So it came about that on the morrow Eve and Sir Andrew, accompanied only by a single serving man, fearing no guile since it seemed certain that the Frenchmen were so far away, rode across the moor to Blythburgh. At the manor-house they found the drawbridge up. The watchman at the gate said also that his orders were to admit none, for the Frenchmen being gone, there were but few to guard the place.
“What, good fellow,” asked Eve, “not even the daughter of the house who has heard that her father lies so sick?”
“Ay, he lies sick, lady,” the man replied, “but such are his orders. Yet if you will bide here a while, I’ll go and learn his mind.”
So he went and returned presently, saying that Sir John commanded that his daughter was to be admitted, but that if Sir Andrew attempted to enter he should be driven back by force.
“Will you go in or will you return with me?” asked her companion of Eve.
“God’s truth!” she answered, “am I one to run away from my father, however bad his humour? I’ll go in and set my case before him, for after all he loves me in his own fashion and when he understands will, I think, relent.”
“Your heart is your best guide, daughter, and it would be an ill task for me to stand between sire and child. Enter then, for I am sure that the Saints and your own innocence will protect you from all harm. At the worst you can come or send to me for help.”
So they parted, and the bridge having been lowered, Eve walked boldly to her father’s sleeping chamber, where she was told he lay. As she approached the door she met several of the household leaving it with scared faces, who scarcely stayed to salute her. Among these were two servants of her dead brother John, men whom she had never liked, and a woman, the wife of one of them, whom she liked least of all.
Pushing open the door, which was shut behind her, she advanced toward Sir John, who was not, as she had thought, in bed, but clad in a furred robe and standing by the hearth, on which burnt a fire. He watched her come, but said no word, and the look of him frightened her somewhat.
“Father,” she said, “I heard that you were sick and alone——”
“Ay,” he broke in, “sick, very sick here,” and he laid his hand upon his heart, “where grief strikes a man. Alone, too, since you and your fellow have done my only son to death, murdered my guests, and caused them to depart from so bloody a house.”
Now Eve, who had come expecting to find her father at the point of death and was prepared to plead with him, at these violent words took fire as was her nature.
“You know well that you speak what is not true,” she said. “You and your Frenchmen strove to burn us out of Middle Marsh; my brother John struck Hugh de Cressi as though he were a dog and used words toward him that no knave would bear, let alone one better born than we are. Moreover, afterward once he spared his life, and Grey Dick, standing alone against a crowd, did but use his skill to save us. Is it murder, then to protect our honour and to save ourselves from death? And am I wrong to refuse to marry a fine French knave when I chance to love an honest man?”
“And, pray, am I your father, girl, that you dare to scold at me thus?” shouted Sir John, growing purple with wrath. “If I choose a husband for you, by what right do you refuse him, saying that you love a Dunwich shop-boy? Down on your knees and beg my pardon, or you shall have the whipping you have earned.”
Now Eve’s black eyes glittered dangerously.
“Ill would it go with any man who dared to lay a hand upon me,” she said, drawing herself up and grasping the dagger in her girdle. “Yes, very ill, even though he were my own father. Look at me and say am I one to threaten? Ay, and before you answer bear in mind that there are those at my call who can strike hard, and that among them I think you’ll find the King of England.”
She paused.
“What hellish plot is this that you hatch against me?” asked Sir John, with some note of doubt in his voice. “What have I to fear from my liege lord, the King of England?”
“Only, sir, that you consort with and would wed me to one who, although you may not know it, has, I am told, much to fear from him, so much that I wonder that he has ridden to seek his Grace’s presence. Well, you are ill and I am angered and together we are but as steel and flint, from the meeting of which comes fire that may burn us both. Therefore, since being better than I thought, you need me not and have only cruel words for greeting, I’ll bid you farewell and get me back to those who are kindlier. God be with you, and give you your health again.”
“Ah!” said or rather snarled Sir John, “I thought as much and am ready for the trick. You’d win back to sanctuary, would you, and the company of that old wizard, Andrew Arnold, thence to make a mock of me? Well, not one step do you take upon that road while I live,” and pushing past her he opened the door and shouted aloud.
Apparently the men and woman whom Eve had met in the passage were still waiting there, for instantly they all reappeared.
“Now, fellows,” said Sir John, “and you, Jane Mell, take this rebellious girl of mine to the chamber in the prisoners’ tower, whence I think she’ll find it hard to fly to sanctuary. There lock her fast, feeding her with the bread and water of affliction to tame her proud spirit, and suffering none to go near her save this woman, Jane Mell. Stay, give me that bodkin which she wears lest she, who has learned bloody ways of late, should do some of you or herself a mischief.”
As he spoke one of the men deftly snatched the dagger from Eve’s girdle and handed it to Sir John who threw it into the farthest corner of the room. Then he turned and said:
“Now, girl, will you go, or must you be dragged?”
She raised her head slowly and looked him in the eyes. Mad as he was with passion there was something in her face that frightened him.
“Can you be my father?” she said in a strained, quiet voice. “Oh! glad am I that my mother did not live to see this hour.”
Then she wheeled round and addressed the men.
