Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  “Up, up, good horse! Strike the woman down!”

  Brave and hardy as Meraud was, at that shout she uttered a low scream and sank down on her knees by the wall. At the word, the good horse raised himself, but came down again; raised himself once more, but, still doubting, came down and planted himself on his forefeet, looking on the girl with a now more gentle eye. As well as possible, he knew that Owen was his friend and servant, but not his master. When Estercel spoke, he obeyed; when Owen spoke he listened, but acted according to his own judgment. He did not like the woman with the bright head, but he was not going to strike her while she crept in the straw.

  Meraud saw his milder eye, and her spirit rose. She reared up her head and spoke passionately to Owen. “Traitor and coward,” she said. “I will relate that trick to your master. The horse is a better man than you.”

  Owen made one bound across the straw.

  “Traitor and coward, you!” said he. “What have you done with my master? Where is he?”

  Meraud stood upright and faced him, her back against the wall.

  “In the Grate,” said she.

  “In the Grate?” said Owen. “Oh, wirra, wirra! Have I then seen his face for the last time in this world?”

  He wrung his hands in fearful grief. The sight of the beautiful form and countenance of the young woman before him turned his grief to rage.

  “Ay, woman of the false tongue,” said he furiously, “and your doing it is. I have watched you when you thought yourself alone. I have read that letter of the two meanings that took him out to his mischance. There is a punishment for the murderous girl, and such are you. Ay, and a boat on the sea it is, no sail and no oars to it, and neither food nor drink. Ay, and you will be known for what you are from one end of Ireland to the other. Many a knife will be sharpened for you. Faith, here is one now that longs for your blood, many nights it has cried in my ear,” and he drew a long sharp knife from his belt.

  The horse seeing the steel snorted violently and took two steps backward. Meraud stood still and straight.

  “Frog-headed fool of a fellow,” said she. “What is all this talk of a murderess and Estercel a living man?”

  “There are few days of life reserved for them that go into that prison,” he answered. “Also Estercel has called upon me in my dreams, and I know that his state is bad.”

  “It shall not be so for long,” said Meraud. “I had power to put him in, for he offended me. I have power to get him out again. I will see the Lord Essex; he will be set free.”

  The man looked at her doubtfully. He stepped back a pace or two, a little moved by her courage.

  “And when?” said he. “They are dying very quick in the Grate sometimes.”

  “Tomorrow,” said the girl with cool confidence.

  “Swear it,” said Owen.

  “I swear it.”

  “Remember,” said he, “there is no well deep enough, no hill high enough, no wood thick enough to save you from your punishment if you fail.”

  “I will remember,” said Meraud, and with one glance, half gratitude, half apprehension, at the wise face of the horse, she opened the door and stepped out into the fresh air and daylight.

  Meraud was a strong girl, stronger than many a man, but she staggered as she crossed the yard, and when she reached the knees of her aunt, she sank down powerless and silent.

  Chapter XIX. - The Toilet

  Much noise and rumour arose from the chamber of the Earl of Essex while he dressed of a morning. His lodgings were in the north-eastern tower, and to and from them went a continual stream of very fine gentlemen in rainbow-coloured clothes. The rooms below were crowded and many stood talking on the stairs. In the midst of the bed-chamber sat the Earl, newly come from his perfumed bath, giving his head and beard to his barber, his white hands to two valets, his legs to another, who reverently endued them with silk stockings and riding boots, his ears to ten gentlemen, and his tongue to ten more.

  One of those most forward in attending the levee of the Earl was Sir Xylonides Bullen, not that he received encouragement, rather the reverse. Just then, he was standing by the closet door, a station which he usually affected, when a page brought him a sealed letter which he opened and read with attention, shortly afterwards taking his leave.

  At the moment, Sir George Carey had the Earl's ear.

  “Pitiful, my Lord!” says he, “I tell you it is pitiful. They lie on the bare ground in the camps, unwatched, untended. There is no surgeon for them, no relief.”

