CHAPTER IX.
HOW STRANGE THINGS BEFELL IN MINSTEAD WOOD.
The path which the young clerk had now to follow lay through a
magnificent forest of the very heaviest timber, where the giant
bowls of oak and of beech formed long aisles in every direction,
shooting up their huge branches to build the majestic arches of
Nature's own cathedral. Beneath lay a broad carpet of the
softest and greenest moss, flecked over with fallen leaves, but
yielding pleasantly to the foot of the traveller. The track
which guided him was one so seldom used that in places it lost
itself entirely among the grass, to reappear as a reddish rut
between the distant tree trunks. It was very still here in the
heart of the woodlands. The gentle rustle of the branches and
the distant cooing of pigeons were the only sounds which broke in
upon the silence, save that once Alleyne heard afar off a merry
call upon a hunting bugle and the shrill yapping of the hounds.
It was not without some emotion that he looked upon the scene
around him, for, in spite of his secluded life, he knew enough of
the ancient greatness of his own family to be aware that the time
had been when they had held undisputed and paramount sway over
all that tract of country. His father could trace his pure Saxon
lineage back to that Godfrey Malf who had held the manors of
Bisterne and of Minstead at the time when the Norman first set
mailed foot upon English soil. The afforestation of the
district, however, and its conversion into a royal demesne had
clipped off a large section of his estate, while other parts had
been confiscated as a punishment for his supposed complicity in
an abortive Saxon rising. The fate of the ancestor had been
typical of that of his descendants. During three hundred years
their domains had gradually contracted, sometimes through royal
or feudal encroachment, and sometimes through such gifts to the
Church as that with which Alleyne's father had opened the doors
of Beaulieu Abbey to his younger son. The importance of the
family had thus dwindled, but they still retained the old Saxon
manor-house, with a couple of farms and a grove large enough to
afford pannage to a hundred pigs--"sylva de centum porcis," as
the old family parchments describe it. Above all, the owner of
the soil could still hold his head high as the veritable Socman
of Minstead--that is, as holding the land in free socage, with
no feudal superior, and answerable to no man lower than the king.
Knowing this, Alleyne felt some little glow of worldly pride as
he looked for the first time upon the land with which so many
generations of his ancestors had been associated. He pushed on
the quicker, twirling his staff merrily, and looking out at every
turn of the path for some sign of the old Saxon residence. He
was suddenly arrested, however, by the appearance of a wild-looking
fellow armed with a club, who sprang out from behind a tree and
barred his passage. He was a rough, powerful peasant, with cap
and tunic of untanned sheepskin, leather breeches, and
galligaskins round legs and feet.
"Stand!" he shouted, raising his heavy cudgel to enforce the
order. "Who are you who walk so freely through the wood?
Whither would you go, and what is your errand?"
"Why should I answer your questions, my friend?" said Alleyne,
standing on his guard.
"Because your tongue may save your pate. But where have I looked
upon your face before?"
"No longer ago than last night at the `Pied Merlin,'" the clerk
answered, recognizing the escaped serf who had been so outspoken
as to his wrongs.
"By the Virgin! yes. You were the little clerk who sat so mum in
the corner, and then cried fy on the gleeman. What hast in the
scrip?"
"Naught of any price."
"How can I tell that, clerk? Let me see."
"Not I."
"Fool! I could pull you limb from limb like a pullet. What
would you have? Hast forgot that we are alone far from all men?
How can your clerkship help you? Wouldst lose scrip and life
too?"
"I will part with neither without fight."
"A fight, quotha? A fight betwixt spurred cock and new hatched
chicken! Thy fighting days may soon be over."
"Hadst asked me in the name of charity I would have given
freely," cried Alleyne. "As it stands, not one farthing shall
you have with my free will, and when I see my brother, the
Socman of Minstead, he will raise hue and cry from vill to vill,
from hundred to hundred, until you are taken as a common robber
and a scourge to the country."
The outlaw sank his club. "The Socman's brother!" he gasped.
"Now, by the keys of Peter! I had rather that hand withered and
tongue was palsied ere I had struck or miscalled you. If you are
the Socman's brother you are one of the right side, I warrant,
for all your clerkly dress."
