"Nay, lord," said the girl, "I must be hanged, for so the Lord Abbot has decreed." And then she told him all that Galors had given her to understand when he had her in the quarry.
Prosper heard her to the end: it was clear that she spoke as she believed.
"Well, child," said he, "I see that all this is likely enough, though for the life of me I cannot bottom it. But how then," he cried, after a little more thinking, "shall I let you be hanged, and your neck so fine and smooth!"
"Lord," she said, "let be for that; for since I was born I have heard of my low condition, and if my neck be slim "tis the sooner broke. Let me go then, but only grant me this grace, to stand beside me at the tree and not leave me till I am dead. For there may be a worse thing than death preparing for me." Again she cried out at her own thoughts "Ah, no, no, no, I dare not let thee wed me!" He heard the wringing of her hands, and guessed her beside herself.
He stood, therefore, reasoning it all out something after this fashion. "Look now, Prosper," thought he, "this child says truer than she knows. It is an ill thing to be hanged, but a worse to deserve a hanging, and worst of all for her, it seems, to escape a hanging. And it is good to find death sweet when he comes (since come he must), but better to prove life also a pleasant thing. And life is here urgent, though in fetters, in this child"s breast; but death is not yet here.
Yet if I leave her she gains death, or life (which is worse), and if I take her with me it can only be one way. What then! a man can lay down his life in many ways, giving it for the life that needeth, whether by jumping a red grave or by means slower but not less sure. And if by any deed of mine I pluck this child out of the mire, put clear light into her eyes (which now are all dark), and set the flush on her grey cheeks which she was a.s.suredly designed to carry there; and if she breathe sweet air and grow in the grace of G.o.d and sight of men--why then I have done well, however else I do."
He thought no more, but took the girl"s hand again in both of his.
"Well, Isoult," he said cheerfully, "thou shalt not be hanged yet awhile, nor shall that worse thing befall thee. I will wed thee as soon as I may. At c.o.c.k-crow we two will seek a priest."
"Lord," she said, "a priest is here in this place."
"Why, yes! Brother Bonaccord. Well," said Prosper, "let us go in."
But Isoult was troubled afresh, and put her hand against his chest to stay him; breathing very short.
"Lord," she said, "thou wilt wed me to save my soul from h.e.l.l and my body from hanging; but thou hast no love for me in thy heart, as I know very well."
Here was a bother indeed. The girl was fair enough in her peaked elfin way; but the fact was that he did not love her--nor anybody. He had nothing to say therefore. She waited a little, and then, with her voice sunk to a low murmur, she said--
"We two will never come together except in love. Shall it not be so?"
Prosper bowed, saying--
"It shall be so."
The girl knelt suddenly down and kissed his foot. Then she rose and stood near him.
"Let us go in," she said.
Looking up, they saw the field of heaven strewn thick with stars, the clouds driven off, the wind dropt. And then they went into the hovel hand-in-hand, as they had gone out.
As soon as he saw them come in together the old man fell to chuckling and rubbing his hands.
"Wife Mald, wife Mald, look up!" cried he; "there will be a wedding this night. See, they are hand-fasted already."
Mald the witch rose up from the hearth at last and faced the betrothed. She was terrible to view in her witless old age; her face drawn into furrows and dull as lead, her bleared eyes empty of sight or conscience, and her thin hair scattered before them. It was despair, not sorrow, that Prosper read on such a face. Now she peered upon the hand-locked couple, now she parted the hair from her eyes, now slowly pointed a finger at them. Her hand shook with palsy, but she raised it up to bless them. To Prosper she said--
"Thou who art as pitiful as death, shalt have thy reward. And it shall be more than thou knowest."
To the girl she gave no promises, but with her crutch hobbled over the floor to where she stood. She put her hand into her daughter"s bosom and felt there; she seemed contented, for she said to her very earnestly--
"Keep thou what thou hast there till the hour of thy greatest peril.
Then it shall not fail thee to whomsoever thou shalt show it."
Then she withdrew her hand and crawled back to crouch over the ashes of the fire; nor did she open her lips again that night, nor take any part or lot in what followed.
"Call the priest, old man," said Prosper, "for the night is spending, and to-morrow we should be up before the sun."
The old thief went to a little door and opened it, whispering,
"Come, father;" and there came out Brother Bonaccord of Lucca, very solemn, vested in a frayed vestment.
"Young sir," he said, wagging a portentous finger, "you are of the simple folk our good Father Francis loved. No harm should come of this. And I pray our Lady that I never may play a worse trick on a maid than this which I shall play now."
"We have no ring," said Prosper to all this prelude.
"Content you, my master," replied Matt-o"-the-Moor; "here is what you need."