“Hearken, fellows. He who lays a finger on me, dies. Soon or late assuredly he dies as he would not wish to die. Yes, even if you murder me, for I have friends who will learn the truth and pay back coin for coin with interest a hundredfold. Now I’ll go. Stand clear, knaves, and pray to God that never again may Red Eve cross the threshold of her prison. Pray also that never again may you look on Hugh de Cressi’s sword or hear Grey Dick’s arrows sing, or face the curse of old Sir Andrew.”
So proud and commanding was her mien and so terrible the import of her words, that these rough hinds shrank away from her and the woman hid her face in her hands. But Sir John thundered threats and oaths at them, so that slowly and unwillingly they ringed Eve round. Then with head held high she walked thence in the midst of them.
The prisoners’ chamber beneath the leads of the lofty tower was cold and unfurnished save for a stool and a truckle-bed. It had a great door of oak locked and barred on the outer side, with a grille in it through which the poor wretch within could be observed. There was no window, only high up beneath the ceiling were slits like loopholes that not a child could have passed. Such was the place to which Eve was led.
Here they left her. At nightfall the door was opened and Jane Mell entered, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug of water, which she set down upon the floor.
“Would you aught else?” she asked.
“Ay, woman,” answered Eve, “my thick red woollen cloak from my chamber, and hood to match. Also water to wash me, for this place is cold and foul, and I would die warm and clean.”
“First I must get leave from my lord your father,” said the woman in a surly voice.
“Get it then and be swift,” said Eve, “or leave it ungotten; I care little.”
Mell went and within half an hour returned with the garments, the water and some other things. Setting them down without a word she departed, locking and bolting the door behind her.
While there remained a few rays of light to see by, Eve ate and drank heartily, for she needed food. Then having prayed according to her custom, she laid herself down and slept as a child sleeps, for she was very strong of will and one who had always taught herself to make the best of evil fortune. When she woke the daws were cawing around the tower and the sun shone through the loopholes. She rose refreshed and ate the remainder of her bread, then combed her hair and dressed herself as best she could.
Two or three hours later the door was opened and her father entered. Glancing at him she saw that little sleep had visited him that night, for he looked old and very weary, so weary that she motioned to him to sit upon the stool. This he did, breathing heavily and muttering something about the steepness of the tower stairs. Presently he spoke.
“Eve,” he said, “is your proud spirit broken yet?”
“No,” she answered, “nor ever will be, living or dead! You may kill my body, but my spirit is me, and that you will never kill. As God gave it so I will return it to Him again.”
He stared at her, with something of wonder and more of admiration in his look.
“Christ’s truth,” he said, “how proud I could be of you, if only you’d let me! I deem your courage comes from your mother, but she never had your shape and beauty. And now you are the only one left, and you hate me with all your proud heart, you, the heiress of the Claverings!”
“Whose estate is this,” she answered, pointing to the bare stone walls. “Think you, my father, that such treatment as I have met with at your hands of late would breed love in the humblest heart? What devil drives you on to deal with me as you have done?”
“No devil, girl, but a desire for your own good, and,” he added with a burst of truth, “for the greatness of my House after I am gone, which will be soon. For your old wizard spoke rightly when he said that I stand near to death.”
“Will marrying me to a man I hate be for my good and make your House great? I tell you, sir, it would kill me and bring the Claverings to an end. Do you desire also that your broad lands should go to patch a spendthrift Frenchman’s cloak? But what matters your desire seeing that I’ll not do it, who love another man worth a score of him; one, too, who will sit higher than any Count of Noyon ever stood.”
“Pish!” he said. “‘Tis but a girl’s whim. You speak folly, being young and headstrong. Now, to have done with all this mummer’s talk, will you swear to me by our Saviour and on the welfare of your soul to break with Hugh de Cressi once and forever? For if so I’ll let you free, to leave me if you will, and dwell where it pleases you.”
She opened her lips to answer, but he held up his hand, saying:
“Wait ere you speak, I have not done. If you take my offer I’ll not even press Sir Edmund Acour on you; that matter shall stand the chance of time and tide. Only while you live you must have no more to do with the man who slew your brother. Now will you swear?”
“Not I,” she answered. “How can I who but a few days ago before God’s altar and His priest vowed myself to this same Hugh de Cressi for all his life?”
Sir John rose from the stool and walked, or, rather, tottered to the door.
“Then stay here till you rot,” he said quite quietly, “for I’ll give you no burial. As for this Hugh, I would have spared him, but you have signed his death-warrant.”
He was gone. The heavy door shut, the bars clanged into their sockets. Thus these two parted, for when they met once more no word passed between them; and although she knew not how these things would end, Eve felt that parting to be dreadful. Turning her face to the wall, for a while she wept, then, when the woman Mell came with her bread and water, wiped away her tears and faced her calmly. After all, she could have answered no otherwise; her soul was pure of sin, and, for the rest, God must rule it. At least she would die clean and honest.
That night she was wakened from her sleep by the clatter of horses’ hoofs on the courtyard stones. She could hear no more because a wind blew that drowned all sound of voices. For a while a wild hope had filled her that Hugh had come, or perchance Sir Andrew, with the Dunwich folk, but presently she remembered that this was foolish, since these would never have been admitted within the moat. So sighing sadly she turned to rest again, thinking to herself that doubtless her father had called in some of his vassal tenants from the outlying lands to guard the manor in case it should be attacked.