  “I have no warrant, as you know, dear Carey,” said Essex, “either from Her Majesty or the council to make provisions for the sick. But such open neglect is indeed a scandal to our title of Christians. Cuffe, my purse to Sir George! And Cuffe, let one of my surgeons and one of my chaplains attend Sir George to see what may be done for the relief of the sick. Bedding and sheets, at least, I should wish to be provided in my name.”

  “Nobly done, my Lord,” said Sir George, taking the purse from Sir Henry Cuffe and weighing it in his hand; “these are the deeds that are not forgotten to a man, but live on after he is dead.”

  But Essex merely waved his hand; he was already deep in another man's petition.

  This time it was Sir Ralph Birkinshawe who begged to be confirmed in his trust of the keeping of the muster books. He was a little round fat man with nothing pointed about him save his pointed beard and his sharp eyes. “I beseech you to confirm me, my Lord,” said he; “there be some of them that would have me away from there, for that they see I will not allow so well of their forwardness to lash out Her Majesty's treasure to make their friends with.”

  “Well, well, Sir Ralph, I will see what may be done. But I would have you know that the council are in favour of appointing Sir Ralph Lane to the post. And here comes Sir Griffith Markham. Good-morrow to you, sir; and how goes the world with you?”

  “Scurvily, my Lord, scurvily. I am knavishly dealt with by the council. These five years have I been petitioning to be made Governor of Connacht. This is no time to be putting men that are but half men in posts of danger. The miserable and sleepy disposition of Sir Arthur Savage will go nigh to wreck Her Majesty's cause in the west.”

  Here a slight movement was caused by the entrance of the Earl of Clancarty, followed by a tall page in a black velvet cloak, who took up his station by the closet door. Sir John Harrington stepped forward. He carried as usual his own translation of Ariosto's “Orlando Furioso” under his arm, out of which he was quite ready to read to all and sundry.

  “My Lord,” said he, “the Bishop of Cork has arrived. He is gone in and will soon be coming up. We shall get some sport of him.”

  “I know the man,” said Sir Edward Moore. “He is long and lemon-faced; has a hollow voice much like to the old grey-bearded verger that speaks through the trunk in the Cathedral Church of Gloucester.”

  “He is famously infamous, or infamously famous, in the south,” said Sir John. “His Grace of Ormond tells me that when that excellent Christian gentleman Mr. Thornborowe, the new-made Bishop of Limerick, rebuked him for keeping no trust with the people and calling the Irish priests good milch cows, he answered, 'My Lord of Limerick, when you have been here a twelve-month, no man will believe one word that you speak.'”

  Those around the Earl laughed, and in the middle of their laughter, a strange hollow voice was heard speaking loud without, like one used to the pulpit, and the laughter redoubled. Pushing through the crowd came the lemon-faced Bishop in his robes, but before he reached the Earl, his timidity overcame him, and down he went on his knees and shuffled across the floor upon his marrow-bones.

  “Welcome, my Lord Bishop,” said Essex in slightly sarcastic accents.

  “Thrice welcome, your gracious Excellency, to this thrice miserable land. When without a doubt the sun of your noble presence will dissipate the rheum or fog of rebellion with which we are afflicted.”

  “How goes Her Majesty's cause in the south, Mr. Bishop?”

  “Ill, my
Lord, ill,” said he of Cork, scrambling to his feet in his excitement. “The insufferable arrogance of the great devil of the north has infected the whole of Her Majesty's dominions.”

  “Your hatred of the disloyal Irish, good Mr. Bishop, and your activities against them are well known,” said the Earl with a smile.

  “Would I were more of a terror to them,” said the Bishop. “Under my very nose and in my own diocese do they pursue their foul traffic. There is a merchant of Cork that buys his powder of the French ships, now in the harbour, sells it to the rebels for a hide, and that hide he returns back to the Frenchman for a French crown — may the Lord of Hosts confound them both, I pray in charity!” added he with a pious snuffle, holding out long hungry fingers that ached for the crowns of the Frenchman.

  Essex's valets had now finished his toilet and stepped away, facing him with profound bows. The great man rose from his chair, turning his back on the Bishop and showing plainly on his face the disgust that he felt, while those around him laughed and with some rudeness hustled the holy man out of the way. It was Essex's habit to step across to his closet, there to say a short prayer alone before setting forth for the day. As he now moved towards the curtained door, his face still kept the moody look that the Bishop's speeches had brought there.