"His brother I am," said Alleyne. "But if I were not, is that
reason why you should molest me on the king's ground?"
"I give not the pip of an apple for king or for noble," cried the
serf passionately. "Ill have I had from them, and ill I shall
repay them. I am a good friend to my friends, and, by the
Virgin! an evil foeman to my foes."
"And therefore the worst of foemen to thyself," said Alleyne.
"But I pray you, since you seem to know him, to point out to me
the shortest path to my brother's house."
The serf was about to reply, when the clear ringing call of a
bugle burst from the wood close behind them, and Alleyne caught
sight for an instant of the dun side and white breast of a lordly
stag glancing swiftly betwixt the distant tree trunks. A minute
later came the shaggy deer-hounds, a dozen or fourteen of them,
running on a hot scent, with nose to earth and tail in air. As
they streamed past the silent forest around broke suddenly into
loud life, with galloping of hoofs, crackling of brushwood, and
the short, sharp cries of the hunters. Close behind the pack
rode a fourrier and a yeoman-pricker, whooping on the laggards
and encouraging the leaders, in the shrill half-French jargon
which was the language of venery and woodcraft. Alleyne was
still gazing after them, listening to the loud "Hyke-a-Bayard!
Hyke-a-Pomers! Hyke-a-Lebryt!" with which they called upon their
favorite hounds, when a group of horsemen crashed out through the
underwood at the very spot where the serf and he were standing.
The one who led was a man between fifty and sixty years of age,
war-worn and weather-beaten, with a broad, thoughtful forehead
and eyes which shone brightly from under his fierce and overhung
brows. His beard, streaked thickly with gray, bristled forward
from his chin, and spoke of a passionate nature, while the long,
finely cut face and firm mouth marked the leader of men. His
figure was erect and soldierly, and he rode his horse with the
careless grace of a man whose life had been spent in the saddle.
In common garb, his masterful face and flashing eye would have
marked him as one who was born to rule; but now, with his silken
tunic powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his velvet mantle lined
with the royal minever, and the lions of England stamped in
silver upon his harness, none could fail to recognize the noble
Edward, most warlike and powerful of all the long line of
fighting monarchs who had ruled the Anglo-Norman race. Alleyne
doffed hat and bowed head at the sight of him, but the serf
folded his hands and leaned them upon his cudgel, looking with
little love at the knot of nobles and knights-in-waiting who rode
behind the king.
"Ha!" cried Edward, reining up for an instant his powerful black
steed. "Le cerf est passe? Non? Ici, Brocas; tu parles Anglais."
"The deer, clowns?" said a hard-visaged, swarthy-faced man, who
rode at the king's elbow. "If ye have headed it back it is as
much as your ears are worth."
"It passed by the blighted beech there," said Alleyne, pointing,
"and the hounds were hard at its heels."
"It is well," cried Edward, still speaking in French: for, though
he could understand English, he had never learned to express
himself in so barbarous and unpolished a tongue. "By my faith,
sirs," he continued, half turning in his saddle to address his
escort, "unless my woodcraft is sadly at fault, it is a stag of
six tines and the finest that we have roused this journey. A
golden St. Hubert to the man who is the first to sound the mort."
He shook his bridle as he spoke, and thundered away, his knights
lying low upon their horses and galloping as hard as whip and
spur would drive them, in the hope of winning the king's prize.
Away they drove down the long green glade--bay horses, black and
gray, riders clad in every shade of velvet, fur, or silk, with
glint of brazen horn and flash of knife and spear. One only
lingered, the black-browed Baron Brocas, who, making a gambade
which brought him within arm-sweep of the serf, slashed him
across the face with his riding-whip. "Doff, dog, doff," he
hissed, "when a monarch deigns to lower his eyes to such as
you!"--then spurred through the underwood and was gone, with a
gleam of steel shoes and flutter of dead leaves.
The villein took the cruel blow without wince or cry, as one to
whom stripes are a birthright and an inheritance. His eyes
flashed, however, and he shook his bony hand with a fierce wild
gesture after the retreating figure.