Next morning the woman Jane Mell brought her better garments to wear, of her best indeed, and, though she wondered why they were sent, for the lack of anything else to do she arrayed herself in them, and braided her hair with the help of a silver mirror that was among the garments. A little later this woman appeared again, bearing not bread and water, but good food and a cup of wine. The food she ate with thankfulness, but the wine she would not drink, because she knew that it was French and had heard Acour praise it.
The morning wore away to noon, and again the door opened and there stood before her—Sir Edmund Acour himself, gallantly dressed, as she noticed vaguely, in close-fitting tunic of velvet, long shoes that turned up at the toes and a cap in which was set a single nodding plume. She rose from her stool and set her back against the wall with a prayer to God in her heart, but no word upon her lips, for she felt that her best refuge was silence. He drew the cap from his head, and began to speak.
“Lady,” he said, “you will wonder to see me here after my letter to you, bidding you farewell, but you will remember that in this letter I wrote that Fate might bring us together again, and it has done so through no fault or wish of mine. The truth is that when I was near to London I heard that danger awaited me there on account of certain false accusations, such danger that I must return again to Suffolk and seek a ship at some eastern port. Well, I came here last night, and learned that you were back out of sanctuary and also that you had quarrelled with your father who in his anger had imprisoned you in this poor place. An ill deed, as I think, but in truth he is so distraught with grief and racked with sickness that he scarce knows what he does.”
Now he paused, but as Eve made no answer went on:
“Pity for your lot, yes, and my love for you that eats my heart out, caused me to seek your father’s leave to visit you and see if perchance I could not soften your wrath against me.”
Again he paused and again there was no answer.
“Moreover,” he added, “I have news for you which I fear you will think sad and which, believe me, I pray you, it pains me to give, though the man was my rival and my enemy. Hugh de Cressi, to whom you held yourself affianced, is dead.”
She quivered a little at the words, but still made no answer, for her will was very strong.
“I had the story,” he continued, “from two of his own men, whom we met flying back to Dunwich from London. It seems that messengers from your father reached the Court of the King before this Hugh, telling him of the slaying in Blythburgh Marsh. Then came Hugh himself, whereon the King seized him and his henchman, the archer, and at once put them on their trial as the murderers of John Clavering, of my knights, and Thomas of Kessland, which they admitted boldly. Thereon his Grace, who was beside himself with rage, said that in a time of war, when every man was needed to fight the French, he was determined by a signal example to put a stop to the shedding of blood in these private feuds. So he ordered the merchant to the block, and his henchman, the archer, to the gallows, giving them but one hour to make their peace with God. Moreover,” he went on, searching her cold impassive face with his eyes, “I did not escape his wrath, for he gave command that I was to be seized wherever I might be found and cast into prison till I could be put upon my trial, and my knights with me. Of your father’s case he is considering since his only son has been slain and he holds him in regard. Therefore it is that I am obliged to avoid London and take refuge here.”
Still Eve remained silent, and in his heart Acour cursed her stubbornness.
“Lady,” he proceeded, though with somewhat less assurance—for now he must leave lies and get to pleading, and never did a suit seem more hopeless, “these things being so through no fault of mine whose hands are innocent of any share in this young man’s end, I come to pray of you, the sword of death having cut all your oaths, that you will have pity on my love and take me as your husband, as is your father’s wish and my heart’s desire. Let not your young life be swallowed up in grief, but make it joyous in my company. I can give you greatness, I can give you wealth, but most of all I can give you such tender adoration as never woman had before. Oh! sweet Eve, your answer,” and he cast himself upon the ground before her, and, snatching the hem of her robe, pressed it to his lips.
Then at length Eve spoke in a voice that rang like steel:
“Get you gone, knave, whose spurs should be hacked from your heels by scullions. Get you gone, traitor and liar, for well I know that Hugh de Cressi is not dead, who had a certain tale to tell of you to the King of England. Get you back to the Duke of Normandy and there ask the price of your betrayal of your liege lord, Edward, and show him the plans of our eastern coast and the shores where his army may land in safety.”
Acour sprang to his feet and his face went white as ashes. Thrice he strove to speak but could not. Then with a curse he turned and left the chamber.
“The hunt’s up,” said Father Nicholas when he had heard all this tale a little later, “and now, lord, I think that you had better away to France, unless you desire to stop without companions in the church yonder.”
“Ay, priest, I’ll away, but by God’s blood, I’ll take that Red Eve with me! For one thing she knows too much to leave her behind. For a second I mean to pay her back, and for a third, although you may think it strange, I’m mad for her. I tell you she looked wondrous standing with her back against that wall, her marble face never wincing when I told her all the lie about young de Cressi’s death—which will be holy truth when I get a chance at him—watching me out of those great, dark eyes of hers.”
“Doubtless, lord, but how did she look when she called you knave and traitor? I think you said those were her wicked words. Oh!” he added with a ring of earnestness in his smooth voice, “let this Red Eve be. At bed or board she’s no mate for you. Something fights at her side, be it angel or devil, or just raw chance. At the least she’ll prove your ruin unless you let her be.”
“Then I’ll be ruined, Nicholas, for I’ll not leave her, for a while, at any rate. What! de Noyon, whom they call Danger of Dames, beaten by a country girl who has never seen London or Paris! I’d sooner die.”
“As well may chance if the country lad and the country archer come back with Edward’s warrant in their pouch,” answered the priest, shrugging his lean shoulders. “Well, lord, what is your plan?”
