XII. HOW NIGEL FOUGHT THE TWISTED MAN OF SHALFORD
In the days of which you read all classes, save perhaps the very
poor, fared better in meat and in drink than they have ever done
since. The country was covered with woodlands - there were
seventy separate forests in England alone, some of them covering
half a shire. Within these forests the great beasts of the chase
were strictly preserved, but the smaller game, the hares, the
rabbits, the birds, which swarmed round the coverts, found their
way readily into the poor man's pot. Ale was very cheap, and
cheaper still was the mead which every peasant could make for
himself out of the wild honey in the tree-trunks. There were many
tea-like drinks also, which were brewed by the poor at no expense:
mallow tea, tansy tea, and others the secret of which has passed.
Amid the richer classes there was rude profusion, great joints
ever on the sideboard, huge pies, beasts of the field and beasts
of the chase, with ale and rough French or Rhenish wines to wash
them down. But the very rich had attained to a high pitch of
luxury in their food, and cookery was a science in which the
ornamentation of the dish was almost as important as the dressing
of the food. It was gilded, it was silvered, it was painted, it
was surrounded with flame. From the boar and the peacock down to
such strange food as the porpoise and the hedgehog, every dish had
its own setting and its own sauce, very strange and very complex,
with flavorings of dates, currants, cloves, vinegar, sugar and
honey, of cinnamon, ground ginger, sandalwood, saffron, brawn and
pines. It was the Norman tradition to eat in moderation, but to
have a great profusion of the best and of the most delicate from
which to choose. From them came this complex cookery, so unlike
the rude and often gluttonous simplicity of the old Teutonic
stock.
Sir John Buttesthorn was of that middle class who fared in the old
fashion, and his great oak supper-table groaned beneath the
generous pasties, the mighty joints and the, great flagons. Below
were the household, above on a raised dais the family table, with
places ever ready for those frequent guests who dropped in from
the high road outside. Such a one had just come, an old priest,
journeying from the Abbey of Chertsey to the Priory of Saint John
at Midhurst. He passed often that way, and never without breaking
his journey at the hospitable board of Cosford.
"Welcome again, good Father Athanasius!" cried the burly Knight.
"Come sit here on my right and give me the news of the
country-side, for there is never a scandal but the priests are the
first to know it."
The priest, a kindly, quiet man, glanced at an empty place upon
the farther side of his host. "Mistress Edith?" said he.
"Aye, aye, where is the hussy?" cried her father impatiently.
"Mary, I beg you to have the horn blown again, that she may know
that the supper is on the table. What can the little owlet do
abroad at this hour of the night?"
There was trouble in the priest's gentle eyes as he touched the
Knight upon the sleeve. "I have seen Mistress Edith within this
hour," said he. "I fear that she will hear no horn that you may
blow, for she must be at Milford ere now."
"At Milford? What does she there?"
"I pray you, good Sir John, to abate your voice somewhat, for
indeed this matter is for our private discourse, since it touches
the honor of a lady."
"Her honor?" Sir John's ruddy face had turned redder still, as he
stared at the troubled features of the priest. "Her honor, say
you - the honor of my daughter? Make good those words, or never
set your foot over the threshold of Cosford again!"
"I trust that I have done no wrong, Sir John, but indeed I must
say what I have seen, else would I be a false friend and an
unworthy priest."
"Haste man, haste! What in the Devil's name have you seen?"
"Know you a little man, partly misshapen, named Paul de la Fosse?"
"I know him well. He is a man of noble family and coat-armour,
being the younger brother of Sir Eustace de la Fosse of Shalford.
Time was when I had thought that I might call him son, for there
was never a day that he did not pass with my girls, but I fear
that his crooked back sped him ill in his wooing."
"Alas, Sir John! It is his mind that is more crooked than his
back. He is a perilous man with women, for the Devil hath given
him such a tongue and such an eye that he charms them even as the
basilisk. Marriage may be in their mind, but never in his, so
that I could count a dozen and more whom he has led to their
undoing. It is his pride and his boast over the whole
countryside."
"Well, well, and what is this to me or mine?"
