Part 13
There flashed on Martin Valliant a swift new consciousness of her as a woman, a woman who trusted him as a bird flies to its mate. A great white light had blazed for him, lighting such an awe of her that the very thought of touching her had seemed sacrilege. And now a miraculous thing had happened. Her arms had held him; she was not afraid; and in the soft darkness her eyes sought his. His awe of her melted to a deep and exultant tenderness. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, that he was ready to die for her, that she was the most wonderful and adorable thing in the whole world.
He touched her hand.
“Have no fear,” he said, “for no harm shall come to you.”
“Fear! I have no fear of you.”
“God be thanked. We have been close to the edge of hell, Mellis, you and I, to-day.”
He heard her draw her breath as though in pain.
“Let me forget it—let me forget it.”
The mere lay at their feet, black and still and welcoming. There was no pursuit as yet, though Fulk de Lisle was turning his eyes and his thoughts to Mellis and the shelter of leaves.
“Blessed water!”
She stepped confidently into the mere, and went forward till the water rose above her waist.
“S-sh! How sweet and cold it is! Martin—my cloak!”
She had folded it over her bosom and shoulders.
“There is no saving it,” and she laughed softly; “the thing must get soaked.”
“Give it to me. I can carry it above my head.”
“No, no; something else must serve. Mother of Heaven—they are after us—at last!”
She let the cloak drop, and left it floating as she dipped to the water and struck out for the island. Martin caught it up and followed her, blessing the darkness for its friendliness. He glanced over his shoulder as he swam, and saw a dozen red lights tossing toward them over the grassland. Fulk de Lisle had sent a man to the shelter of leaves, and its emptiness had been discovered.
Mellis was swimming so swiftly that he had to strike out hard to overtake her. Her arm came out and cut the water like a silver sickle, each stroke striking a little splash of foam. Martin drew to her, and they swam side by side.
“We shall beat them.”
“Please God. The torches will not show the farther bank.”
“How you can swim!”
“I always loved this side stroke. I could beat my brother in a race.”
Her whiteness played near him under the black swirl of the water.
“This way. The bank is low by the orchard; we can land there. That man! I was forgetting him.”
“Swartz?”
“Yes.”
Her sudden, sensitive trepidation thrilled him. He found that he had forgotten Swartz.
“Swartz is in the woods over yonder. He swam across with me. It was his horn that you heard. We owe—this—to him.”
“What! He is on our side now?”
“Yes.”
“That is noble.”
They reached the shallows just as Fulk de Lisle’s torches came flaring to the landward bank. The men could see nothing but ripples; the light did not carry to the island. One of the fellows hurled his torch out into the darkness at a venture. It kissed the water, threw out a momentary radiance, and went out.
Martin was up the bank, and reaching for Mellis’s hands. They heard Fulk de Lisle cursing.
“Martin, we have fooled them.”
She came out to him like a child, dim, dripping, exultant. Her hands held his without shame.
“Mellis.”
He threw the wet cloak over her, but she cast it off.
“Not that clammy thing. The night is warm, and I am all aglow.”
She put up her hands, and in a second her hair came clouding down.
“What now? Dear man, they will be mad. You must get your harness and stand ready.”
Martin was moving away when new sounds came out of the darkness of the night. A horn blared in the woods; a man screamed in agony; there was the noise of men running, and shouting as they ran.
Martin turned and looked across the water.
“Listen!”
Mellis was at his side.
“Did you hear that cry? ‘Richmond! Richmond!’ It is John Falconer.”
A man in armor, whose horse was half unmanageable, blundered out into the light of the fires. It was John Rich. He waved his sword, and shouted to Fulk de Lisle,
“To us! To us! We are attacked.”
Fulk de Lisle’s torches went tossing up the hill; but before he and his men reached the beech wood, the fight came tumbling out like a drove of swine. John Rich was down with an arrow through his throat, and his horse went charging straight at the torches. Fulk de Lisle caught the beast by the bridle, swung himself into the saddle, and snatched a spear from one of his men.
“Troy! Troy! Hold together, lads!”
