Love Among the Ruins

by Warwick Deeping

  X

  Down through the woods of Avalon rode the Lord Flavian of Gambrevault,down towards the forest track in the grey face of the dawn. In themeadows and beyond the orchards, water shone, and towers stood mistily.The voice of Spring pulsed in the air, songs of green woods, the wildwine of violets, pavements of primrose gold. Birds piped lustily inwood and thicket, and the ascending sun lavished his glittering archeryfrom the chariots of the clouds.

  The Lord Flavian was inordinately cheerful that morning, as he rode ingreen and red through the prophetic woods. Heart and weather were inkindred keeping, and his youth sang like a brook after April rains. Thewoods danced in dew. Far on its rocky hill the towers of Gilderoy wouldsoon beckon him above the trees. Beneath the shadow of the cathedraltower stood a gabled house with gilded vanes and roofs of generous red.There in Gilderoy, in a room hung with cloth of purple and gold, whitearms waited, and the bosom of a golden Helen held love like a red rosein a pool of milky spikenard.

  Picture a slim but muscular man with the virile figure of a young David,a keen, smooth face, a halo of brown hair, eyes eloquent as a woman's.Picture a good grey horse trapped in red and green, full of fettle as acolt, burly as a bull. Picture the ermined borderings, the jewelledclasps, brigantine of quilted velvet, fur-lined bassinet bright as astar. Youth, clean, adventurous, aglow to the last finger-tip,impetuous to the tune of thirty breaths a minute. Youth with all itssplendid waywardness, its generosities, its immense self-intoxications.Youth with the voice of a Golden Summer in its heart, and for its plumethe gorgeous fires of eve.

  Wealth often breeds apathy and parsimonious instincts. It is the beggarwhose purse bursts with joy, whose soul blazes generous red upon theclouds. As for Flavian of Gambrevault and Avalon, he was rich but nomiser, proud yet not haughty, sanguine but not vicious. Like many a maninspired by an instinctive idealism, his heart ran before his reason:they not having come cheek by jowl as in later years. He was verydevout, yet very worldly; very ardent, yet over hasty. Mark him then, alovable fool in the eyes of philosophy; a cup of mingled wine, bothwhite and red. He was a great lord; yet his serfs loved him.

  The Lady Duessa's parents, good folk, had been blessed with aspirations.Gambrevault and Avalon had bulked very gloriously under the steel-bluevault of pride. Moreover, their daughter was a sensuous being, whopanted for poetic surroundings, and lived to music. A boy of twenty; apassionate, dark-eyed, big-bosomed houri of twenty and five; bell, book,and ring--such had been the bridal bargain consummated on churchprinciples five years ago or more. A youth of twenty is not supremelywise concerning the world, or his own heart. The Lord Flavian'smarriage had not proved a magic blessing to him. Parentally sealedmarriage deeds are the edicts of the devil.

  Quickly are the mighty fallen, and the chalices of love broken. It wasno mere chance ambuscade that waited open-mouthed for Flavian, Lord ofGambrevault and Avalon, Warden of the Southern Marches, Knight of theOrder of the Rose, as he rode that morning to Gilderoy, a disciple ofVenus. In a certain perilous place, the road ran betwixt walls of rock,and under the umbrage of overhanging trees. Twenty men with pike andgisarme swarming out of the woods; a short scuffle and a stabbed horse;a gag in the mouth, a bandage over the eyes, a mule's back, half a dozenthongs of stout leather. That same evening the Lord Flavian was broughtlike a bale of merchandise into Fulviac's guard-room, and tumbled on aheap of straw in a corner.

  They were grim men, these forest rangers, not given to pity, or thelight handling of a feud. A poniard point was their pet oath, a whip ofthe sword the best word with an enemy. They bit their thumb nails atcreation, and were not gentle in the quest of a creed. Fulviac heardtheir news, and commended them. They were like the ogres of the oldfables; the red blood of a lusty aristocrat smelt fresh for the sword'ssupper.