"Even now, Sir John, as I rode my mule up the road I met this man
speeding toward his home. A woman rode by his side, and though
her face was hooded I heard her laugh as she passed me. That
laugh I have heard before, and it was under this very roof, from
the lips of Mistress Edith."
The Knight's knife dropped from his hand. But the debate had been
such that neither Mary nor Nigel could fail to have heard it. Mid
the rough laughter and clatter of voices from below the little
group at the high table had a privacy of their own.
"Fear not, father," said the girl - "indeed, the good Father
Athanasius hath fallen into error, and Edith will be with us anon.
I have heard her speak of this man many times of late, and always
with bitter words."
"It is true, sir," cried Nigel eagerly. "It was only this very
evening as we rode over Thursley Moor that Mistress Edith told me
that she counted him not a fly, and that she would be glad if he
were beaten for his evil deeds."
But the wise priest shook his silvery locks. "Nay, there is ever
danger when a woman speaks like that. Hot hate is twin brother to
hot love. Why should she speak so if there were not some bond
between them?"
"And yet," said Nigel, "what can have changed her thoughts m three
short hours? She was here in the hall with us since I came. By
Saint Paul, I will not believe it!"
Mary's face darkened. "I call to mind," said she, "that a note
was brought her by Hannekin the stable varlet when you were
talking to us, fair sir, of the terms of the chase. She read it
and went forth."
Sir John sprang to his feet, but sank into his chair again with a
groan. "Would that I were dead," he cried, "ere I saw dishonor
come upon my house, and am so tied with this accursed foot that I
can neither examine if it be true, nor yet avenge it! If my son
Oliver were here, then all would be well. Send me this stable
varlet that I may question him."
"I pray you, fair and honored sir," said Nigel, "that you will
take me for your son this night, that I may handle this matter in
the way which seems best. On jeopardy of my honor I will do all
that a man may."
"Nigel, I thank you. There is no man in Christendom to whom I
would sooner turn."
"But I would lean your mind in one matter, fair sir. This man,
Paul de la Fosse, owns broad acres, as I understand, and comes of
noble blood. There is no reason if things be as we fear that he
should not marry your daughter?"
"Nay, she could not wish for better."
"It is well. And first I would question this Hannekin; but it
shall be done in such a fashion that none shall know, for indeed
it is not a matter for the gossip of servants. But if you will
show me the man, Mistress Mary, I will take him out to tend my own
horse, and so I shall learn all that he has to tell."
Nigel was absent for some time, and when he returned the shadow
upon his face brought little hope to the anxious hearts at the
high table. "I have locked him in the stable loft, lest he talk
too much," said he, "for my questions must have shown him whence
the wind blew. It was indeed from this man that the note came,
and he had brought with him a spare horse for the lady."
The old Knight groaned, and his face sank upon his hands.
"Nay, father they watch you!" whispered Mary. "For the honor of
our house let us keep a bold face to all." Then, raising her
young clear voice, so that it sounded through the room: "If you
ride eastward, Nigel, I would fain go with you, that my sister may
not come back alone."
"We will ride together, Mary," said Nigel, rising; then in a lower
voice: "But we cannot go alone, and if we take a servant all is
known. I pray you to stay at home and leave the matter with me."
"Nay, Nigel, she may sorely need a woman's aid, and what woman
should it be save her own sister? I can take my tire-woman with
us."
"Nay, I shall ride with you myself if your impatience can keep
within the powers of my mule," said the old priest.
"But it is not your road, father?"
"The only road of a true priest is that which leads to the good of
others. Come, my children, and we will go together."
And so it was that stout Sir John Buttesthorn, the aged Knight of
Duplin, was left alone at his own high table, pretending to eat,
pretending to drink, fidgeting in his seat, trying hard to seem
unconcerned with his mind and body in a fever, while below him his
varlets and handmaids laughed and jested, clattering their cups
and clearing their trenchers, all unconscious of the dark shadow
which threw its gloom over the lonely man upon the dais above.