But that rough and tumble on the edge of the wood was no fitting stage for flamboyant feats of arms. Falconer’s men poured out in a black swarm. The fighting was at close quarters, a wild swirl of jerking and grotesque figures, a tangle of men and horses, torches, flying embers, oaths and blows. The fires were kicked out, smothered by the bodies of men who fell on them, and rolled away—cursing. Torches were flung, tossed back again, trampled under foot. There was no knightliness in the game. It was a battle of wild beasts who were in a mad haste to kill. My Lord of Troy’s men had raped and bullied the Forest, and the Forest was taking its vengeance.
Mellis’s head was close to Martin’s shoulder, and his arm had slipped about her body. Neither of them spoke. The work up yonder was too grim, too breathless. The fires were scattered; a few torches flared in the grass; the dance of death became a thing of darkness.
Then a horse went galloping down past the mere, a dim, hurrying shape.
“Who was that?”
Martin strained his eyes. A faint radiance was stealing over the grassland, the light of the rising moon. The horse became a gray ghost carrying a man who rode for safety.
“Who should it be?”
“Fulk de Lisle.”
“That devil!”
The bloody game under the black shadows of the beeches seemed to be losing its fury. Men were calling to each other in the darkness; there was a kind of whimpering murmur, a vague scattering of voices. Once a man shrieked aloud, and Martin felt Mellis shiver.
“It is over. Look, you can see men running. One, two, and another—over there, in the open.”
“Is it with us, or against us?”
“Troy is beaten. Hear them shouting—our people, ‘Richmond! Richmond!’”
“What a night, comrade, what a night!”
_Chapter XXXI_
A broad silver radiance spread above the black tops of the beech trees. It was the moon rising behind the wood, throwing long slants of light across the grasslands, and making a glimmer of mystery everywhere. The towering shadow of the beech wood still lay upon the island and the mere, leaving them all black in a world of tremulous white light.
Mellis drew aside suddenly, her arms over her bosom, her eyes looking toward the tops of the beech trees.
“Martin!”
A something in her voice kept him from looking at her.
“I must become a man. This adventure has shipwrecked me.”
He was most desperately and dearly perplexed.
“Is there no cloth anywhere?”
She could not help laughing at his immense seriousness.
“Have you forgotten? Ah!”
The moon seemed to glide suddenly above the beech wood, huge, and yellow, and stealthy. The shadows slipped away from the island; the long grass glimmered like silver wire; the mere shone like a shield.
Mellis threw herself in the long grass.
“Have you forgotten all our gear in that cellar? If you love me, man—hasten.”
“What shall I bring?”
“A suit of light armor, and a wadded coat—and—and—things to go under it.”
He blundered off, calling himself the most imbecile fool that ever was; but before he had got across the orchard he heard Falconer hailing him.
“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant!”
Martin had other matters to attend to. John Falconer could wait. But he gave him an answering shout,
“Is that Master Falconer?”
“Aye.”
“All’s well.”
“Let down the bridge, man.”
“All in good season.”
Martin ran to the tower, groped for the ring of the great stone, found it, and then remembered that he would need a light. The tinder-box and the candles were in Mellis’s room. He was about to go for them when he heard a sound of soft footsteps, and some one glided up the stairs.
“Martin!”
“I need a light.”
“The tinder-box is above. Come to me in a moment.”
He lifted the stone out, rolled it aside, and waited. He could hear the ring of the flint against the steel, and then her voice calling to him softly,
“Here. It is lighted.”
Martin climbed the stairs and found a candle burning outside her door. He picked it up, holding it in one big hand and shading it as though that flame was one of the most precious things in the world. The light played upon his solemn face, and mirrored itself in his grave, intent eyes. He held his breath all the way down the stairs; the flame was a flickering soul, and he was guarding it.
So Martin lowered himself into the vault, and setting that precious candle on a stone bracket let into the wall, he made a great disorder among the stuff that was stored there. The idea of thoroughness obsessed him, of not letting Mellis lack for anything that might be of use in such a crisis. He made three journeys to the landing outside her chamber door, and the merchandise that was piled there testified to his sincerity. It included a suit of light mail; a woolen doublet and hose to be worn beneath it; a belt, sword and dagger; leather shoes; an odd piece of green cloth that bows had been wrapped in; some strips of leather; a green and blue banner rolled in a canvas bag. He left the candle burning there, and went down to lower the bridge for Falconer and his men.
John Falconer had torches with him, and the causeway was a glare of light. Martin lowered the bridge and swung the gate open; Falconer came across.