  Sir John Harrington walked at his side. “Cheer your countenance, dear friend,” said he. “Do not let the mad words of yonder rascal in lawn sleeves affect you. There are men of his kind everywhere to be found.”

  “True, Harrington, but I am not content that men of his sort should be turned loose to prey on the population. I don't like it, Harrington, nor that it should be matter of laughter. I have, as you know, a natural antipathy against this service. I have the best warrant ever a man had, and I go in the best cause. Compassion I myself shall not greatly need, for whatsoever the success may be, yet I shall be sure of a fair destiny. Only I would have your Lordships pity Ireland and pity the army committed to my charge.”

  Then he made to enter his closet, but Lord Clancarty laid an arm upon his sleeve and spoke for a moment in his ear. Essex nodded, lifted the curtain and went in. The little closet was hung with silken tapestry of a fair blue colour and lit by a narrow window. By it stood the tall page in black velvet with bright uncovered head and pale cheek. The noise of the gentlemen talking was great without, yet it was in the lowest of low tones that Essex spoke.

  “What, is it you, Meraud, my bright favourite! Why is this disguise, and in what can I serve you?”

  Meraud fell upon her knees before Essex. She clasped his in her two hands and spoke in a low whisper.

  “My Lord, I have been a false woman. I have betrayed a noble young man into the hands of his enemies. George Arglass has him in the castle pit. Even now he may be torturing him that he may get word of Tyrone's secret message to yourself, my Lord.”

  “Hist, you silly fool!” Essex leaned forward and shook her by the shoulder: “What do you tell me?” he said in a still lower whisper. “Who is the young man? — the large-boned student with the yellow locks that would to England?”

  “The same, my Lord, but no student is he …”

  Essex laid a hand on her mouth. “Where is he now? In the castle pit? When taken, girl?”

  “On Tuesday at evening, my Lord.”

  “By whom?”

  “Sir Xylonides Bullen, a bitter enemy of yours, my Lord.”

  The eye of Essex flashed intelligence upon her for one second. Meraud spoke in a low voice, scarcely breathed: “He is staunch. They have got nothing from him, my Lord.”

  Again that eye flashed upon her. “How do you know?”

  “Sir Xylonides Bullen told it me.”

  “They will be at no loss to concoct somewhat if we are not too quick for them. Get up, child, and stand,” said Essex.

  Turning from her, he clapped his hands. Sir Henry Cuffe entered the closet.

  “Cuffe,” says my Lord, “George Arglass has got a man in the Grate whom I would have out. Speak with the young gentleman apart upon the matter. Use a golden argument or one of steel. Use any argument, but out he must come, and that at once.” With a wave of his hand in farewell to, he moved for the doorway; but she was too quick for him: she sprang to his side, seized him by the arm and whispered in his ear:

  “My Lord, I am in fear of my life. The men of the north will slay me for the imprisoning and torture of this young man. I was set upon but yesterday by man and horse. Help me out of this kingdom, my Lord.”

  Essex looked steadily on her: pale face and whitening lips spoke the reality of her fear. He set a kiss on her cheek.

  “Do you know, my pretty girl, that there are men in my position who, far from assisting you, would have you straight put out of their way? You are too bright-witted for an enemy; too foolish bold, too unsafe for an ally. Your place was by your mother's skirts. What bid you venture out where hard knocks are going?”

  Meraud grew paler, and the large tears rose in her eyes. Essex took her round chin between his two fingers.

  “It is only for a messenger to leave yonder room, and in ten minutes by the clock you go straight to your doom.”

  Meraud drew away from him.

  “Good,” said she. “Even let it be so. But you mistake me. I am not here because I was afraid.”

  “Bend no brows on me, sweetheart: I do not threaten. I give you a much-needed lesson in discretion.”

  “I will observe it, my Lord.”

  “In faith, I hope as much. But cheer yourself now, dear Emerald. I am not so powerless but that I can set those safe that trust to me.”