"Black hound of Gascony," he muttered, "evil the day that you and
those like you set foot in free England! I know thy kennel of
Rochecourt. The night will come when I may do to thee and thine
what you and your class have wrought upon mine and me. May God
smite me if I fail to smite thee, thou French robber, with thy
wife and thy child and all that is under thy castle roof!"
"Forbear!" cried Alleyne. "Mix not God's name with these
unhallowed threats! And yet it was a coward's blow, and one to
stir the blood and loose the tongue of the most peaceful. Let me
find some soothing simples and lay them on the weal to draw the
sting,"
"Nay, there is but one thing that can draw the sting, and that
the future may bring to me. But, clerk, if you would see your
brother you must on, for there is a meeting to-day, and his merry
men will await him ere the shadows turn from west to east. I
pray you not to hold him back, for it would be an evil thing if
all the stout lads were there and the leader a-missing. I would
come with you, but sooth to say I am stationed here and may not
move. The path over yonder, betwixt the oak and the thorn,
should bring you out into his nether field."
Alleyne lost no time in following the directions of the wild,
masterless man, whom he left among the trees where he had found
him. His heart was the heavier for the encounter, not only
because all bitterness and wrath were abhorrent to his gentle
nature, but also because it disturbed him to hear his brother
spoken of as though he were a chief of outlaws or the leader of a
party against the state. Indeed, of all the things which he had
seen yet in the world to surprise him there was none more strange
than the hate which class appeared to bear to class. The talk of
laborer, woodman and villein in the inn had all pointed to the
wide-spread mutiny, and now his brother's name was spoken as
though he were the very centre of the universal discontent. In
good truth, the commons throughout the length and breadth of the
land were heart-weary of this fine game of chivalry which had
been played so long at their expense. So long as knight and
baron were a strength and a guard to the kingdom they might be
endured, but now, when all men knew that the great battles in
France had been won by English yeomen and Welsh stabbers, warlike
fame, the only fame to which his class had ever aspired, appeared
to have deserted the plate-clad horsemen. The sports of the
lists had done much in days gone by to impress the minds of the
people, but the plumed and unwieldy champion was no longer an
object either of fear or of reverence to men whose fathers and
brothers had shot into the press at Crecy or Poitiers, and seen
the proudest chivalry in the world unable to make head against
the weapons of disciplined peasants. Power had changed hands.
The protector had become the protected, and the whole fabric of
the feudal system was tottering to a fall. Hence the fierce
mutterings of the lower classes and the constant discontent,
breaking out into local tumult and outrage, and culminating some
years later in the great rising of Tyler. What Alleyne saw and
wondered at in Hampshire would have appealed equally to the
traveller in any other English county from the Channel to the
marches of Scotland,
He was following the track, his misgivings increasing with every
step which took him nearer to that home which he had never seen,
when of a sudden the trees began to thin and the sward to spread
out onto a broad, green lawn, where five cows lay in the sunshine
and droves of black swine wandered unchecked. A brown forest
stream swirled down the centre of this clearing, with a rude
bridge flung across it, and on the other side was a second field
sloping up to a long, low-lying wooden house, with thatched roof
and open squares for windows. Alleyne gazed across at it with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes--for this, he knew, must be the
home of his fathers. A wreath of blue smoke floated up through a
hole in the thatch, and was the only sign of life in the place,
save a great black hound which lay sleeping chained to the
door-post. In the yellow shimmer of the autumn sunshine it lay
as peacefully and as still as he had oft pictured it to himself
in his dreams.