“To carry her off. Can’t we manage nine stone of womanhood between us?”
“If she were dead it might be done, though hardly—over these Suffolk roads. But being very much alive with a voice to scream with, hands to fight with, a brain to think with and friends who know her from here to Yarmouth, or to Hull, and Monsieur Grey Dick’s arrows pricking us behind perchance—well, I don’t know.”
“Friend,” said Acour, tapping him on the shoulder meaningly, “there must be some way; there are always ways, and I pray you to hunt them out. Come, find me one, or stay here alone to explain affairs, first to this Dick whom you have so much upon the brain, and afterward to Edward of England or his officers.”
Father Nicholas looked at the great Count’s face. Then he looked at the ground, and, having studied it a while without result, turned his beady eyes to the heavens, where it would seem that he found inspiration.
“I am a stranger to love, thank the Saints,” he said, “but, as you know, lord, I am a master leech, and amongst other things have studied certain medicines which breed that passion in the human animal.”
“Love philtres?” queried Acour doubtfully.
“Yes, that kind of thing. One dose, and those who hate become enamoured, and those who are enamoured hate.”
“Then in God’s or Satan’s name, give her one. Only be careful it is the right sort, for if you made a mistake so that she hated me any more than she does at present, I know not what would happen. Also if you kill her I’ll dig a sword point through you. How would the stuff work?”
“She’ll seem somewhat stupid for a while, perhaps not speak, but only smile kindly. That will last twelve hours or so, plenty of time for you to be married, and afterward, when the grosser part of the potion passes off leaving only its divine essence, why, afterward she’ll love you furiously.”
“A powerful medicine, truly, that can change the nature of woman. Moreover, I’d rather that she loved me—well, as happy brides do. Still I put up with the fury provided it be of the good kind. And now how is it to be done?”
“Leave that to me, lord,” said Nicholas, with a cunning smile. “Give me a purse of gold, not less than ten pieces, for some is needed to melt in the mixture, and more to bribe that woman and others. For the rest, hold yourself ready to become a husband before sunset to-morrow. Go see Sir John and tell him that the lady softens. Send men on to King’s Lynn also to bid them have our ship prepared to sail the minute we appear, which with good fortune should be within forty-eight hours from now. Above all, forget not that I run great risk to soul and body for your sake and that there are abbeys vacant in Normandy. Now, farewell, I must to my work, for this medicine takes much skill such as no other leech has save myself. Ay, and much prayer also, that naught may hinder its powerful working.”
“Prayer to the devil, I think,” said his master looking after him with a shrug of his shoulders. “God’s truth! if any one had told me three months gone that de Noyon would live to seek the aid of priests and potions to win a woman’s favour, I’d have named him liar to his face. What would those who have gone before her think of this story, I wonder?”
Then with a bitter laugh he turned and went about his business, which was to lie to the father as he had lied to the daughter. Only in this second case he found one more willing to listen and easier to deceive.
On the following morning, as it chanced, Eve had no relish for the food that was brought to her, for confinement in that narrow place had robbed her of her appetite. Also she had suffered much from grievous fear and doubt, for whatever she might say to Acour, how could she be sure that his story was not true? How could she be sure that her lover did not, in fact, now lie dead at the headsman’s hands? Such things often happened when kings were wroth and would not listen. Or perhaps Acour himself had found and murdered him, or hired others to do the deed. She did not know, and, imprisoned here without a friend, what means had she of coming at the truth? Oh! if only she could escape! If only she could speak with Sir Andrew for one brief minute, she, poor fool, who had walked into this trap of her own will.
She sent away the food and bade the woman Mell bring her milk, for that would be easy to swallow and give her sustenance. After some hours it came, Mell explaining that she had been obliged to send for it to the farmsteading, as none drank milk in the manor-house. Being thirsty, Eve took the pitcher and drained it to the last drop, then threw it down, saying that the vessel was foul and made the milk taste ill.
The woman did not answer, only smiled a little as she left the chamber, and Eve wondered why she smiled.
A while later she grew very sleepy, and, as it seemed to her, had strange dreams in her sleep. She dreamed of her childhood, when she and Hugh played together upon the Dunwich shore. She dreamed of her mother, and thought dimly that she was warning her of something. She heard voices about her and thought that they were calling her to be free. Yes, and followed them readily enough, or so it seemed in her dream, followed them out of that hateful prison, for the bolts clanged behind her, down stairs and into the courtyard, where the sun’s light almost blinded her and the fresh air struck her hot brow like ice. Then there were more voices, and people moving to and fro and the drone of a priest praying and a touch upon her hand from which she shrank. And oh! she wished that dream were done, for it was long, long. It wearied her, and grasped her heart with a cold clutch of fear.
It was past three o’clock on this same day when Eve had drunk the milk and some hours after she began to dream, that Hugh de Cressi and his men, safe and sound but weary, halted their tired horses at the door of the Preceptory of the Templars in Dunwich.
“Best go on to his worship the Mayor and serve the King’s writ upon him, master,” grumbled Grey Dick as they rode up Middlegate Street. “You wasted good time in a shooting bout at Windsor against my will, and now you’ll waste more time in a talking match at Dunwich. And the sun grows low, and the Frenchmen may have heard and be on the wing, and who can see to lay a shaft at night?”