  Chapter XX. - The Pit and the Prisoner

  At eight o'clock that evening, three dark figures turned quietly out of the great hall of the castle and took the long passage leading to the Grate. The head gaoler of the castle led the way. He was a man of size and strength, with a vast paunch and amazingly agile in spite of it. Next to him went Meraud, masked and in a dark cloak; and behind her Sir Henry Cuffe quite unrecognisable in a false beard. As they went on through the stone passage, the air grew increasingly cold and foul.

  The gaoler turned about and spoke to them in a loud whisper: “Here are no lilies and roses, sirs,” said he, laughing till he shook. “Master George Arglass himself carries a clout dipped in eau-de-vie and held to his nose when he has occasion to visit the souls in prison.”

  But Meraud scarcely noticed the odours which so inconvenienced Sir Henry Cuffe that he covered his mouth with a fold of his mantle. Her whole soul was intent on one thing and on one thing only, the farewell to the passion of her heart. In three days she was to leave Ireland. Essex had found her a friend and protectress in Lady St. Leger, whom she was to accompany on her return to England. Ambitious as she was, she yet felt more than three parts downcast. She was very loth to loose the last link that bound her to the young hero. She divined that all her life after she would compare other men to him.

  “I know him for half a fool,” she said to herself querulously. “What a crazy jade am I to be so taken with him. Yet he is a beautiful fool, and a noble fool, and a staunch fool, and maybe not such a fool after all. Fool yourself, Meraud!” And twenty pictures of the young man rose before her mind's eye.

  Strength and beauty have a radiance of their own: light proceeds from them and is scattered around them. I have seen gold shadows from gold hair lie on white clothes. I have seen a pale bright face shine in a dark room, casting light before it. More especially will the eyes shoot light, clear rays and very strong, sometimes to a great distance. Black eyes will send out burning flames of black and white; grey eyes will send out arrows of blue fire. All these lights can live within the memory.

  So clothed, so enhanced, the face and figure of Estercel haunted the mind-places of Meraud. She knew that she had done with him, yet his image persisted; persisted in all its original beauty and strength, though now and again, black dreams would come when she saw all that remembered beauty tortured and torn. Most often she remembered him as he played
with his horse in St. Mary's Meadow, and the two had seemed to her like winged and fiery creatures of the morning. With such images, such thoughts, still flitting through her mind, she found herself at last standing at the low grated door that led into the prison. Steps led up to it, steps littered with rubbish; odours and strange sounds filtered through the barred door. Her dreams fell away, and she saw the actual.

  Here in this place, every sense was assailed at once. The noise of the opening door awoke the prisoners from their quiet. Cries and smothered shouts filled the place with hollow echoings that were flung back from the walls and beat about the low passage roof like dark birds caught in a stone cage. The air was so chill that it penetrated their mantles; it was thick with foulness and showed misty and dim round about the gaoler's lantern. The darkness was heavy and black; not the pure translucent dark of open night, but a vile darkness like that of a thick and abominable curtain flung over the head. All the senses were entangled in it; the lantern served but to show its complexion the better. The only comfortable thing in this net of misery was the sound of a far-away voice, a man's voice, but so dulcet as to be almost a woman's, that sang a song that seemed to have no end and no beginning, so sweet that it pierced through the mixed rumour of the other frantic voices and came whole to the ear.

  Seeing the pails of carrion refuse that stood in the passage, Sir Henry Cuffe drew back and was for returning.

  “Come on, come on,” laughed the gaoler. “Dirt will not bite.”

  Cuffe whispered in Meraud's ear: “Go back, Lady Meraud. I will take you back myself and come again. No Christian stomach can tolerate this and not rebel.”

  “My stomach shall be a pagan then,” said Meraud stoutly. “Go on, Sir Henry.”

  At the passage end was a narrow, narrow winding stair, just wide enough to let the stout gaoler squeeze himself round and round. Below was another passage, and the same vileness. They stood awhile to let the gaoler get done with his panting. At the noise of their feet and voices, the same callings and cries and groans arose, as a flock of wild birds will fly up from their feeding when disturbed by the passer-by.