He stared at Martin Valliant.
“Hallo! This is a queer way to go harnessed.”
“There is much to be told.”
“Is the child safe?”
“She is in her chamber. Her men were ambushed this morning, and she was taken.”
Falconer nodded understandingly.
“You have been in the water, my friend?”
“Swartz and I swam across to rescue her.”
“Swartz? Peter Swartz?”
“He is with us now. He went into the woods to raise an alarm, while I saved Mellis. Warn your men that he is a friend.”
Martin and John Falconer passed on into the courtyard, and the Forest followed them with a tossing of torches, and much grim jubilation. The men were as diverse and rustic as their weapons. Oak clubs, scythe blades on poles, axes, spits, wooden mallets, all came dancing into the yard of Woodmere. Many of the men had bows on their backs and arrows stuck in their belts. Not a few were wounded. There were bloody faces, arms that hung limp, stockings soaked all red. But the crowd was hot, triumphant, and fiercely merry; they had tasted blood; many vile things had been avenged.
“Look to your wounds, lads. Lay a fire, some of you. We have come far, and no man is grudged his supper.”
Several of the Forest gentry gathered around Falconer, and looked curiously at Martin Valliant.
“Is this the fellow?”
“He has some limbs on him.”
“But a runaway priest, gentles, is black company. What say you?”
Falconer answered them gruffly:
“And what are we but traitors, so long as Crookback wears the crown! Men who can fight are the blood and muscle of such a venture as ours. Use your wits, gentlemen. We are not women to tilt our noses and screw up our mouths.”
Martin had drawn aside. He felt a stranger and almost an outcast under the eyes of these mesne lords who stared at him and did not lower their voices. The mysterious and solitary nights and days had vanished. He saw Mellis surrounded by a crowd of figures, knights, yeomen, foresters. They seemed to thrust him back into the darkness; he had served his purpose and no one held out a hand.
He gathered up his harness from the spot where he had left it by the gate that led into the garden, and made his way into the orchard. The life had gone out of him for the moment; this secret and love-enchanted island had been seized by a hundred rough fellows who shouted and crowded in the courtyard. He did not belong to them; he was a thing to be eyed with distrust.
The moonlight flooded the orchard, and Martin sat down under an apple tree and began to arm himself, but there was no pride of purpose in his hands. Bitter thoughts crowded into his heart, and he sank in a slough of self-abasement. He had been in heaven, and suddenly he found himself in hell. What was he but an outcast, a murderer, a thing that was neither priest nor man? And he had believed for one short hour that Mellis loved him. What madness! What could he be to her, or she to him? He had mistaken a child’s gratitude for the love of the woman. The danger was past, for she was in the midst of friends; he had played his part, and the dream was ended.
Into the melancholy circle of his thoughts drifted a sound of some one moving through the orchard grass. Martin was in the shadow of the tree, and the moonlight showed him a primeval figure scouting furtively toward the house. It was Swartz, naked, and very cold.
Martin hailed him, and the man of the horn joined him under the tree.
“God be blessed; all the devils in hell seem loose to-night! A dance I have had of it, everyone’s enemy and no man’s friend. These Forest worthies have been hunting me like a pig. I had to take to the water and sit with my chin in it under the bank.”
He was shivering.
“My kingdom for a bit of lamb’s wool, brother.”
“Where did you leave your clothes, man?”
“On my lady’s table in the garden, God forgive me! But if those wild devils get a sight of such a thing as I am—I shall have a scythe blade between my ribs.”
Martin was in too grim and sad a mood to see the ludicrous in Peter Swartz. He rose, went into the garden, and returned with the soldier’s clothes.
“Corn in Egypt!”
Swartz tumbled into them, his teeth chattering.
“Hallo! those fellows are lighting a fire; they must be taught to love Peter Swartz. And I would not quarrel with some wine and a bite of supper.”
Martin’s melancholy was not a thing that could be overlooked. Swartz discovered it, and ceased his prattling.
“Why, man, things did not go amiss?”
“No. She is safe.”
Swartz was trying to remedy the disastrous haste of his undressing.
“May the curse of the prophet fall on these tags and tatters! What ails you, man?”
“Nothing.”
“Then let it be nothing.”
He stared hard at Martin, puzzled by his strange sullenness, but too shrewd to vex it further.
