The Forest Lovers

  CHAPTER XXIX

  WANMEETING CRIES, 'HA! SAINT JAMES!'

  The story returns to Prosper le Gai and his broken head. The blow hadbeen sharp, but Peering Pool was sharper. It brought him toconsciousness, of a sort sufficient to give him a disrelish fordrowning. Lucky for him he was unarmed. He found himself swimming,paddling, rolling at random; he swallowed quantities of water, andliked drowning none the better. By the little light there was he couldmake out the line of the dark hull of Goltres, by the little wit he hadhe remembered that the water-gate was midway the building orthereabouts. He turned his face to the wall and, half clinging, halfswimming, edged along it till he reached port. The last ebb of hisstrength sufficed to drag him up the stair; then he floated off intoblankness again.

  When he stirred he was stiff, and near blind with fever. A cold lightsilvered the pool; it was not yet dawn. His plight was pitiable. Heached and shivered and burned, he drowsed and muttered, dreamedhorribly, sweated and was cold, shuddered and was hot. One of his armshe could not lift at all; at one of his sides, there was a great stiffcake of cloth and blood and water. He became light-headed, sang,shouted, raved, swore, prayed.

  "To me, to me, Isoult! Ah, dogs of the devil, this to a young maid!Yes, madam, the Lady Isoult, and my wife. Love her! O God, I love herat last. Hounded, hounded, hounded out! Love of Christ, how I love her!Bailiff, Galors will come--a white-faced, sullen dog. Cut him down,bailiff, without mercy, for he hath shown no mercy. The man in thewood--ha! dead--Salomon de Born. Green froth on his lips--fie, poison!She has killed Galors' only son. Galors, she has poisoned him--oh,mercy, mercy, Lord, must I die?" And then with tears, and the whiningof a child--"Isoult, Isoult, Isoult!"

  In tears his delirium spent itself, and again he was still, in a brokensleep. The sun rose, the sky warmed itself and glowed, the crispy wavesof Peering Pool glittered, the white burden it bore floated faceupwards, an object of interest and suspicion for the coots; soon a rayof generous heat shot obliquely down upon the sleeper on the stairs.Prosper woke again, stretched, and yawned. Most of his pains seemed nowto centre in the pit of his stomach, a familiar grief. Prosper washungry.

  "Pest!" said the youth, "how hungry I am. I can do nothing till I haveeaten."

  He tried to get up, and did succeed in raising himself on all fours.But for the life of him he could do no more. He sat down again andthought about eating. He remembered the bread and olives, the notunkindly red wine of the night before. Then he remembered Spiridion,dispenser of meat and many questions.

  "That poor doubting rogue!" he laughed. But he sobered himself. "I doill to laugh, God knows! The man must be dead by now, and all hisdoubts with him. I must go find him. But I must eat some of his breadand olives first."

  Once more he got on all fours, and this time he crawled to the stop ofthe stairway. Clinging to the lintel and hoisting himself by degrees,he at last stood fairly on his feet--but with a spinning head, and asickness as unto death. He tottered and flickered; but he stuck to hisdoor-post.

  "Bread and olives!" he cried. "I am to die, it seems, but by the Lord Iwill eat first."

  He made a rush for it, gained so the great hall, dizzied through itsomehow, and out into the corridor. He flung himself at the stonestairs with the desperation of his last agony, half crawled, halfswarmed up to the top (dragging his legs after him at the end, like ahare shot in the back), and finished his course to Spiridion's chamberon hands and knees. He had probably never in his life before worked sohard for a breakfast. He was dripping with sweat, shaking likegossamer; but his fever had left him. Bread and a bottle of wine didwonders for him. He felt very drunk when he had done, and was consciousthat pot-valiancy only gave him the heart to tear off his clothes. Aflask of sweet oil from Spiridion's shelf helped him here. Next heprobed the rents. He found a deepish wound in the groin, a sword-cut inthe fleshy part of his left arm; then there was his head! He assuredhimself that the skull was whole.

  "I never respected my ancestors before," he cried. "Such a headpiece isworthy of a Crusader."

  He kindled a fire, heated water, washed out his hurts, oiled them andbound them up with one of Spiridion's bed-sheets.

  "Now," he reflected, "by rights I should go and hunt for my poor host.But I am still drunk unfortunately. Let me consider. Spiridion mustpass for a man. If he is dead he will wait for me. If he is not dead heis no worse off than I am. Good. I will sleep." And he slept round theclock.

  Next morning when he awoke he was stiff and sore, but himself. Hefinished the bread, drank another bottle of wine, and looked about forhis armour. It was not there. Instead, the white wicket-gates gleamedat him from a black shield, white plumes from a black headpiece, andthe rest of a concatenation.

