season. So she grew more a spirit and less a maid;her eyes waxed larger, and the pupils whelmed the grey in jet.
The people of Malbank frankly took her for a saint. Martyrs, virgins,and such rare birds do not hop in every cage; but what more reasonablethan that the famous Abbot of Saint Thorn should catch one in his ownspringes? Those who maintained that the chained white creature, whoknelt folded at the Mass, or on a white palfrey rode out on the heathguarded by two monks, was the stormy girl who had kept swine about themiddens, Matt's bad daughter Isoult la Desirous, those were leaguedwith the devil and his imps, who would not see a saint if all heavenwalked the earth.
The report fell in excellently with the Abbot's calculation. No onebelieved in the Isoult fable save Mald, whom the girl had seen once ortwice, and himself; every one talked rather of the Chained Virgin ofSaint Thorn. She became an object of pilgrimage. The Abbot grew to callher chamber the feretory; the faithful gave alms, particularly theseamen from Wanmouth. Then others came to behold, more to his liking,proposing barter. She was observed of the Lord of Hartlepe, the youngLord of Brokenbridge, the Lord of Courthope Saint James; of the Baronof Starning and Parrox, also, from the East Demesne. This Baron Malise,thin and stooping, having Prosper's quick eyes without his easylordship over all who met them, and Prosper's high voice twistedquerulous, came to view his young brother's wife. She pleased, but theprice did not please. He and the Abbot haggled over the dowry; Malise,as obstinate as Prosper, would not budge. So they haggled. Finally cameGalors de Born, Lord of Hauterive and many other places in the north,not to be denied.
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