  The girl Yeoland was at her prayer-desk with a blazoned breviary underher fingers, when Fulviac came to her with tidings of the day's capture.She knelt with her hands crossed upon her bosom, as Fulviac stood in thedarkened doorway. To the man she appeared as the Madonna in somepicture of the Annunciation, the yellow light from the lamp streamingdown upon her with a lustre of sanctity.

  "They have brought the boar home."

  "Dead?"

  "Nay; but his corpse candle walks the cavern."

  For the girl it was a descent from spiritual themes to the stark realismof life. She left her prayer-desk with a little sigh. Her handstrembled as she drew a scarlet cloak about her, and fastened it with agirdle of green leather. Her eyes dwelt on Fulviac's face with a speciesof dusky pain.

  "Come," he said to her.

  "Whither?"

  "To judge him."

  "Not before all, not in the guard-room."

  "Leave it to me," he said. "Be forewarned. We deal with no mereswashbuckler."

  They went together to Fulviac's parlour, where a great brazen lamp hungfrom the roof, and a book bound in black leather lay chained on thetable. Yeoland took the man's carved chair, while he stood behind herleaning on the rail. She was paler than was her wont. Now and againshe pressed a hand to her breast, as though to stay the too rapidbeating of her heart.

  Two guards bearing partisans came in from the guard-room with a manbound and blindfold between them. A third followed, bearing atwo-handed sword naked over his shoulder. He was known as Nord of theHammer, an armourer like to a Norse Volund, burly, strong as a bear. Thedoor was barred upon them. One of the guards plucked the cloth from thebound man's face.

  In the malicious imagery of thought, Yeoland had often pictured toherself this Flavian of Gambrevault, a coarse, florid ruffian, burly andbrutal, a fleshly demigod in the world of feudalism. So much forconjecture. What she beheld was a straight-lipped, clean-limbed man,slim as a cypress, supple as good steel. The face was young yet strong,the grey eyes clear and fearless. Moreover there was a certain lonelylook about him that invoked pity, and angered her in an enigmatic way.She was wrath with him for being what he was, for contradicting theprevious imaginings of her mind.

  Flavian of Gambrevault stood bound before her, an aristocrat ofaristocrats, outraged in pride, yet proud beyond complaint. Theself-mastery of his breeding kept him a stately figure despite histumbling and his youth, one convinced of lordship and the powerfulsplendour of his name. The whole affair to him was illogical,preposterous, insolent. A gentleman of the best blood in the kingdomcould not be hustled out of his dignity by the horse-play of a bevy ofcut-throats.

  Possibly the first vision to snare the man's glance was the elfinloveliness of the girl, who sat throned in the great chair as on ajudgment seat. He marked the rose-white beauty of her skin, hersapphire eyes gleaming black in certain lights, her ebon hair bound witha fillet of sky-blue leather. Moreover, it was plain to the man in turnthat this damoisel in the red gown was deciphering his features in turnwith a curiosity that was no vapid virtue. As for Fulviac, he watchedthem both with his amber-brown eyes, eyes that missed no movement in themask of life. To him the scene under the great brazen lamp was a studyin moods and emotions.

  The aristocrat was the first to defy the silence. He had stared roundthe room at his leisure, and at each of its motionless figures in turn.The great sword, slanted in gleaming nakedness over Nord's shoulder,appeared to fascinate him for the moment. Despite his ambiguoussanctity, he showed no badge of panic or distress.

  Ignoring the woman, he challenged Fulviac, who leant upon the chairrail, watching him with an enigmatic smile.

  "Goodman in the red doublet," quoth he, "when you have stared your fillat me, I will ask you to read me the moral of this fable."

  Fulviac stroked his chin with the air of a man who holds an adversary atsome subtle disadvantage.

  "Messire," he said, "address yourself to madame--here; you are heraffair in the main."