  "_Entra per me_," he read. "Enter I will," said Prosper, "and by you.This device," he went on, as he fitted the _cuisses_, "this device isnot very worthy of Dom Galors. It speaks of hurry. It speaks, even, ofprecipitation, for if he must needs wear my harness, at least he mighthave carried his own. Galors was flurried. If he was flurried he musthave had news. If, having news, he took my arms, it must have been newsof Isoult. He intended to deceive her by passing for me. Good; I willdeceive his allies by passing for himself. But first I must findSpiridion."

  He had too much respect for his enemy, as you will observe if I havemade anything of Galors. Galors was no refiner, not subtle; he wasdirect. When he had to think he held his tongue, so that you shouldbelieve him profound. When he got a thought he made haste to act uponit, because it really embarrassed him. None of Prosper's imaginingswere correct. If the monk had been capable of harbouring two thoughtsat a time, there would not have been a shred of mail in the room.

  That sodden thing lipped by the restless water was Spiridion. He lay onhis back, thinner and more peaked than ever in life; his yellow hairmade him an aureole. He looked like some martyred ascetic, with histightened smile and the gash half-way through his neck.

  Prosper leaned upon his punt-pole looking sorrowfully at him.

  "Alas, my brother," he said half whimsically, "do you smile? Even so Ithink God should smile that He had let such a thing be made. And if, asI believe, you know the truth at last, that is why you also smile. Butshut your eyes, my brother," he added, stooping to do the office, "shutyour eyes, for you wore them thin with searching and now can seewithout them. Let them rest."

  Very tenderly he pulled him out of the water, very reverently took himto land. He buried him before his own gates, and over him set thecrucifix, which in the end he had found grace to see. He was too good aChristian not to pray over the grave, and not sufficient of a hero tobe frank about his tears. At the end of all this business he found hishorse. Then he rode off at a canter for Hauterive.

  * * * * *

  It is one thing to kindle military fires in the breast of a HighBailiff, quite another to bid them out. Prosper had overstepped hisauthority. The High Bailiff of Wanmeeting held himself in check for thebetter part of a week after his generalissimo's departure; at the endof five days he could endure it no more. His harness clamoured, hissword tarnished for blood; he had fifteen hundred men in steel. Thatwould mean fifteen hundred and one tarnishing blades, and the unvoicedreproaches of fifteen hundred and one suits of mail. In a word, theHigh Bailiff itched to try a fall with the redoubtable Galors de Born.

  He sent, therefore, a man to ring the great bell of the parish church.This assembled the citizens pell-mell, for the times were stirring. TheHigh Bailiff, being assured of his auditory, summoned the garrison, puthimself at the head of them on a black stallion, sounded trumpets, andmarched into the Market-place. The cheers clipped him like heady wine;but it was the eloquence of the women's handkerchiefs that really gavehim heart. Standing in his stirrups, hat in hand, he made a shortspeech.

  "Men of Wanmeeting and brothers," he said, "to-day you shall proveyourselves worthy of your Lady Paramount, of your late master, and ofme. Galors de Born, the arch-enemy, is skulking in his strong tower,not daring to attack us. Men
of Wanmeeting, we will go and bait him.Hauterive is ours. Follow me, crying, Ha! Saint James!"

  "Ha! Saint James!" shouted the men, with their caps pike-high.

  The Bailiff glowed in his skin. He drew his sword.

  "Forward!" He gave the word.

  The entire ardent garrison marched out of the town, and Wanmeeting wasleft with its women and elders, anybody's capture.

  The consequence of these heroical attitudes was, that Prosper, ridinghard to Hauterive, came in sight of a besieging army round about it--atented field, a pavilion, wherefrom drooped the saltire of De Forz, along line of attack, in fine, a notable scheme of offence. He saw asortie from the gates driven back by as mettlesome a cavalry charge ashe could have wished to lead.

  "The Bailiff of Wanmeeting, as I live by bread!" he cried out.

  He stayed for some time watching the fray from a little rising ground.The cavalry, having beaten in the defenders, retired in good order; thearchers advanced to cover a party of pikemen with scaling-ladders.

  "Now is my time to board the Bailiff," said Prosper, and rode coollyacross the field.

  The High Bailiff saw, as he thought, Galors himself riding unattendedtowards him.

  "Ha! negotiations," said he; "and in person! I have hit a mark itseems. I may take a high tone. Unconditional surrender and all arms,hey?"

  Prosper rode up, saluting.

  "Messire de Born," said the Bailiff.

  "Prosper le Gai," said the other.

  "Madam Virgin! I thought you had perished, Messire."

  "Not at all, Bailiff. Was that why you took over my command?"

  The Bailiff bowed. "I gladly relinquish it, Messire."

  Prosper nodded pleasantly.

  "That last charge of yours could hardly have been bettered, though Ithink you might have got in. How many men did you drop?"

  "Ten, Messire. We brought off the wounded."

  "Ten is enough. You shall lose no more. Call off that scaling party."