“Nay, man,” answered Hugh testily, “first I must know how she fares.”
“The lady Eve will fare neither better nor worse for your knowing about her, but one with whom you should talk may fare further, for doubtless his spies are out. But have your way and leave me to thank God that no woman ever found a chance to clog my leg, perhaps because I was not born an ass.”
It is doubtful if Hugh heard these pungent and practical remarks, for ere Dick had finished speaking them, he was off his horse, and hammering at the Preceptory door. Some while passed before any answer came, for Sir Andrew was walking in the garden beyond the church, in no happy mind because of certain rumours that had reached him, and the old nun Agnes, spying armed men and not knowing who they were, was afraid to open. So it came about that fifteen minutes or more went by before at length Hugh and his godsire stood face to face.
“How is Eve and where? Why is she not with you, Father?” he burst out.
“One question at a time, son, for whose safe return I thank God. I know not how she is, and she is not with me because she is not here. She has returned to her father at Blythburgh.”
“Why?” gasped Hugh. “You swore to keep her safe.”
“Peace, and you shall learn,” and as shortly as he could he told him.
“Is that all?” asked Hugh doubtfully, for he saw trouble in Sir Andrew’s face.
“Not quite, son. Only to-day I have learned that Acour and his folk never went to London, and are back again at Blythburgh Manor.”
“So much the better, Father, for now I have the King’s warrant addressed to the Mayor and all his Grace’s subject in Dunwich, to take these Frenchmen, living or dead.”
“Ah! But I have learned also that her father holds Eve a prisoner, suffering her to speak with none, and—one lamb among those wolves—Oh! God! why didst Thou suffer my wisdom to fail me? Doubtless for some good purpose—where is my faith? Yet we must act. Hie, you there,” he called to one of the men-at-arms, “go to Master de Cressi’s house and bid him meet us by the market-cross mounted and armed, with all his sons and people. And, you, get out my horse. Mother Agnes, bring my armour, since I have no other squire! We’ll go to the Mayor. Now, while I don my harness, tell me all that’s passed, wasting no words.”
Another half-hour almost had gone by before Hugh met his father, two of his brothers and some men riding into the market-place. They greeted in haste but thankfulness, and something of the tale was told while they passed on to the house of the Mayor, who, as they thought, had already been warned of their coming by messengers. But here disappointment awaited them, for this officer, a man of wealth and honour, was, as it chanced, absent on a visit to Norwich, whence it was said that he would not return for three full days.
“Now what shall we do?” asked Sir Andrew, his face falling. “It is certain that the burgesses of Dunwich will not draw sword in an unknown quarrel, except upon the direct order of their chief, for there is no time to collect them and publish the King’s warrant. It would seem that we must wait till to-morrow and prepare to-night.”
“Not I,” answered Hugh. “The warrant is to me as well as to the Mayor. I’ll leave it with his clerk, which is good delivery, and away to Blythburgh Manor on the instant with any who will follow me, or without them. Come, Dick, for night draws on and we’ve lost much time.”
Now his father tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen, for the fear in his heart urged him forward. So the end of it was that the whole party of them—thirteen men in all, counting those that Master de Cressi brought, rode away across the heath to Blythburgh, though the horses of Hugh’s party being very weary, not so fast as he could have wished.
Just as the sun sank they mounted the slope of the farther hill on the crest of which stood the manor-house backed by winds.
“The drawbridge is down, thanks be to God!” said Sir Andrew, “which shows that no attack is feared. I doubt me, son, we shall find Acour flown.”
“That we shall know presently,” answered Hugh.
“Now, dismount all and follow me.”
They obeyed, though some of them who knew old Sir John’s temper seemed not to like the business. Leaving two of their people with the horses, they crossed the bridge, thinking to themselves that the great house seemed strangely silent and deserted. Now they were in the outer court, on one side of which stood the chapel, and still there was no one to be seen. Dick tapped Hugh upon the shoulder, pointing to a window of this chapel that lay in the shadow, through which came a faint glimmering of light, as though tapers burned upon the altar.
“I think there’s a burying yonder,” he whispered, “at which all men gather.”
Hugh blanched, for might it not be Eve whom they buried? But Sir Andrew, noting it, said:
“Nay, nay, Sir John was sick. Come, let us look.”
The door of the chapel was open and they walked through it as quietly as they could, to find the place, which was not very large, filled with people. Of these they took no heed, for the last rays of the sunlight flowing through the western window, showed them a scene that held their eyes.
A priest stood before the lighted altar holding his hands in benediction over a pair who kneeled at its rail. One of these wore a red cloak down which her dark hair streamed. She leaned heavily against the rail, as a person might who is faint with sleep or with the ardour of her orisons. It was Red Eve, no other!
At her side, clad in gleaming mail, kneeled a knight. Close by Eve stood her father, looking at her with a troubled air, and behind the knight were other knights and men-at-arms. In the little nave were all the people of the manor and with them those that dwelt around, every one of them intently watching the pair before the altar.
The priest perceived them at first just as the last word of the blessing passed his lips.
“Why do armed strangers disturb God’s house?” he asked in a warning voice.
The knight at the altar rails sprang up and turned round. Hugh saw that it was Acour, but even then he noted that the woman at his side, she who wore Eve’s garment, never stirred from her knees.