He was roused, however, from his pleasant reverie by the sound of
voices, and two people emerged from the forest some little way to
his right and moved across the field in the direction of the
bridge. The one was a man with yellow flowing beard and very
long hair of the same tint drooping over his shoulders; his dress
of good Norwich cloth and his assured bearing marked him as a man
of position, while the sombre hue of his clothes and the absence
of all ornament contrasted with the flash and glitter which had
marked the king's retinue. By his side walked a woman, tall and
slight and dark, with lithe, graceful figure and clear-cut,
composed features. Her jet-black hair was gathered back under a
light pink coif, her head poised proudly upon her neck, and her
step long and springy, like that of some wild, tireless woodland
creature. She held her left hand in front of her, covered with a
red velvet glove, and on the wrist a little brown falcon, very
fluffy and bedraggled, which she smoothed and fondled as she
walked. As she came out into the sunshine, Alleyne noticed that
her light gown, slashed with pink, was all stained with earth and
with moss upon one side from shoulder to hem. He stood in the
shadow of an oak staring at her with parted lips, for this woman
seemed to him to be the most beautiful and graceful creature that
mind could conceive of. Such had he imagined the angels, and
such he had tried to paint them in the Beaulieu missals; but here
there was something human, were it only in the battered hawk and
discolored dress, which sent a tingle and thrill through his
nerves such as no dream of radiant and stainless spirit had ever
yet been able to conjure up. Good, quiet, uncomplaining mother
Nature, long slighted and miscalled, still bide, her time and
draws to her bosom the most errant of her children.
The two walked swiftly across the meadow to the narrow bridge, he
in front and she a pace or two behind. There they paused, and
stood for a few minutes face to face talking earnestly. Alleyne
had read and had heard of love and of lovers. Such were these,
doubtless--this golden-bearded man and the fair damsel with the
cold, proud face. Why else should they wander together in the
woods, or be so lost in talk by rustic streams? And yet as he
watched, uncertain whether to advance from the cover or to choose
some other path to the house, he soon came to doubt the truth of
this first conjecture. The man stood, tall and square, blocking
the entrance to the bridge, and throwing out his hands as he
spoke in a wild eager fashion, while the deep tones of his stormy
voice rose at times into accents of menace and of anger. She
stood fearlessly in front of him, still stroking her bird; but
twice she threw a swift questioning glance over her shoulder, as
one who is in search of aid. So moved was the young clerk by
these mute appeals, that he came forth from the trees and crossed
the meadow, uncertain what to do, and yet loth to hold back from
one who might need his aid. So intent were they upon each other
that neither took note of his approach; until, when he was close
upon them, the man threw his arm roughly round the damsel's waist
and drew her towards him, she straining her lithe, supple figure
away and striking fiercely at him, while the hooded hawk screamed
with ruffled wings and pecked blindly in its mistress's defence.
Bird and maid, however, had but little chance against their
assailant who, laughing loudly, caught her wrist in one hand
while he drew her towards him with the other.
"The best rose has ever the longest thorns," said he. "Quiet,
little one, or you may do yourself a hurt. Must pay Saxon toll
on Saxon land, my proud Maude, for all your airs and graces."
"You boor!" she hissed. "You base underbred clod! Is this your
care and your hospitality? I would rather wed a branded serf
from my father's fields. Leave go, I say---- Ah! good youth,
Heaven has sent you. Make him loose me! By the honor of your
mother, I pray you to stand by me and to make this knave loose
me."
"Stand by you I will, and that blithely." said Alleyne.
"Surely, sir, you should take shame to hold the damsel against
her will."
The man turned a face upon him which was lion-like in its
strength and in its wrath. With his tangle of golden hair, his
fierce blue eyes, and his large, well-marked features, he was the
most comely man whom Alleyne had ever seen, and yet there was
something so sinister and so fell in his expression that child or
beast might well have shrunk from him. His brows were drawn, his
cheek flushed, and there was a mad sparkle in his eyes which
spoke of a wild, untamable nature.
"Young fool!" he cried, holding the woman still to his side,
though every line of her shrinking figure spoke her abhorrence.
"Do you keep your spoon in your own broth. I rede you to go on
your way, lest worse befall you. This little wench has come with
me and with me she shall bide."
"Liar!" cried the woman; and, stooping her head, she suddenly bit
fiercely into the broad brown hand which held her. He whipped it
back with an oath, while she tore herself free and slipped behind
Alleyne, cowering up against him like the trembling leveret who
sees the falcon poising for the swoop above him.