  The Bailiff repeated the order.

  "Your men know their work," said Prosper; "but why do they cry forSaint James?"

  The High Bailiff coloured.

  "Well, Messire," he said, "there is undoubtedly a Saint James, anApostle and a great Saint."

  "Of the greatest," said Prosper. "But, pardon. I thought your burgh wasdevoted to Saint Crispin?"

  "Messire, it is so. But there were reasons. First, your battle-cryshould be familiar----"

  "As Saint Crispin to Wanmeeting?"

  "As the name of James, Messire. For it is my own poor name."

  "Ah," said Prosper, "I begin to see."

  "Then," said the Bailiff, pursuing his reasons, "a battle-cry should beshort, of one syllable----"

  "Like Saint Dennis?" Prosper asked.

  "Like Saint George, Messire."

  "Or Saint Andrew?" said Prosper sweetly.

  "Or--"

  "Or Montjoy, or Bide the Time, eh, Bailiff?"

  "Messire, you have me at a disadvantage for the moment. The name is,however, that of a Saint."

  "Say no more, Bailiff, but listen. There need be no more bloodshed overthis place. Get your men together, to advance at a signal from within.I will go alone into the town. Now, do you notice that little squarewindow in the citadel? When you see the Saltire hang there you willmarch in and meet me at the Bishop's Gate."

  "Oh, Messire, what will you do?"

  "Leave that to me," Prosper said, as he rode off.

  He rode close to the moat and kept by it, making a half circuit of thewalls. He had calculated on Galors' armour, and calculated well, fornobody molested him from the defenders' side. At the Bishop's Gate hereined up, and stood with his spear erect at the length of his arm.

  "Who comes?" cried the sentry.

  "_Entra per me_," growled Prosper, with a shot for Galors' sulky note.

  The gate swung apart, the bridge fell, the portcullis was drawn up.Prosper rode through the streets of Hauterive amid the silence of theinhabitants and the cheers of the garrison--two very different sets ofpersons. He went into the citadel, displayed the appointed signal, thenreturned on horseback to the Bishop's Gate. He had not a word to say,but this was quite in character. So he stood waiting.

  There was presently a fine commotion at the gate; a man came running upto him.

  "Messire, they are going to attack the gate!"

  "Open it," said Prosper.

  "Messire?"

  "Open it, hound!"

  The man reeled, but carried the order. Prosper rode stately out; andwhen he returned a second time it was at the head of the CountessIsabel's troops.

  "Bailiff," said he, when they were in the citadel and all the news out,"I am no friend of your mistress, as you know; but I am not a thief.Hauterive is hers. To-morrow morning I shall declare it so; until thenGalors, if you please, is Lord. Let me now say this," he continued. "Iadmire you because you have a high heart. But you lack one requisite ofgeneralship, as it appears to me. You have no head. Get back at once toWanmeeting with one thousand of your men, and leave me five hundred ofthem to work with. You may think yourself lucky if you find one stoneon another or one man's wife as she should be. By the time you arethere you will no doubt have orders from High March. You may send newsthither that this place is quiet and restored, as from to-morrowmorning, to its allegiance. Good morning, Bailiff."

  The Bailiff was very much struck with Prosper's sagacity, and went atonce. Prosper and his five hundred men held the citadel.

  He confided his secret to those whom he could trust; the remainderfraternized in the wine shops and dealt liberally in surmise. Thegeneral opinion seemed to be that Galors had married the CountessIsabel.

  * * * * *

  Having thus ridded him of all his charges, Prosper could steer the shipof his mind whither his soul had long looked--to Isoult and marriage.Marriage was become a holy thing, a holy sepulchre of peace to be wonat all costs. No crusader was he, mind you, fighting for honour, but apitiful beaten wayfarer longing for ease from his aching. He did notseek, he did not know, to account for the change in him. It had comeslowly. Slowly the girl had transfigured before him, slowly risen frombelow him to the level of his eyes; and now she was above him. Heshrined her high as she had shrined him, but for different reasons asbecame a man. What a woman loves in man is strength, what a man lovesin women is also strength, the strength of weak things. The strength ofthe weak thing Isoult had been that, she had known how to hold him offbecause of her love's sake. There is always pity (which should becomereverence) in a man's love. He had never pitied her till she fought sohard for the holiness of her lover.

  Oddly enough, Isoult loved him the more for the very attack which shehad foiled. Odd as it may be, that is where the truth lies. As for him,gratitude for what she had endured for his sake might go for nothing.Men do not feel gratitude--they accept tribute. But if they pity, andtheir pity is quickened by knowledge of the pitiful, then they love.Her pleading lips, her dear startled eyes stung him out of himself. Andthen he found out why her eyes were startled and why her lips weremute. She was lovely. Yes, for she loved. This beseeching child, then,loved him. He knew himself homeless now until she took him in.