Sir John Clavering glared down the chapel, and all the other people turned to look at them. Now Hugh and his company halted in the open space where the nave joined the chancel, and said, answering the priest:
“I come hither with my companions bearing the warrant of the King to seize Edmund Acour, Count de Noyon, and convey him to London, there to stand his trial on a charge of high treason toward his liege lord, Edward of England. Yield you, Sir Edmund Acour.”
At these bold words the French knights and squires drew their swords and ringed themselves round their captain, whereon Hugh and his party also drew their swords.
“Stay,” cried old Sir Andrew in his ringing voice. “Let no blood be shed in the holy house of God. You men of Suffolk, know that you harbour a foul traitor in your bosoms, one who plots to deliver you to the French. Lift no hand on his behalf, lest on you also should fall the vengeance of the King, who has issued his commands to all his officers and people, to seize Acour living or dead.”
Now a silence fell upon the place, for none liked this talk of the King’s warrant, and in the midst of it Hugh asked:
“Do you yield, Sir Edmund Acour, or must we and the burgesses of Dunwich who gather without seize you and your people?”
Acour turned and began to talk rapidly with the priest Nicholas, while the congregation stared at each other. Then Sir John Clavering, who all this while had been listening like a man in a dream, suddenly stepped forward.
“Hugh de Cressi,” he said, “tell me, does the King’s writ run against John Clavering?”
“Nay,” answered Hugh, “I told his Grace that you were an honest man deceived by a knave.”
“Then what do you, slayer of my son, in my house? Know that I have just married my daughter to this knight whom you name traitor, and that I here defend him to the last who is now my kin. Begone and seek elsewhere, or stay and die.”
“How have you married her?” asked Hugh in a hollow voice. “Not of her own will, surely? Rise, Eve, and tell us the truth.”
Eve stirred. Resting her hands upon the altar rails, slowly she raised herself to her feet and turned her white face toward him.
“Who spoke?” she said. “Was it Hugh that Acour swore is dead? Oh! where am I? Hugh, Hugh, what passes?”
“Your honour, it seems, Eve. They say you are married to this traitor.”
“I married, and in this red robe! Why, that betokens blood, as blood there must be if I am wed to any man save you,” and she laughed, a dreadful laugh.
“In the name of Christ,” thundered old Sir Andrew, “tell me, John Clavering, what means this play? Yonder woman is no willing wife. She’s drugged or mad. Man, have you doctored your own daughter?”
“Doctored my daughter? I! I! Were you not a priest I’d tear out your tongue for those words. She’s married and of her own will. Else would she have stood silent at this altar?”
“It shall be inquired of later,” Hugh answered coldly. “Now yield you, Sir Edmund Acour, the King’s business comes first.”
“Nay,” shouted Clavering, springing forward and drawing his sword; “in my house my business comes first. Acour is my daughter’s husband and so shall stay till death or Pope part them. Out of this, Hugh de Cressi, with all your accursed chapman tribe.”
Hugh walked toward Acour, taking no heed. Then suddenly Sir John lifted his sword and smote with all his strength. The blow caught Hugh on the skull and down he fell, his mail clattering on the stones, and lay still. With a whine of rage, Grey Dick leapt at Clavering, drawing from his side the archer’s axe he always wore. But old Sir Andrew caught and held him in his arms.
“Vengeance is God’s, not ours,” he said. “Look!”
As he spoke Sir John began to sway to and fro. He let fall his murdering sword, he pressed his hands upon his heart, he threw them high. Then suddenly his knees gave beneath him; he sank to the floor a huddled heap and sat there, resting against the altar rail over which his head hung backward, open mouthed and eyed.
The last light of the sky went out, only that of the tapers remained. Eve, awake at last, sent up shriek after shriek; Sir Andrew bending over the two fallen men, the murderer and the murdered, began to shrive them swiftly ere the last beat of life should have left their pulses. His father, brothers, and Grey Dick clustered round Hugh and lifted him. The fox-faced priest, Nicholas, whispered quick words into the ears of Acour and his knights. Acour nodded and took a step toward Eve, who just then fell swooning and was grasped by Grey Dick with his left hand, for in his right he still held the axe.
“No, no,” hissed Nicholas, dragging Sir Edmund back, “life is more than any woman.” Then some one overset the tapers, so that the place was plunged in gloom, and through it none saw Acour and his train creep out by the chancel door and hurry to their horses, which waited saddled in the inner yard.
The frightened congregation fled from the nave with white faces, each seeking his own place, or any other that was far from Blythburgh Manor. For did not their dead master’s guilt cling to them, and would they not also be held guilty of the murder of the King’s officer, and swing for it from the gallows? So it came about that when at last lights were brought Hugh’s people found themselves alone.
“The Frenchmen have fled!” cried Grey Dick. “Follow me, men,” and with most of them he ran out and began to search the manor, till at length they found a woman who told them that thirty minutes gone Acour and all his following had ridden through the back gates and vanished at full gallop into the darkness of the woods.
With these tidings, Dick returned to the chapel.
“Master de Cressi,” said Sir Andrew when he had heard it, “back with some of your people to Dunwich and raise the burgesses, warning them that the King’s wrath will be great if these traitors escape the land. Send swift messengers to all the ports; discover where Acour rides and follow him in force and if you come up with him, take him dead or living. Stop not to talk, man, begone! Nay, bide here, Richard, and those who rode with you to London, for Acour may return again and some must be left to guard the lady Eve and your master, quick or dead.”