Meantime the Lady Mary upon the white jennet which her sister had
ridden on the same evening, Nigel on his war-horse, and the priest
on the mule, clattered down the rude winding road which led to
London. The country on either side was a wilderness of heather
moors and of morasses from which came the strange crying of
night-fowl. A half-moon shone in the sky between the rifts of
hurrying clouds. The lady rode in silence, absorbed in the
thought of the task before them, the danger and the shame.
Nigel chatted in a low tone with the priest. From him he learned
more of the evil name of this man whom they followed. His house
at Shalford was a den of profligacy and vice. No woman could
cross that threshold and depart unstained. In some strange
fashion, inexplicable and yet common, the man, with all his evil
soul and his twisted body, had yet some strange fascination for
women, some mastery over them which compelled them to his will.
Again and again he had brought ruin to a household, again and
again his adroit tongue and his cunning wit had in some fashion
saved him from the punishment of his deeds. His family was great
in the county, and his kinsmen held favor with the King, so that
his neighbors feared to push things too far against him. Such was
the man, malignant and ravenous, who had stooped like some foul
night-hawk and borne away to his evil nest the golden beauty of
Cosford. Nigel said little as he listened, but he raised his
hunting-dagger to his tightened lips, and thrice he kissed the
cross of its handle.
They had passed over the moors and through the village of Milford
and the little township of Godalming, until their path turned
southward over the Pease marsh and crossed the meadows of
Shalford. There on the dark hillside glowed the red points of
light which marked the windows of the house which they sought. A
somber arched avenue of oak-trees led up to it, and then they were
in the moon-silvered clearing in front.
>From the shadow of the arched door there sprang two rough
serving-men, bearded and gruff, great cudgels in their hands, to
ask them who they were and what their errand. The Lady Mary had
slipped from her horse and was advancing to the door, but they
rudely barred her way.
"Nay, nay, our master needs no more!" cried one, with a hoarse
laugh. "Stand back, mistress, whoever you be! The house is shut,
and our lord sees no guests to-night."
"Fellow," said Nigel, speaking low and clear, "stand back from us!
Our errand is with your master."
"Bethink you, my children," cried the old priest, "would it not be
best perchance, that I go in to him and see whether the voice of
the Church may not soften this hard heart? I fear bloodshed if
you enter."
"Nay, father, I pray you to stay here for the nonce," said Nigel.
"And you, Mary, do you bide with the good priest, for we know not
what may be within."
Again he turned to the door, and again the two men barred his
passage.
"Stand back, I say, back for your lives!" said Nigel. "By Saint
Paul! I should think it shame to soil my sword with such as you,
but my soul is set, and no man shall bar my path this night."
The men shrank from the deadly menace of that gentle voice.
"Hold!" said one of them, peering through the darkness, "is it not
Squire Loring of Tilford? "
"That is indeed my name."
"Had you spoken it I for one would not have stopped your way. Put
down your staff, Wat, for this is no stranger, but the Squire of
Tilford."
"As well for him," grumbled the other, lowering his cudgel with an
inward prayer of thanksgiving. "Had it been otherwise I should
have had blood upon my soul tonight. But our master said nothing
of neighbors when he ordered us to hold the door. I will enter
and ask him what is his will."
But already Nigel was past them and had pushed open the outer
door. Swift as he was, the Lady Mary was at his very heels, and
the two passed together into the hall beyond.
It was a great room, draped and curtained with black shadows, with
one vivid circle of light in the center, where two oil lamps shone
upon a small table. A meal was laid upon the table, but only two
were seated at it, and there were no servants in the room. At the
near end was Edith, her golden hair loose and streaming down over
the scarlet and black of her riding-dress.
At the farther end the light beat strongly upon the harsh face and
the high-drawn misshapen shoulders of the lord of the house. A
tangle of black hair surmounted a high rounded forehead, the
forehead of a thinker, with two deep-set cold gray eyes twinkling
sharply from under tufted brows. His nose was curved and sharp,
like the beak of some cruel bird, but below the whole of his
clean-shaven powerful face was marred by the loose slabbing mouth
and the round folds of the heavy chin. His knife in one hand and
a half-gnawed bone in the other, he looked fiercely up, like some
beast disturbed in his den, as the two intruders broke in upon his
hall.
