Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  But, Tadhg, thine ear is closed when I tell that there must be always a barrier between the lover and the beloved, and that the trouvère does no more than to love the lady in the castle as the monks and nuns in the cloister love the saints in heaven. Jaufre Rudel loved the Princess of Tripoli as a nun loves Christ, as a monk loves Mary, and so great was his love that it consumed him on his voyage to her. No man loves his mistress when he is by her as well as he does when he is away. Rambaut d’Orange never saw the Comtesse d’Urgel nor she him; to sing her praises was enough; hardships, sufferings, afflictions were borne by him cheerfully, for they helped him to appreciate his love. We must suffer if we would enjoy, Tadhg; martyrs and trouvères are alike in this. But in heaven, master, we shall love God better than on earth and he amongst us always. It may be, Tadhg, that the greatest saints will say: We miss the fever and the ecstasies of our convents and monasteries — And ask God to let them return to earth, master? Among the other questions which thou wilt put to Father Carabine, put this one. No need to put it, for I know well what Father Carabine’s answer will be; he will say that no man should sing the praises of any wife but his own. Speak to him, Tadhg, of the need for a barrier, and of Bertran de Born, who was buried in the habit of a Cistercian monk. Folquet de Marseilles, too, repented his sins and was ordained a bishop. I am glad to hear it, and my prayer will be that the grace of God will come to your honour as it came to him. A great day for Ireland and for me, too, it will be when the mitre is put on your head and the crosier in your hand, as they surely will be if you can only keep off the women; and it’s for you to think it out, master, if the lady in the portrait is worth all you’ll have to pay for her in this world and the next. The lady towards whom we are riding is not a wife. How then did it come to pass that Roudier brought her picture over to France? I never liked that man, and if he wasn’t a friend of your honour’s I’d say — Say nothing, Tadhg! After drawing my father’s portrait and the portraits of many others, his fame spread over Ireland, and King OMelaghlin asked my father to send his craftsman to make drawings of himself and his three daughters. The three most beautiful women in Ireland, so I’ve always heard it said; and which is the one your honour is after? The two elder sisters are very beautiful, Ulick answered; the youngest is a nun — And not less beautiful in God’s eyes, Tadhg said somewhat sententiously, irritating Ulick thereby. In my eyes, Tadhg, she is more beautiful than her sisters. But we are not chasing a nun, master, are we? She wishes to leave her convent. Faith, if she wishes that, I’ll not waste another good thought about her! But how do you know that she wants to leave her convent if Roudier didn’t tell you? I never liked the man, but I didn’t think he was one to bring back from Ireland a pocketful of gold and an evil story. I can think of no sadder story, Tadhg, than a woman in a convent wishing to leave it. A story easily put right, Tadhg answered, if she’ll go to her priest; and now that Advent is coming on, with fasting days and extra devotions, all thought of leaving the convent will flow away with her prayers. But we are not all alike, Tadhg. We have all got priests and the blessed sacraments to see us through, your honour. But, Tadhg, nothing is for long the same. A child’s thoughts are not a girl’s thoughts, and a girl’s thoughts are not a woman’s. We cannot do else, your honour, than to look upon our fellows as being much the same as ourselves. Ever since your father put a harp into my hand I’ve been turning tunes, and before that again I used to be whistling for nobody to hear but the pigs in the sties. One big fellow would stand on his hind legs and grunt till I gave him another tune. Ah, I wept bitter tears when that pig went to the castle to be made into pork. Once more, Tadhg, I’d have thee remember that we are not all alike, and when we aren’t alike we don’t understand each other.