  The Warden of the Southern Marches bowed as by habit. His grey eyesreverted to Yeoland's face, searching it with a certain courteouscuriosity that took her beauty fo
r its justification. The woman was anenigma to him, a most magical sphinx whose riddle taunted his reason.

  "Madame," he began.

  The girl stiffened in her chair at the word.

  "You hold me at a disadvantage, seeing that I am ignorant of sin orindiscretion against you. If it is a question of gold----"

  "Messire!"

  He swept her exclamation suavely aside and ran on mellifluously.

  "If it is a question of gold, let me beseech you to be frank with me. Iwill covenant with you instanter. My seneschal at Gambrevault willunbolt my coffers, and ease your greed. Pray be outspoken. I willrenounce the delight of lodging here for a purse of good rose nobles."

  There was the faintest tinge of insolence in the man's voice, aninsolence that exaggerated to the full the charge of plunder in hiswords. Whether he hinted at blood money or no, there was sufficientpoison in the sneer to fire the brain and scorch the heart to vengeance.

  The woman had risen from her chair, and stood gripping the carvedwoodwork with a passion that set her arms quivering like bands oftightened steel. The milk-white calm had melted from her face. Wrathran riot in her blood. So large were her pupils that her eyes gleamedred.

  "Ha, messire, I bring you to justice, and you offer me gold."

  The man stared; his eyes did not quail from hers.

  "Justice, madame! Of what sin then am I accused? On my soul, I know notwho you are."

  She calmed herself a little, shook back her hair from her shoulders,fingered her throat, breathing fast the while.

  "My name, messire? Ha, you shall have it. I am Yeoland, daughter ofthat Rual of Cambremont whom you slaughtered at the gate of his burninghouse. I--am the sister of those fair sons whom you did to death. Bloodmoney, forsooth! God grant, messire, that you are in honest mind forheaven, for you die to-night."

  The man had bent to catch her words. He straightened suddenly like atree whose throat is loosed from the grim grip of the wind. He wentgrey as granite, flushed red again as a dishonoured girl. The words hadtouched him with the iron of truth.

  "Hear me," he said to her.

  "Ah, you would lie."

  "By Heaven, no; give me an hour's justice."

  "Murderer."

  "Before God, you wrong me."

  He stood with twitching lips, shackled hands twisting one within theother. For the instant words eluded him, like fruit jerked from themouth of a thirst-maddened Tantalus. Anon, his manhood gathered in him,rushed forth redly like blood from a stricken throat.

  "Daughter of Rual, hear me, I tell you the truth. I, Flavian ofGambrevault, had in my pay a company of hired 'spears,' rough devilsfrom the north. The braggarts served me against John of Brissac, werehalf their service drunk and mutinous. When Lententide had come, theircaptain swore to me, 'Lording, pay us and let us go. We have spilt bloodnear Gilderoy,' scullion blood he swore, 'give us good bounty, and letus march.' So at his word I gave them largesse, and packed them fromGambrevault with pennons flying. Methought they and their brawlingswere at an end. Before God and the saints, I never knew of this."

  Yeoland considered him, strenuous as he seemed towards truth. He wasyoung, passionate, sanguine; for one short moment she pitied him, andpondered his innocence in her heart. It was then that Fulviac pluckedat her sleeve, spoke in her ear, words that hardened her like a winterfrost.

  She stared in the man's eyes, as she gave him his death-thrust with thesureness of hate.

  "Blood for blood," were her words to him.

  "Is this justice!"

  "I have spoken."

  "Monstrously. Hear me----"

  "Messire, make your peace with Heaven, I give you till daylight."

  The man stumbled against the table, white as the moon. Youth strove inhim, the crimson fountain of life's wine, the wild cry of the dawn. Hiseyes were great with a superhuman hunger. Fulviac's strong voiceanswered him.

  "Hence, hence. At dawn, Nord, do your duty."