Nigel stopped midway between the door and the table. His eyes and
those of Paul de la Fosse were riveted upon each other. But Mary,
with her woman's soul flooded over with love and pity, had rushed
forward and cast her arms round her younger sister. Edith had
sprung up from her chair, and with averted face tried to push the
other away from her.
"Edith, Edith! By the Virgin, I implore you to come back with us,
and to leave this wicked man!" cried Mary. "Dear sister, you
would not break our father's heart, nor bring his gray head in
dishonor to the grave! Come back Edith, come back and all is
well."
But Edith pushed her away, and her fair cheeks were flushed with
her anger. "What right have you over me, Mary, you who are but
two years older, that you should follow me over the country-side
as though I were a runagate villain and you my mistress? Do you
yourself go back, and leave me to do that which seems best in my
own eyes."
But Mary still held her in her arms, and still strove to soften
the hard and angry heart. "Our mother is dead, Edith. I thank
God that she died ere she saw you under this roof! But I stand
for her, as I have done all my life, since I am indeed your elder.
It is with her voice that I beg and pray you that you will not
trust this man further, and that you will come back ere it be too
late!"
Edith writhed from her grasp, and stood flushed and defiant, with
gleaming, angry eyes fixed upon her sister. "You may speak evil
of him now," said she, "but there was a time when Paul de la Fosse
came to Cosford, and who so gentle and soft-spoken to him then as
wise, grave, sister Mary? But he has learned to love another; so
now he is the wicked man, and it is shame to be seen under his
roof! From what I see of my good pious sister and her cavalier it
is sin for another to ride at night with a man at your side, but
it comes easy enough to you. Look at your own eye, good sister,
ere you would take the speck from that of another."
Mary stood irresolute and greatly troubled, holding down her pride
and her anger, but uncertain how best to deal with this strong
wayward spirit.
"It is not a time for bitter words, dear sister," said she, and
again she laid her hand upon her sister's sleeve. "All that you
say may be true. There was indeed a time when this man was friend
to us both, and I know even as you do the power which he may have
to win a woman's heart. But I know him now, and you do not. I
know the evil that he has wrought, the dishonor that he has
brought, the perjury that lies upon his soul, the confidence
betrayed, the promise unfulfilled - all this I know. Am I to see
my own sister caught in the same well-used trap? Has it shut upon
you, child? Am I indeed already too late? For God's sake, tell
me, Edith, that it is not so?"
Edith plucked her sleeve from her sister and made two swift steps
to the head of the table. Paul de la Fosse still sat silent with
his eyes upon Nigel. Edith laid her hand upon his shoulder: "This
is the man I love, and the only man that I have ever loved. This
is my husband," said she.
At the word Mary gave a cry of joy.
"And is it so?" she cried. "Nay, then all is in honor, and God
will see to the rest. If you are man and wife before the altar,
then indeed why should I, or any other, stand between you? Tell
me that it is indeed so, and I return this moment to make your
father a happy man."
Edith pouted like a naughty child. "We are man and wife in the
eyes of God. Soon also we shall be wedded before all the world.
We do but wait until next Monday when Paul's brother, who is a
priest at St. Albans, will come to wed us. Already a messenger
has sped for him, and he will come, will he not, dear love?"
"He will come," said the master of Shalford, still with his eyes
fixed upon the silent Nigel.
"It is a lie; he will not come," said a voice from the door.
It was the old priest, who had followed the others as far as the
threshold.
"He will not come," he repeated as he advanced into the room.
"Daughter, my daughter, hearken to the words of one who is indeed
old enough to be your earthly father. This lie has served before.
He has ruined others before you with it. The man has no brother
at Saint Albans. I know his brothers well, and there is no priest
among them. Before Monday, when it is all too late, you will have
found the truth as others have done before you. Trust him not,
but come with us!"
Paul de la Fosse looked up at her with a quick smile and patted
the hand upon his shoulder.
"Do you speak to them, Edith," said he.
Her eyes flashed with scorn as she surveyed them each in turn, the
woman, the youth and the priest.