  I would have thee look at her portrait, for it will persuade thee — I have no need to look at the picture, your honour, for a nun that would leave her convent and break her vows cannot be a holy woman; nor would I put any great faith in Philippe Roudier’s stories. Dost think, Tadhg, that he invented the story? Well, he may have heard something like it, but it would have been better for him to have forgotten it — bringing it all this way, and for what, may I ask your honour, unless it be to come between the Mother Abbess and her nun, to bring a great unhappiness on the Princess for certain, for God would not let such a sin go unpunished, be sure of that. Roudier must have been doing scribbles of you and his stories must have turned her head. And how are we going to get her out of the convent — what am I thinking of? I am not thinking at all, and your honour isn’t doing much thinking, for a convent isn’t easy scaling; walls are high, and dogs and serving-men will come between you and the Princess. The Abbess will put her under lock and key, for no Abbess in the world would make over the King’s daughter to you. There are windows, Tadhg, and pear trees grow by windows. Ah, so you’re to climb a pear tree! O, master darling, let us go home, for this is a game that may cost the pair of us our lives. Tadhg, thou art easily frightened. Not for ourselves, not altogether, but as much for the poor creature herself, who’ll have no home to go to when you’re tired of her. She can’t go back to her father’s court and her sisters, for King OMelaghlin is a pious man of great repute, a founder of monasteries and convents, who is always saying his prayers and going to confession. I ask your honour, where would she go if she left the convent? And what will become of her if she remains in the convent, Tadhg? Bruce is in the north, about to set out to march upon Dublin, and Meath being handy his soldiers will spread over the country after the defeat of Bermingham — Bermingham won’t be defeated, your honour. Bruce has won eighteen battles, and will take risks. Besides, the Scots are like ourselves, the same flesh and blood, and speaking our language, with only trifling differences. A victorious soldier has no God but his appetite, Tadhg. We cannot leave the Princess Soracha — No great matter, that, for won’t she be one of the martyrs, getting a good place in heaven in reward for a bit of an indignity on earth? Leave her to the will of God, your honour, whatever it may be. Let us go back! I am frightened. I have followed thee from castle to castle, falling into great sins for love of thee and for love of thy family. But if I follow thee now — no, I cannot, master, I cannot! And he rode away like one who believes the Devil is in pursuit of him.

  Ulick sat dumbfounded in the saddle. Now, what am I to do? A soldier hired in Athlone could hold the horses under her window, but he, too, might fail me and ride away with my secret. Her portrait was still in his tunic, and having looked on her face again, he said: It cannot be that I shall never see her. Soracha a soldier’s booty! A clatter of hooves caused him to turn in his saddle. It is I, master. I’ve come back to beg you — To forgive thee? Ulick shouted, his passion leaping into flame. No, to whip me! cried Tadhg, for I shall be easier after I’ve had a stripe or two. Then take what thou asketh! and the lash of Ulick’s whip flew out and smote Tadhg across the shoulders, ripping his tunic, again and again and once again, six times in all, and Tadhg would have received a seventh blow if he had not cried out: Master, whip me no more lest I faint and be unable to follow thee to the end. And knee to knee they rode into the town of Athlone, Ulick upholding his servant.