"Stand off my land!" the man said fiercely, heedless of the blood
which trickled freely from his fingers. "What have you to do
here? By your dress you should be one of those cursed clerks who
overrun the land like vile rats, poking and prying into other
men's concerns, too caitiff to fight and too lazy to work. By
the rood! if I had my will upon ye, I should nail you upon the
abbey doors, as they hang vermin before their holes. Art neither
man nor woman, young shaveling. Get thee back to thy fellows ere
I lay hands upon you: for your foot is on my land, and I may slay
you as a common draw-latch."
"Is this your land, then?" gasped Alleyne.
"Would you dispute it, dog? Would you wish by trick or quibble
to juggle me out of these last acres? Know, base-born knave,
that you have dared this day to stand in the path of one whose
race have been the advisers of kings and the leaders of hosts,
ere ever this vile crew of Norman robbers came into the land, or
such half-blood hounds as you were let loose to preach that the
thief should have his booty and the honest man should sin if he
strove to win back his own."
"You are the Socman of Minstead?"
"That am I; and the son of Edric the Socman, of the pure blood of
Godfrey the thane, by the only daughter of the house of Aluric,
whose forefathers held the white-horse banner at the fatal fight
where our shield was broken and our sword shivered. I tell you,
clerk, that my folk held this land from Bramshaw Wood to the
Ringwood road; and, by the soul of my father! it will be a
strange thing if I am to be bearded upon the little that is left
of it. Begone, I say, and meddle not with my affair."
"If you leave me now," whispered the woman, "then shame forever
upon your manhood."
"Surely, sir," said Alleyne, speaking in as persuasive and
soothing a way as he could, "if your birth is gentle, there is
the more reason that your manners should be gentle too. I am
well persuaded that you did but jest with this lady, and that you
will now permit her to leave your land either alone or with me as
a guide, if she should need one, through the wood. As to birth,
it does not become me to boast, and there is sooth in what you
say as to the unworthiness of clerks, but it is none the less
true that I am as well born as you."
"Dog!" cried the furious Socman, "there is no man in the south
who can saw as much."
"Yet can I," said Alleyne smiling; "for indeed I also am the son
of Edric the Socman, of the pure blood of Godfrey the thane, by
the only daughter of Aluric of Brockenhurst. Surely, dear
brother," he continued, holding out his hand, "you have a warmer
greeting than this for me. There are but two boughs left upon
this old, old Saxon trunk."
His elder brother dashed his hand aside with an oath, while an
expression of malignant hatred passed over his passion-drawn
features. "You are the young cub of Beaulieu, then," said he.
"I might have known it by the sleek face and the slavish manner
too monk-ridden and craven in spirit to answer back a rough word.
Thy father, shaveling, with all his faults, had a man's heart;
and there were few who could look him in the eyes on the day of
his anger. But you! Look there, rat, on yonder field where the
cows graze, and on that other beyond, and on the orchard hard by
the church. Do you know that all these were squeezed out of your
dying father by greedy priests, to pay for your upbringing in the
cloisters? I, the Socman, am shorn of my lands that you may
snivel Latin and eat bread for which you never did hand's turn.
You rob me first, and now you would come preaching and whining,
in search mayhap of another field or two for your priestly
friends. Knave! my dogs shall be set upon you; but, meanwhile,
stand out of my path, and stop me at your peril!" As he spoke he
rushed forward, and, throwing the lad to one side, caught the
woman's wrist. Alleyne, however, as active as a young deer-hound,
sprang to her aid and seized her by the other arm, raising
his iron-shod staff as he did so.
"You may say what you will to me," he said between his clenched
teeth--"it may be no better than I deserve; but, brother or no, I
swear by my hopes of salvation that I will break your arm if you
do not leave hold of the maid."
There was a ring in his voice and a flash in his eyes which
promised that the blow would follow quick at the heels of the
word. For a moment the blood of the long line of hot-headed
thanes was too strong for the soft whisperings of the doctrine of
meekness and mercy. He was conscious of a fierce wild thrill
through his nerves and a throb of mad gladness at his heart, as
his real human self burst for an instant the bonds of custom and
of teaching which had held it so long. The socman sprang back,
looking to left and to right for some stick or stone which might
serve him for weapon; but finding none, he turned and ran at the
top of his speed for the house, blowing the while upon a shrill
whistle.