"I have but one word to say to them," said she. "It is that they
go hence and trouble us no more. Am I not a free woman? Have I
not said that this is the only man I ever loved? I have loved him
long. He did not know it, and in despair he turned to another.
Now he knows all and never again can doubt come between us.
Therefore I will stay here at Shalford and come to Cosford no more
save upon the arm of my husband. Am I so weak that I would
believe the tales you tell against him? Is it hard for a jealous
woman and a wandering priest to agree upon a lie? No, no, Mary,
you can go hence and take your cavalier and your priest with you,
for here I stay, true to my love and safe in my trust upon his
honor!"
"Well spoken, on my faith, my golden bird!" said the little master
of Shalford. "Let me add my own word to that which has been said.
You would not grant me any virtue in your unkindly speech, good
Lady Mary, and yet you must needs confess that at least I have
good store of patience, since I have not set my dogs upon your
friends who have come between me and my ease. But even to the
most virtuous there comes at last a time when poor human frailty
may prevail, and so I pray you to remove both yourself, your
priest and your valiant knight errant, lest perhaps there be more
haste and less dignity when at last you do take your leave. Sit
down, my fair love, and let us turn once more to our supper." He
motioned her to her chair, and he filled her wine-cup as well as
his own.
Nigel had said no word since he had entered the room, but his look
had never lost its set purpose, nor had his brooding eyes ever
wandered from the sneering face of the deformed master of
Shalford. Now he turned with swift decision to Mary and to the
priest.
"That is over," said he in a low voice. "You have done all that
you could, and now it is for me to play my part as well as I am
able. I pray you, Mary, and you, good father, that you will await
me outside."
"Nay, Nigel, if there is danger - "
"It is easier for me, Mary, if you are not there. I pray you to
go. I can speak to this man more at my ease."
She looked at him with questioning eyes and then obeyed.
Nigel plucked at the priest's gown.
"I pray you, father, have you your book of offices with you?"
"Surely, Nigel, it is ever in my breast."
"Have it ready, father!"
"For what, my son?"
"There are two places you may mark; there is the service of
marriage and there is the prayer for the dying. Go with her,
father, and be ready at my call."
He closed the door behind them and was alone with this ill-matched
couple. They both turned in their chairs to look at him, Edith
with a defiant face, the man with a bitter smile upon his lips and
malignant hatred in his eyes.
"What," said he, "the knight errant still lingers? Have we not
heard of his thirst for glory? What new venture does he see that
he should tarry here?"
Nigel walked to the table.
"There is no glory and little venture," said he; "but I have come
for a purpose and I must do it. I learn from your own lips,
Edith, that you will not leave this man."
"If you have ears you have heard it."
"You are, as you have said, a free woman, and who can gainsay you?
But I have known you, Edith, since we played as boy and girl on
the heather-hills together. I will save you from this man's
cunning and from your own foolish weakness."
"What would you do?"
"There is a priest without. He will marry you now. I will see
you married ere I leave this hall."
"Or else?" sneered the man.
"Or else you never leave this hall alive. Nay, call not for your
servants or your dogs! By Saint Paul! I swear to you that this
matter lies between us three, and that if any fourth comes at your
call you, at least, shall never live to see what comes of it!
Speak then, Paul of Shalford! Will you wed this woman now, or
will you not?"
Edith was on her feet with outstretched arms between them. "Stand
back, Nigel! He is small and weak. You would not do him a hurt!
Did you not say so this very day? For God's sake, Nigel, do not
look at him so! There is death in your eyes."
"A snake may be small and weak, Edith, yet every honest man would
place his heel upon it. Do you stand back yourself, for my
purpose is set."
"Paul!" she turned her eyes to the pale sneering face. "Bethink
you, Paul! Why should you not do what he asks? What matter to
you whether it be now or on Monday? I pray you, dear Paul, for my
sake let him have his way! Your brother can read the service
again if it so please him. Let us wed now, Paul, and then all is
well."