  VI

  NOW THAT YOU’VE got the heroes safe into Athlone I’m beginning to feel the want of my tea and shall be glad if your honour will excuse me the rest of the story till to-morrow. And my voice being tired, I was glad of the interruption and spoke to Alec of a cup of tea at the Lodge, it seeming to me that I must offer him some hospitality. I am in the way of taking my tea at Mulligan’s, he answered, and you are in the way of taking yours at the Lodge, so we’ll stick to our customs and be friends. But have you no fault to find, Alec, with the story so far as it’s gone? Faith, I have, a fault and a half. We are mostly through the story without coming to a battle; not a word about the battle of Connor, nor of the eighteen battles that the great Bruce won in the south and that made up for the beating of Felim OConor at Athenry. My uncle used to talk a lot of that battle; he had it all in his eye; but he hadn’t got yo
ur honour’s words to tell of the poor fellows tumbling over dead, or limping off with an arrow in the thigh, with a horse shot through the nostrils screaming with pain, trampling on all in his mad way, poor beast. Sure it is as plain to me as if the battle was there in front of me: the cheering at every good shot, and the poor Irish coming on and on in their saffron tunics. The battle was fought in August when the days were long; and I can see the English coming down the hill in the afterglow, sticking and chopping about amid the blind and the lame. I’d like to have heard your honour tell of all that, but not a word, nor the wind of one! Another thing is that you don’t tell of the retreat of the Scots through snowstorms, with troops of starving wolves on their heels eating the dead, aye, and the dying, too. But, Alec, I’m not writing the history of the Bruces in Ireland. I know that, your honour, but I’ve been wondering if the history couldn’t be mixed up in some such a way with the story that the reader wouldn’t know which he was reading, but would just take it all in, and separate it all out, afterwards, in his mind. I have thought of all that, Alec, I answered with a sigh. Well, if your honour can’t do it, no man can. One thing more I’d say. I’d have had Edward Bruce the hero of the story, for a finer captain never walked the world. I see, Alec, you’d have liked history better than a story; I’m sorry. It’s like bread and butter — they are better together, and so I’d have liked both the history and the story. But perhaps your honour is right; maybe the two wouldn’t mix. Well, to-morrow, by the old mill, you’ll be telling me if he gets the nun or gets fooled. And then there’s the battle of Dundalk and the big fight between Edward Bruce and Sir John Maupas. Once more, your honour: at the same time to-morrow.

  And turning from him I watched the rooks coming home through the quiet sky, asking myself if Alec were right and if I should do better to write the story of Edward Bruce, for truly I would not find a doughtier champion in the Iliad.

  VII

  THE PASSWORD, EDWARD of England, opened the gates to them, and the news of Sir Ulick de Burgo’s arrival being brought quickly to Sir Roger Mandeville he hurried down the stairs of his house to meet Sir Ulick, who had just dismounted from his horse; and they talked for a while till coming across the courtyard for the second time Sir Roger caught sight of Tadhg being held on his horse by a soldier. Your servant, said Sir Roger, seems in great pain. For a disobedience I lashed him too severely in a moment of anger, Ulick replied, and Sir Roger answered that in moments of anger we mete out the lash as we would not do if the punishment were postponed till the next day. We have, Sir Roger continued, an old woman here of great repute in the curing of wounds. Have no fear that your servant will not be able to proceed with you within a week. Let a message, he said, turning to the soldiers, be sent to Ann Gregan that she is to come at once to attend on a man who has been flogged. A soldier bent over Tadhg and said: Thy master didn’t miss thee when he hit thee; faith, he has laid into thee cruelly. Not harder than I deserved, Tadhg answered. But a faint is coming over thee. Penfold, bring wine from the Governor’s house else the man faints again. Courage, Tadhg, for in a little while thou’lt be easier; a cup of wine is a great help to one in pain. I know it, for I come from thy country, Tadhg answered. Ah! thou hast been in France? Tell us of France. I can think of nothing but my pain, said Tadhg; and after he had drunk some wine he was carried to a comfortable room, where they found the wise woman toasting a piece of linen before the fire. Tell me why the linen is burnt? said a soldier. ’Tis not burnt, she answered, ’tis but scorched. Burnt or scorched, why is it scorched? the soldier persisted. That is the way we have always done it, and our fathers before us, the old woman said. The soldier watched her, and she continued to scorch the linen, and when it was sufficiently burnt Tadhg’s torn tunic was lifted from his back, and she said: The skin is only broken in two or three places. Shall I be well to-morrow? asked Tadhg. To-morrow and three weeks from to-morrow thou mayest be well enough to travel, and if thou’rt well then I shall deserve all the praise I get for curing thee. But the master will be here with the horses to-morrow. The master will have to send the horses back to their stables, she answered.