De Cressi, his two sons and servants went, and presently were riding for Dunwich faster than ever they rode before. But, as it proved, Acour was too swift for them. When at length a messenger galloped into Lynn, whither they learned that he had fled, it was to find that his ship, which awaited him with sails hoisted, had cleared the port three hours before, with a wind behind her which blew straight for Flanders.
“Ah!” said Grey Dick when he heard the news, “this is what comes of wasting arrows upon targets which should have been saved for traitors’ hearts! With those three hours of daylight in hand we’d have ringed the rogues in or run them down. Well, the devil’s will be done; he does but spare his own till a better day.”
But when the King heard the news he was very wroth, not with Hugh de Cressi, but with the burgesses of Dunwich, whose Mayor, although he was blameless, lost his office over the matter. Nor was there any other chosen afterward in his place, as those who read the records of that ancient port may discover for themselves.
When Master de Cressi and his people were gone, having first searched the great manor-house and found none in it save a few serving-men and women, whom he swore to put to death if they disobeyed him, Grey Dick raised the drawbridge. Then, all being made safe, he set a watch upon the walls and saw that there was wood in the iron cradle on the topmost tower in case it should be needful to light the beacon and bring aid. But it was not, since the sun rose before any dared to draw near those walls, and then those that came proved to be friendly folk from Dunwich bearing the ill news that the Frenchmen were clean away.
About midnight the door of the chamber in which Sir Andrew knelt by a bed whereon lay Hugh de Cressi opened and the tall Eve entered, bearing a taper in her hand. For now her mind had returned to her and she knew all.
“Is he dead, Father?” she asked in a small, strange voice; then, still as any statue, awaited the answer that was more to her than life.
“Nay, daughter. Down on your knees and give thanks. God, by the skill I gained in Eastern lands, has stayed the flow of his life’s blood, and I say that he will live.”
Then he showed her how her father’s sword had glanced from the short hood of chain-mail which he had given Hugh, stunning him, but leaving the skull unbroken. Biting into the neck below, it had severed the outer vein only. This he had tied with a thread of silk and burned with a hot iron, leaving a scar that Hugh bore to his death, but staunching the flow of blood.
“How know you that he will live?” asked Eve again, “seeing that he lies like one that is sped.”
“I know it, daughter. Question me no more. As for his stillness, it is that which follows a heavy blow. Perhaps it may hold him fast many days, since certainly he will be sick for long. Yet fear nothing; he will live.”
Now Eve uttered a great sigh. Her breast heaved and colour returned to her lips. She knelt down and gave thanks as the old priest-knight had bidden her. Then she rose, took his hand and kissed it.
“Yet one more question, Father,” she said. “It is of myself. That knave drugged me. I drank milk, and, save some dreams, remember no more till I heard Hugh’s voice calling. Now they tell me that I have stood at the altar with de Noyon, and that his priest read the mass of marriage over us, and—look! Oh! I never noted it till now—there is a ring upon my hand,” and she cast it on the floor. “Tell me, Father, according to the Church’s law is that man my—my husband?”
Sir Andrew’s eloquent dark eyes, that ever shadowed forth the thoughts which passed within him, grew very troubled.
“I cannot tell you,” he answered awkwardly after thinking a while. “This priest, Nicholas, though I hold him a foul villain, is doubtless still a priest, clothed with all the authority of our Lord Himself, since the unworthiness of the minister does not invalidate the sacrament. Were it otherwise, indeed, few would be well baptized or wed or shriven. Moreover, although I suspect that himself he mixed the draught, yet he may not have known that you were drugged, and you stood silent, and, it would appear, consenting. The ceremony, alas! was completed; I myself heard him give the benediction. Your father assisted thereat and gave you to the groom in the presence of a congregation. The drugging is a matter of surmise and evidence which may not be forthcoming, since you are the only witness, and where is the proof? I fear me, daughter, that according to the Church’s law you are de Noyon’s lawful wife——”
“The Church’s law,” she broke in; “how about God’s law? There lies the only man to whom I owe a bond, and I’ll die a hundred deaths before any other shall even touch my hand. Ay, if need be, I’ll kill myself and reason out the case with St. Peter in the Gates.”
“Hush! hush! speak not so madly. The knot that the Church ties it can unloose. This matter must to his Holiness the Pope; it shall be my business to lay it before him; yea, letters shall go to Avignon by the first safe hand. Moreover, it well may happen that God Himself will free you, by the sword of His servant Death. This lord of yours, if indeed he be your lord, is a foul traitor. The King of England seeks his life, and there is another who will seek it also ere very long,” and he glanced at the senseless form of Hugh. “Fret not yourself overmuch, daughter. Be grateful rather that matters are no worse, and that you remain as you always were. Another hour and you might have been snatched away beyond our finding. What is not ended can still be mended. Now go, seek the rest you need, for I would not have two sick folk on my hands. Oh, seek it with a thankful heart, and forget not to pray for the soul of your erring father, for, after all he loved you and strove for your welfare according to his lights.”
“It may be so,” answered Eve, “and I’ll pray for him, as is my duty. I’ll pray also that I may never find such another friend as my father showed himself to me.”