He had risen from his chair, and he dashed aside her appealing
hands. "You foolish woman," he snarled, "and you, my savior of
fair damsels, who are so bold against a cripple, you have both to
learn that if my body be weak there is the soul of my breed within
it! To marry because a boasting, ranting, country Squire would
have me do so - no, by the soul of God, I will die first! On
Monday I will marry, and no day sooner, so let that be your
answer."
"It is the answer that I wished," said Nigel, "for indeed I see no
happiness in this marriage, and the other may well be the better
way. Stand aside, Edith!" He gently forced her to one side and
drew his sword.
De la Fosse cried aloud at the sight. "I have no sword. You
would not murder me?" said he, leaning back with haggard-face and
burning eyes against his chair. The bright steel shone in the
lamp-light. Edith shrank back, her hand over her face.
"Take this sword!" said Nigel, and he turned the hilt to the
cripple. "Now!" he added, as he drew his hunting knife. "Kill me
if you can, Paul de la Fosse, for as God is my help I will do as
much for you!"
The woman, half swooning and yet spellbound and fascinated, looked
on at that strange combat. For a moment the cripple stood with an
air of doubt, the sword grasped in his nerveless fingers. Then as
he saw the tiny blade in Nigel's hand the greatness of the
advantage came home to him, and a cruel smile tightened his loose
lips. Slowly, step by step he advanced, his chin sunk upon his
chest, his eyes glaring from under the thick tangle of his brows
like fires through the brushwood. Nigel waited for him, his left
hand forward, his knife down by his hip, his face grave, still and
watchful.
Nearer and nearer yet, with stealthy step, and then with a bound
and a cry of hatred and rage Paul de la Fosse had sped his blow.
It was well judged and well swung, but point would have been wiser
than edge against that supple body and those active feet. Quick
as a flash, Nigel had sprung inside the sweep of the blade, taking
a flesh wound on his left forearm, as he pressed it under the
hilt. The next instant the cripple was on the ground and Nigel's
dagger was at his throat.
"You dog!" he whispered. "I have you at my mercy! Quick ere I
strike, and for the last time! Will you marry or no?"
The crash of the fall and the sharp point upon his throat had
cowed the man's spirit. He looked up with a white face and the
sweat gleamed upon his forehead. There was terror in his eyes.
"Nay, take your knife from me!" he cried. "I cannot die like a
calf in the shambles."
"Will you marry?"
"Yes, yes, I will wed her! After all she is a good wench and I
might do worse. Let me up! I tell you I will marry her! What
more would you have?"
Nigel stood above him with his foot upon his misshapen body. He
had picked up his sword, and the point rested upon the cripple's
breast.
"Nay, you will bide where you are! If you are to live - and my
conscience cries loud against it - at least your wedding will be
such as your sins have deserved. Lie there, like the crushed worm
that you are!" Then he raised his voice. "Father Athanasius!" he
cried. "What ho! Father Athanasius!"
The old priest ran to the cry, and so did the Lady Mary. A
strange sight it was that met them now in the circle of light, the
frightened girl, half-unconscious against the table, the prostrate
cripple, and Nigel with foot and sword upon his body.
"Your book, father!" cried Nigel. "I know not if what we do is
good or ill; but we must wed them, for there is no way out."
But the girl by the table had given a great cry, and she was
clinging and sobbing with her arms round her sister's neck.
"Oh, Mary, I thank the Virgin that you have come! I thank the
Virgin that it is not too late! What did he say? He said that he
was a de la Fosse and that he would not be married at the
sword-point. My heart went out to him when he said it. But I, am
I not a Buttesthorn, and shall it be said that I would marry a man
who could be led to the altar with a knife at his throat? No, no,
I see him as he is! I know him now, the mean spirit, the lying
tongue! Can I not read in his eyes that he has indeed deceived
me, that he would have left me as you say that he has left others?
Take me home, Mary, my sister, for you have plucked me back this
night from the very mouth of Hell!"
And so it was that the master of Shalford, livid and brooding, was
left with his wine at his lonely table, while the golden beauty of
Cosford, hot with shame and anger, her fair face wet with tears,
passed out safe from the house of infamy into the great calm and
peace of the starry night.