"Come!" gasped the woman. "Fly, friend, ere he come back."
"Nay, let him come!" cried Alleyne. "I shall not budge a foot
for him or his dogs."
"Come, come!" she cried, tugging at his arm. "I know the man: he
will kill you. Come, for the Virgin's sake, or for my sake, for
I cannot go and leave you here."
"Come, then," said he; and they ran together to the cover of the
woods. As they gained the edge of the brushwood, Alleyne,
looking back, saw his brother come running out of the house
again, with the sun gleaming upon his hair and his beard. He
held something which flashed in his right hand, and he stooped at
the threshold to unloose the black hound.
"This way!" the woman whispered, in a low eager voice. "Through
the bushes to that forked ash. Do not heed me; I can run as fast
as you, I trow. Now into the stream--right in, over ankles, to
throw the dog off, though I think it is but a common cur, like
its master." As she spoke, she sprang herself into the shallow
stream and ran swiftly up the centre of it, with the brown water
bubbling over her feet and her hand out-stretched toward the
clinging branches of bramble or sapling. Alleyne followed close
at her heels, with his mind in a whirl at this black welcome and
sudden shifting of all his plans and hopes. Yet, grave as were
his thoughts, they would still turn to wonder as he looked at the
twinkling feet of his guide and saw her lithe figure bend this
way and that, dipping under boughs, springing over stones, with a
lightness and ease which made it no small task for him to keep up
with her. At last, when he was almost out of breath, she
suddenly threw herself down upon a mossy bank, between two
holly-bushes, and looked ruefully at her own dripping feet and
bedraggled skirt.
"Holy Mary!" said she, "what shall I do? Mother will keep me to
my chamber for a month, and make me work at the tapestry of the
nine bold knights. She promised as much last week, when I fell
into Wilverley bog, and yet she knows that I cannot abide
needle-work."
Alleyne, still standing in the stream, glanced down at the
graceful pink-and-white figure, the curve of raven-black hair,
and the proud, sensitive face which looked up frankly and
confidingly at his own.
"We had best on," he said. "He may yet overtake us."
"Not so. We are well off his land now, nor can he tell in this
great wood which way we have taken. But you--you had him at your
mercy. Why did you not kill him?"
"Kill him! My brother!"
"And why not?"--with a quick gleam of her white teeth. "He would
have killed you. I know him, and I read it in his eyes. Had I
had your staff I would have tried--aye, and done it, too." She
shook her clenched white hand as she spoke, and her lips
tightened ominously.
"I am already sad in heart for what I have done," said he,
sitting down on the bank, and sinking his face into his hands.
"God help me!--all that is worst in me seemed to come uppermost.
Another instant, and I had smitten him: the son of my own mother,
the man whom I have longed to take to my heart. Alas! that I
should still be so weak."
"Weak!" she exclaimed, raising her black eyebrows. "I do not
think that even my father himself, who is a hard judge of
manhood, would call you that. But it is, as you may think, sir,
a very pleasant thing for me to hear that you are grieved at what
you have done, and I can but rede that we should go back
together, and you should make your peace with the Socman by
handing back your prisoner. It is a sad thing that so small a
thing as a woman should come between two who are of one blood."
Simple Alleyne opened his eyes at this little spurt of feminine
bitterness. "Nay, lady," said he, "that were worst of all. What
man would be so caitiff and thrall as to fail you at your need?
I have turned my brother against me, and now, alas! I appear to
have given you offence also with my clumsy tongue. But, indeed,
lady, I am torn both ways, and can scarce grasp in my mind what
it is that has befallen."
"Nor can I marvel at that," said she, with a little tinkling
laugh. "You came in as the knight does in the jongleur's
romances, between dragon and damsel, with small time for the
asking of questions. Come," she went on, springing to her feet,
and smoothing down her rumpled frock, "let us walk through the
shaw together, and we may come upon Bertrand with the horses. If
poor Troubadour had not cast a shoe, we should not have had this
trouble. Nay, I must have your arm: for, though I speak lightly,
now that all is happily over I am as frightened as my brave
Roland. See how his chest heaves, and his dear feathers all
awry--the little knight who would not have his lady mishandled."