“Old Falconer came in finely—like a pot boiling over. And Messire Fulk de Lisle has gone galloping home to Troy; he passed within five yards of me. Hallo—cheering! They are in great heart, yonder.”
Those rough men in the ruined court of Woodmere had seen a vision, for Mellis had come out to them, clad in bright harness, her dark hair pouring over it, a naked sword in her hands. Behind her walked John Falconer, carrying a green and blue banner fastened to the throat of a lance. The men crowded from the fire, and from every corner of the courtyard. And she stood and spoke to them in a clear, calm voice:
“Good gentlemen and comrades all, I thank you for coming to me. We have begun bravely. God speed King Harry!”
They cheered her.
“Shout, lads, for our captain.”
“Mistress Mellis—Mistress Mellis!”
“Let Roger Bland try to take ye from us.”
“Aye, and there be more of us a-comin’.”
Mellis’s eyes were restless, searching for something that she could not see. She turned and spoke to John Falconer.
“Martin Valliant——”
Falconer shook his head. She grew imperious.
“Call him. He must be here.”
“The man may have some shame, Mellis.”
“Shame!”
She flushed with sensitive wrath.
“Shame! God forgive you. Ah! I see how things have sped!”
Falconer’s eyes shirked meeting hers.
“There may be draughts that men are loth to swallow,” he said dourly; “I did not make the world or men’s hearts.”
She stood a moment, with dark, thinking eyes and a proud, hurt face.
“I am young—still. Oh, these jealous tangles that men weave! Must we be little and thankless for the sake of fools?”
Mellis made her way through the crowd of mesne lords and gentlemen, looking neither to the right hand nor the left. They stood back for her, for she was proud, more pure in her strength than they. The moon hung clear and white and splendid in the sky, shining on her face and the plated steel half hidden by her hair.
“So they would think him an outcast,” she said to herself. “My scorn is theirs for the asking.”
Some instinct led her through the garden into the orchard, where the long grass was all patterned with the black shadows of the trees. She stood in the moonlight, and called softly:
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
Old Swartz crept away, a dog grown mute, and wise in his silence. Martin’s face was all twisted with a spasm of pain, for he was fey that night with a mysterious forefeeling of great sorrow and despair.
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
She came down through the orchard, and Martin rose to his feet. The moonlight through the trees shone on his harness, and betrayed him to her. He stood absolutely still, waiting for her to draw near.
“Martin!”
Her voice had a soft, wounded plaintiveness.
“Why are you hiding here?”
His face was all somber in the shadows.
“I had a wish to be alone.”
He could not bring himself to look at her, because of the new bitterness in his heart, and because her voice was so soft and luring.
“What has happened to you, Martin?”
She went close, looking in his face.
“Tell me. Have I no right to know?”
He answered her with strange gentleness, but his eyes would not meet hers.
“Perhaps I have seen a vision, a glimpse of the world as it is. Some things are too beautiful to endure, for other men break them in pieces.”
She drew her breath deeply.
“Ah! Have these rough fools touched your pride? They can have my scorn for the asking. And are you nothing to me, or I to you? Have we not gone through the deeps together, and have you not carried my life in your hands? Man, what do these rough squires matter? Look into my eyes and see if there is shame in them.”
He bowed his head.
“Mellis—what am I but an outcast?”
“Then I am an outcast also. But for me you would be chanting your Masses. And you have been very noble and good to me. Oh, Martin, Martin! this wounds my heart.”
He gave a sudden cry, and fell on his knees before her.
“God help me, but there is nothing else in the world but you. I cannot bear that for my sake you should even suffer pain.”
She bent over him, her hands hovering close to his face.
“Pain! What pain is there? And were it real—should I not bear it?”
“God forbid! Child, I have a kind of dark forefeeling to-night. Yesterday was all sunlight, there was no fear or sorrow in my heart. I was Martin Valliant, a man who was ready to die for you. What has happened? I feel a menace, a threat, a shadow drifting toward us; we are not alone; other voices strike in on ours. This island is not the world; here—I could serve you; but beyond us there are shadows, the shadows of other men—other women; they whisper together against me.”
A great light transfigured her face. She was on her knees, her hands on his shoulders, her eyes wonderful to behold.
“Martin, what has come to us? Oh, my dear, must I speak out?”
He looked at her, awed, trembling, entranced.