And he gave him a silver ring made of three thin wires curiously knotted in an endless plait.
"The ring will serve the purpose," Prosper said. "Now, brother, at your disposition."
Brother Bonaccord had no book, but seemed none the worse for that. He took the ring, blessed it, gave it to Prosper, and saw that he put it in its proper place; he said all the words, blessed the kneeling couple, and gave them a brisk little homily, which I spare the reader.
There they were wedded.
Matt-o"-the-Moor at the end of the ceremony gave Prosper a nudge in the ribs. He pointed to a heap of leaves and litter.
"The marriage-bed," he said waggishly, and blew out the light.
Isoult lay down on the bed; Prosper took off his body-armour and lay beside her, and his naked sword lay between them.
CHAPTER VII
GALORS ABJURES
Dom Galors knew a woman in East Morgraunt whose name was Maulfry. She lived in Tortsentier, a lonely tower hidden deep in the woods, and had an unwholesome reputation. She was held to be a courtesan. Many gentlemen adventurous in the forest, it was said, had found dishonourable ease and shameful death at her hands. She would make them great cheer at first with hunting parties, dancing in the gra.s.s- rides, and love everywhere: so much had been seen, the rest was surmise. It was supposed that, being tired, or changing for caprice, she had them drugged, rifled them at leisure, slew them one way or another, and set her nets for the next newcomer. This, I say, was surmise, and so it remained. Tortsentier was hard to come at, Morgraunt wide, death as easy as lying. Men in it had other uses for their eyes than to spy at their neighbours, and found their weapons too often needed in their own quarrels to spare them for others. To see a man once did not set you looking for him to come again. You might wander for a month in Morgraunt before you got out. True, the odds were against your doing either; but whose business was that?
Galors probably knew the truth of it, for he was very often at Tortsentier. He knew, for instance, of Maulfry"s taste for armour. The place was full of it, and had a frieze of shields, which Maulfry herself polished every day, as brave with blazonry as on the day they first went out before their masters. Maulfry was very fond of heraldry. It was a great delight of hers to go through her collection with such a man as Galors, who thoroughly understood the science, conning over the quarterings, the legends, the badges and differences, and capping each with its appropriate story, its little touch of romance, its personal reference to each owner in turn. There was no harm in all this, and for Galors" part he would be able to testify that there was no luxurious company there when he came, and no dark hints of violence, treachery, or mischief for the most suspicious eye to catch at. Tortsentier was not so far from the Abbey liberties that one might not fetch at it in a six hours" ride, provided one knew the road. Galors was a great rider and knew the road by heart. He was a frequent visitor of Maulfry"s, therefore, and would have seen what there was to see. If the cavillers had known that it would have quieted many a whisper over the fire. They might have been told, further, that Maulfry and he were very old friends, and from a time long before his entry into religion at Holy Thorn. If there had been love between them, it had left no scar. Love with Galors was a pastime: he might make a woman his mistress, but he could never allow her to be his master. And whatever there had been in this sort, any love now left in Maulfry for the monk was largely tempered with respect. They were excellent friends.
It was to Tortsentier and to Maulfry that Dom Galors rode through the rain when he had finished biting his nails in the quarry. Very late that night he knocked at her door. Maulfry, who slept by day, opened at once, and when she saw who it was made him very welcome. She sent her page up with dry clothes, heaped logs on the fire, and set a table against his return, with venison, and white bread, and sweet wine.
Galors, who was ravenous by now, needed no pressing: he sat down and ate without speaking, nor did she urge him for a message or for news, but kept her place by the fire, smiling into it until he had done. She was a tall, dark woman, very handsome and finely shaped, having the neck, arms, and bosom of Juno, or of that lady whom Nicholas the Pisan sculptor fashioned on her model to be Queen of Heaven and Earth. And Maulfry suffered no one to be in doubt as to the abundance and glory of her treasure.
When Galors was well fed she beckoned him with a nod to his place on the settle. He came and sat by the side of her, blinking into the fire for some minutes without a word.
"Well, friend," said Maulfry at last, "and what do you want with your servant at such an hour? For though I am not unused to have guests, it is seldom that you are of the party in these days."
Galors, who never made prefaces, told her everything, except the real rank and condition of Isoult. As to that, he said that the lady in question was undoubtedly an heiress, as she was undeniably a beauty, but he was careful to make it plain that her inheritance, and not her person, tempted him. This I believe to have been the truth by now. He then related what had pa.s.sed in the quarry, and what he intended to do next. He added--
"Whether I succeed or not--and as to that much depends upon you--I am resolved to abjure my frock and my vows, and to aim henceforward for a temporal crown."
"I think the frock is all that need concern you," said Maulfry.