So she prattled on to her hawk, while Alleyne walked by her side,
stealing a glance from time to time at this queenly and wayward
woman. In silence they wandered together over the velvet turf
and on through the broad Minstead woods, where the old
lichen-draped beeches threw their circles of black shadow upon
the sunlit sward.
"You have no wish, then, to hear my story?" said she, at last.
"If it pleases you to tell it me," he answered.
"Oh!" she cried tossing her head, "if it is of so little interest
to you, we had best let it bide."
"Nay," said he eagerly, "I would fain hear it."
"You have a right to know it, if you have lost a brother's favor
through it. And yet----Ah well, you are, as I understand, a
clerk, so I must think of you as one step further in orders, and
make you my father-confessor. Know then that this man has been a
suitor for my hand, less as I think for my own sweet sake than
because he hath ambition and had it on his mind that he might
improve his fortunes by dipping into my father's strong
box--though the Virgin knows that he would have found little
enough therein. My father, however, is a proud man, a gallant
knight and tried soldier of the oldest blood, to whom this man's
churlish birth and low descent----Oh, lackaday! I had forgot that
he was of the same strain as yourself."
"Nay, trouble not for that," said Alleyne, "we are all from good
mother Eve."
"Streams may spring from one source, and yet some be clear and
some be foul," quoth she quickly. "But, to be brief over the
matter, my father would have none of his wooing, nor in sooth
would I. On that he swore a vow against us, and as he is known
to be a perilous man, with many outlaws and others at his back,
my father forbade that I should hawk or hunt in any part of the
wood to the north of the Christchurch road. As it chanced,
however, this morning my little Roland here was loosed at a
strong-winged heron, and page Bertrand and I rode on, with no
thoughts but for the sport, until we found ourselves in Minstead
woods. Small harm then, but that my horse Troubadour trod with a
tender foot upon a sharp stick, rearing and throwing me to the
ground. See to my gown, the third that I have befouled within
the week. Woe worth me when Agatha the tire-woman sets eyes upon
it!"
"And what then, lady?" asked Alleyne.
"Why, then away ran Troubadour, for belike I spurred him in
falling, and Bertrand rode after him as hard as hoofs could bear
him. When I rose there was the Socman himself by my side, with
the news that I was on his land, but with so many courteous words
besides, and such gallant bearing, that he prevailed upon me to
come to his house for shelter, there to wait until the page
return. By the grace of the Virgin and the help of my patron St.
Magdalen, I stopped short ere I reached his door, though, as you
saw, he strove to hale me up to it. And then--ah-h-h-h!"--she
shivered and chattered like one in an ague-fit.
"What is it?" cried Alleyne, looking about in alarm.
"Nothing, friend, nothing! I was but thinking how I bit into his
hand. Sooner would I bite living toad or poisoned snake. Oh, I
shall loathe my lips forever! But you--how brave you were, and
how quick! How meek for yourself, and how bold for a stranger!
If I were a man, I should wish to do what you have done."
"It was a small thing," he answered, with a tingle of pleasure at
these sweet words of praise. "But you--what will you do?"
"There is a great oak near here, and I think that Bertrand will
bring the horses there, for it is an old hunting-tryst of ours.
Then hey for home, and no more hawking to-day! A twelve-mile
gallop will dry feet and skirt."
"But your father?"
"Not one word shall I tell him. You do not know him; but I can
tell you he is not a man to disobey as I have disobeyed him. He
would avenge me, it is true, but it is not to him that I shall
look for vengeance. Some day, perchance, in joust or in tourney,
knight may wish to wear my colors, and then I shall tell him that
if he does indeed crave my favor there is wrong unredressed, and
the wronger the Socman of Minstead. So my knight shall find a
venture such as bold knights love, and my debt shall be paid, and
my father none the wiser, and one rogue the less in the world.
Say, is not that a brave plan?"
"Nay, lady, it is a thought which is unworthy of you. How can
such as you speak of violence and of vengeance. Are none to be
gentle and kind, none to be piteous and forgiving? Alas! it is a
hard, cruel world, and I would that I had never left my abbey
cell. To hear such words from your lips is as though I heard an
angel of grace preaching the devil's own creed."