“Mellis, Mellis!”
“Is not my fate yours—and yours mine? What is pain to you is pain to me. If there is a world of shadows before us, I go—where my man goes.”
He uttered a deep cry.
“Can I touch you? Is it possible? Will you not melt into the air? Oh, my God! but I dare hardly look at you.”
“Martin, I am a soul in a body. What am I but a woman? Guard me—hold me!”
His arms went around her, but they were all tremulous with awe. Her face was close to his, a white, yearning face, with parted lips and half-closed eyes.
“Mellis—oh, my heart!”
She lay in his arms and smiled at him as he kissed her.
_Chapter XXXII_
Fulk de Lisle rode all that night, a madman, inflamed, balked of the satisfaction of a violent desire. He had nothing but the stars and the moon to guide him; the Forest was no more than a pathless waste; he pushed northwards, raging like a torch burning in the wind. At dawn his horse died under him, driven by the spurs till its heart failed on the brow of a steep hill. Fulk de Lisle kicked the beast’s body, and looked with red eyes at a gray and silent world.
But the luck was with him—the luck of the adventurer and the drunkard. Dim and sullen, Troy Castle stood less than two miles away on its great hill; the rising sun struck slantwise upon it, so that it looked like a huge turreted ship sailing above a sea of green.
Fulk de Lisle came on his own feet to Troy Castle. There was a sense of stir about the place although the day was still so young. A couple of dusty and sweat-streaked horses were waiting outside the gate-house; grooms and servants were gossiping, and on the battlements soldiers were unlashing the canvas covers of my lord’s cannon.
Some one on the walls recognized Fulk de Lisle when he was a quarter of a mile from the dry fosse; there was some shouting and running to and fro; a man vaulted on to the back of one of the tired horses and went cantering down the road. He was a squire in Roger Bland’s service, a youngster with red hair and an impudent mouth.
“Good morning to you, sir. Why this humility?”
Fulk de Lisle took him by the leg and pitched him out of the saddle.
“Thanks. I will ride the last furlong, and help you to mend your manners.”
Red Head scrambled up and dusted his clothes. Fulk de Lisle was too soaring a bird for him to fly at, but his impudence refused to be chastened.
“I trust your news is better than your face, sir. Our dear lord has the ague this morning.”
Fulk de Lisle rode on, without troubling to turn the lad’s wit.
He clattered over the bridge and into the main court, and the men who saw him ride in stared at his savage face.
“Pride has had a fall,” said some one.
“Or been balked of a woman.”
Fulk de Lisle called a page who was loitering on the steps of the chapel.
“Have you nothing but eyes, you brat? Where is my lord?”
“In his closet, sir.”
“Run and tell him that I am in the castle.”
Roger Bland already had the news, and his groom of the chamber came out with a haggard face.
“My lord would see you—instantly.”
“Damnation—may not a man eat?”
The Lord of Troy sat in his great padded chair with a writing-board on his knees, and quills and an inkhorn on the table at his side. He looked white about the gills, with that whiteness that tells of a faltering heart; his hand had lost its steady, clerkly niceness, and there were blots upon the paper. He had not been barbered, and still wore a gorgeous crimson bed-gown that made his thin face look all the yellower.
“What’s this—what’s this, man? Shut that door, Bennington. Not more bad news?”
He was petulant to the point of childishness. Fulk de Lisle’s red-brown eyes looked at him with veiled and subtle scorn.
“I could not make it worse, my lord. The Forest is up.”
“The Forest—in arms against us! Man—you are dreaming!”
“I am very wide awake, sir. We were ambushed last night as we lay outside Woodmere. They must have been a hundred to our thirty. We made a fight of it; that is all that can be said.”
Roger Bland’s face twitched.
“How many men came back with you?”
“None, my lord.”
There was a short silence. My Lord of Troy’s fingers were playing with his quill. He looked old and querulous.
“These swine! I thought we had tamed them. There is a deeper cunning in all this. I have had secret news this very morning. Richmond is on the sea. By now he may have landed.”
Fulk de Lisle took the news as a soldier of fortune takes his pay.
“The King will not grudge him a battle, my lord.”
“Bombast is so easy. But to say who are friends and who are enemies! Supposing I chose to have you hanged, sir?”
“A most unreasonable fancy, my lord.”
“And why?”