  He’ll be sorry for the lashing he gave me, Tadhg said to himself, though I deserved it; and he continued to worry over the delay, confiding from time to time his trouble to Ann, saying that the lashing he had been given had wiped out his fault and would bring him back into his master’s favour again if it weren’t for the delay. In saying this much he roused Ann’s curiosity and was forced to invent a story to satisfy her, and the story he put together in his feebleness was his failure to deliver letters entrusted to his care. Didst lose the letters, honey, or sell them to a spy of the Bruce’s? I know naught of Bruce’s spies, Tadhg answered; we have come from France. Come from France, my pulse! said the old woman; but thou’rt not a Norman and speakest good, kindly Irish. Not a Norman, truly, but a man from Galway am I, said Tadhg; and he escaped further questions by feigning a greater feebleness than was upon him. As the pain of his wounds dwindled he thought it well to mutter that they had come from France to buy harps, and would return to France if they could find the harps that suited them. Ann was not interested in harps or the buying of them, but she liked to hear of Ballintober and the Abbot, and was greedy for news of Brother Matthew, Brother Gregory, Brother John, Brother James, saying that they were young when she was a bare-legged girl running about the hen-house bringing in the eggs for them. But I’ve had my share of trouble, darling, and they have had little. Ah! it’s the trouble that ages, and to thine eyes I look ten years older than they. Brother John’s thoughts were always in the mead cask and the beer cask, but I wouldn’t be repeating idle tales. And Brother Matthew — is he still mad about the east wind? A draught out of the east was an old dread of his. And the same dread lingers on, said Tadhg, who knew not whether the monk was alive or dead, but was concerned to baffle the old woman’s curiosity and persuade her that he would be able to travel at the end of the week. To which she answered: Haven’t I said three weeks or four weeks, and I should know something about the healing of wounds, having done little else this many a year.

  After the skelping your honour gave him he’ll be a strong man if he can travel in three weeks from now, she answered Ulick when he came to inquire for his servant. He is in thy hands, Ann Gregan, and it is for thee to say when he will be fit to travel. Have I not said it, your honour — in three weeks? I wouldn’t have thee speak to his honour like that, Ann Gregan, said Tadhg from the bed. Have a memory of who he is and what thou art. Well I know the who and the what of it, and I don’t need thee to tell me, sonny man! Enough, enough, said Ulick; I would talk to my servant alone about the harps that we are in search of. I’m not standing on your tongue, she answered. He is in thy care, Ann Gregan, said Ulick, his temper rising up against her, and he shall not move from that bed till thou tellest him to rise. All that is thy right, and mine is to talk with my servant alone if it pleases me to do so. So now make thy curtsey and leave us. And when she had closed the door, Ulick took the stool beside the bed. Tadhg, he said, I fear! Struck thee too sharply; but no man is always master of his temper. It took me suddenly — Just as it took me, master, when I rode away; and my temper going out as quickly as it came in, I rode back. Yes, Tadhg; and I lashed thee too harshly. I might have killed thee; another stroke would have done it. But I am alive, your honour; and whilst lying here things have been ripening in my mind and I understanding them better all the while, saying to myself: As likely as not we were brought from France, God not wishing the Princess Soracha to fall into the hands of Bruce’s soldiery, a Princess like her, daughter of a King that has done so much for God’s people, for the nuns and the monks of Ireland. I came back to help my father, Tadhg. Would it be wrong for me to be thinking that we were brought back from France to help your father and to get King OMelaghlin’s daughter out of danger? We should get the whole convent out of danger, too, if we could, but we can’t carry them all off; there wouldn’t be room on the horses, however they clung about us. So thou
thinkest, Tadhg, there was something in what I said? Faith, I do, your honour, and lying here I’ve had time to rue the delay, for the fault was mine. Not all thy fault, Tadhg; we both lost our heads. The news to-day is that Bruce’s plan is to come out of the north somewhere about the middle of October, so there’s plenty of time for thee to get well. And now tell me if the pain is dying out of thy back. Is it easier to-day than yesterday? It is easier, your honour, and I have often told Ann that a sore back shouldn’t prevent a man from riding, but she gives no heed. I’ll come to see thee tomorrow, Ulick answered, and every day he came to Tadhg’s room to inquire the progress his henchman was making; and it was at the end of three weeks that they cried the password at the bridge-head, Edward of England, and rode into the forest.