She started from him as a young colt who first feels the bit.
"Gramercy for your rede, young sir!" she said, with a little
curtsey. "As I understand your words, you are grieved that you
ever met me, and look upon me as a preaching devil. Why, my
father is a bitter man when he is wroth, but hath never called me
such a name as that. It may be his right and duty, but certes it
is none of thine. So it would be best, since you think so lowly
of me, that you should take this path to the left while I keep on
upon this one; for it is clear that I can be no fit companion for
you." So saying, with downcast lids and a dignity which was
somewhat marred by her bedraggled skirt, she swept off down the
muddy track, leaving Alleyne standing staring ruefully after her.
He waited in vain for some backward glance or sign of relenting,
but she walked on with a rigid neck until her dress was only a
white flutter among the leaves. Then, with a sunken head and a
heavy heart, he plodded wearily down the other path, wroth with
himself for the rude and uncouth tongue which had given offence
where so little was intended.
He had gone some way, lost in doubt and in self-reproach, his
mind all tremulous with a thousand new-found thoughts and fears
and wonderments, when of a sudden there was a light rustle of the
leaves behind him, and, glancing round, there was this graceful,
swift-footed creature, treading in his very shadow, with her
proud head bowed, even as his was--the picture of humility and
repentance.
"I shall not vex you, nor even speak," she said; "but I would
fain keep with you while we are in the wood."
"Nay, you cannot vex me," he answered, all warm again at the very
sight of her. "It was my rough words which vexed you; but I have
been thrown among men all my life, and indeed, with all the will,
I scarce know how to temper my speech to a lady's ear."
"Then unsay it," cried she quickly; "say that I was right to wish
to have vengeance on the Socman."
"Nay, I cannot do that," he answered gravely.
"Then who is ungentle and unkind now?" she cried in triumph.
"How stern and cold you are for one so young! Art surely no mere
clerk, but bishop or cardinal at the least. Shouldst have
crozier for staff and mitre for cap. Well, well, for your sake I
will forgive the Socman and take vengeance on none but on my own
wilful self who must needs run into danger's path. So will that
please you, sir?"
"There spoke your true self," said he; "and you will find more
pleasure in such forgiveness than in any vengeance."
She shook her head, as if by no means assured of it, and then
with a sudden little cry, which had more of surprise than of joy
in it, "Here is Bertrand with the horses!"
Down the glade there came a little green-clad page with laughing
eyes, and long curls floating behind him. He sat perched on a
high bay horse, and held on to the bridle of a spirited black
palfrey, the hides of both glistening from a long run.
"I have sought you everywhere, dear Lady Maude," said he in a
piping voice, springing down from his horse and holding the
stirrup. "Troubadour galloped as far as Holmhill ere I could
catch him. I trust that you have had no hurt or scath?" He shot
a questioning glance at Alleyne as he spoke.
"No, Bertrand," said she, "thanks to this courteous stranger.
And now, sir," she continued, springing into her saddle, "it is
not fit that I leave you without a word more. Clerk or no, you
have acted this day as becomes a true knight. King Arthur and
all his table could not have done more. It may be that, as some
small return, my father or his kin may have power to advance your
interest. He is not rich, but he is honored and hath great
friends. Tell me what is your purpose, and see if he may not aid
it."
"Alas! lady, I have now no purpose. I have but two friends in
the world, and they have gone to Christchurch, where it is likely
I shall join them."
"And where is Christchurch?"
"At the castle which is held by the brave knight, Sir Nigel
Loring, constable to the Earl of Salisbury."
To his surprise she burst out a-laughing, and, spurring her
palfrey, dashed off down the glade, with her page riding behind
her. Not one word did she say, but as she vanished amid the
trees she half turned in her saddle and waved a last greeting.
Long time he stood, half hoping that she might again come back to
him; but the thud of the hoofs had died away, and there was no
sound in all the woods but the gentle rustle and dropping of the
leaves. At last he turned away and made his way back to the
high-road--another person from the light-hearted boy who had left
it a short three hours before.