Then she bent for a moment over Hugh, stretching out her hands above him as though in blessing, and departed as silently as she had come.
Three days went by before Hugh found his mind again, and after that for two weeks he was so feeble that he must lie quite still and scarcely talk at all. Sir Andrew, who nursed him continually with the help of Grey Dick, who brought his master possets, bow on back and axe at side but never opened his grim mouth, told his patient that Eve was safe and sound, but that he must not see her until he grew strong again.
So Hugh strove to grow strong, and, nature helping him, not in vain. At length there came a day when he might rise from his bed, and sit on a bench in the pleasant spring sunshine by the open window. Walk he could not, however, not only on account of his weakness, but because of another hurt, now discovered for the first time, which in the end gave him more trouble than did the dreadful and dangerous blow of Clavering’s sword. It seemed that when he had fallen suddenly beneath that murderous stroke all his muscles relaxed as though he were dead, and his left ankle bent up under him, wrenching its sinews in such a fashion that for the rest of his life he walked a little lame. Especially was this so in the spring season, though whether because he had received his hurt at that time or owing to the quality of the air none could ever tell him.
Yet on that happy day he thought little of these harms, who felt the life-blood running once more strongly through his veins and who awaited Eve’s long-promised advent. At length she came, stately, kind and beautiful, for now her grief and terror had passed by, leaving her as she was before her woes fell upon her. She came, and in Sir Andrew’s presence, for he would not leave them, the tale was told.
Hugh learned for the first time all the truth of her imprisonment and of her shameful drugging. He learned of the burying of Sir John Clavering and of her naming as sole heiress to his great estates. To these, however, Acour had not been ashamed to submit some shadowy claim, made “in right of his lawful wife, Dame Eve Acour, Countess de Noyon,” which claim had been sent by him from France addressed to “all whom it might concern.” He learned of the King’s wrath at the escape of this same Acour, and of his Grace’s seizure of that false knight’s lands in Suffolk, which, however, proved to be so heavily mortgaged that no one would grow rich upon them.
Lastly he learned that King Edward, in a letter written by one of his secretaries to Sir Andrew Arnold and received only that morning, said that he held him, Hugh de Cressi, not to blame for Acour’s escape. It commanded also that if he recovered from his wound, for the giving of which Sir John Clavering should have paid sharply if he had lived, he and the archer, his servant, should join him either in England or in France, whither he purposed shortly to proceed with all his host. But the Mayor and men of Dunwich he did not hold free of blame.
The letter added, moreover, that the King was advised that Edmund Acour on reaching Normandy had openly thrown off his allegiance to the crown of England and there was engaged in raising forces to make war upon him. Further, that this Acour alleged himself to be the lawfully married husband of Eve Clavering, the heiress of Sir John Clavering, a point upon which his Grace demanded information, since if this were true he purposed to escheat the Clavering lands. With this brief and stern announcement the letter ended.
“By God’s mercy, Eve, tell me, are you this fellow’s wife?” exclaimed Hugh.
“Not so,” she answered. “Can a woman who is Dunwich born be wed without consent? And can a woman whose will is foully drugged out of her give consent to that which she hates? Why, if so there is no justice in the world.”
“‘Tis a rare jewel in these evil days, daughter,” said Sir Andrew with a sigh. “Still fret not yourself son Hugh. A full statement of the case, drawn by skilled clerks and testified to by many witnesses, has gone forward already to his Holiness the Pope, of which statement true copies have been sent to the King and to the Bishops of Norwich and of Canterbury. Yet be warned that in such matters the law ecclesiastic moves but slowly, and then only when its wheels are greased with gold.”
“Well,” answered Hugh with a fierce laugh, “there remains another law which moves more swiftly and its wheels are greased with vengeance; the law of the sword. If you are married, Eve, I swear that before very long you shall be widowed or I dead. I’ll not let de Noyon slip a second time even if he stands before the holiest altar in Christendom.”
“I’d have killed him in the chapel yonder,” muttered Grey Dick, who had entered with his master’s food and not been sent away. “Only,” he added looking reproachfully at Sir Andrew, “my hand was stayed by a certain holy priest’s command to which, alack, I listened.”
“And did well to listen, man, since otherwise by now you would be excommunicate.”
“I could mock at that,” said Dick sullenly, “who make confession in my own way, and do not wish to be married, and care not the worth of a horseshoe nail how and where I am buried, provided those I hate are buried first.”
“Richard Archer, graceless wight that you are,” said Sir Andrew, “I say you stand in danger of your soul.”
“Ay, Father, and so the Frenchman, Acour, stood in danger of his body. But you saved it, so perhaps if there is need at the last, you will do as much for my soul. If not it must take its chance,” and snatching at the dish-cover angrily, he turned and left the chamber.
“Well,” commented Sir Andrew, shaking his head sadly, “if the fellow’s heart is hard it is honest, so may he be forgiven who has something to forgive like the rest of us. Now hearken to me, son and daughter. Wrong, grievous and dreadful, has been done to you both. Yet, until death or the Church levels it, a wall that you may not climb stands between you, and when you meet it must be as friends—no more.”
“Now I begin to wish that I had learned in Grey Dick’s school,” said Hugh. But whatever she thought, Eve set her lips and said nothing.