Then began as mad a fight as any fire-eater could have desired.
The stairway was not more than three feet broad; there was no handrail to it, and it went up steeply, yet Merlin’s men tried to rush it in a body, only to cumber each other and help the man with the sword. Isoult had passed Fulk his shield, and he held it slantwise before him, and used the sword-point under it, knowing that such thrusts were more deadly than any slashing.
One fellow fell full length, run through the body, and those who were crowded together behind him tried to thrust at Fulk with their pikes or hack at him with axe or sword. There was no room for so many weapons at once, and Fulk’s shield was a pent-house that was not to be beaten down. He stabbed at the men from under it, giving swift, fierce thrusts that they could not parry. Two more went down, one rolling over the edge of the stairs; those in front, pressed by Fulk’s sword, fell back on those behind, till the crowd upon the stairs lost its foothold and went tumbling down in confusion.
But these footpads, horse-thieves, and deer-stealers were no sheep; their blood was up, and the devil roused in them. The dead men were taken by the heels, and dragged down the stairs out of the way. They hurled stools at Fulk, benches, fire-irons, the halves of the broken door, even crockery, and iron pots that they brought from the kitchen. It was as though all the cooks and scullions in a king’s castle had gone mad. Three of them seized the daïs table and dragged it up beside the stairway, and so made a kind of fighting platform to take Fulk in the flank. The first who climbed it had an arrow through his throat, for Isoult was ready with her bow. Fulk stabbed the second as he reached up and tried to seize his ankle. The third fellow jumped down again, and two more dead men were lying amid the pile of wreckage on the stairs.
Merlin’s men held back. Two had been slain at the door, three on the stairs; two more were wounded; in all there were but nine of them left standing. They had drawn away to the far end of the hall, where Merlin gnashed his teeth at them and cursed them for cowards.
One of them bethought him of his bow and of the last of the arrows that he had left in the porch. He ran for it, pushed to the front, but was slain by Isoult as he bent his bow. The arrow shot up into the roof of the hall, struck a beam, turned, and dropped back upon the floor.
Fulk glanced anxiously at the torches, for they were burning low. The fools had not thought to put out the lights and to attack in the dark, but Merlin thought of it at that moment.
“Out with the torches.”
Then Fulk did a rash thing. He leapt on to the daïs table, and from it to the floor, and charged the men at the end of the hall. They stared at him stupidly, and then, turning like sheep before a sheep-dog, tumbled out of the great doorway with Merlin at their heels.
Fulk had left three spare torches in the solar. He called to Isoult, bidding her throw them down, and as he waited he could hear Merlin cursing his men outside the porch.
“What, eight to one, and no fight left in you!”
They answered sullenly.
“The man is a devil.”
“And that harness of his is too good.”
“As for the woman—hell take her!—she shoots like Robin of Sherwood.”
Fulk kindled fresh torches and set them in the brackets, and, returning to the stairway, climbed over the wreckage and the dead men, and sat down on the topmost step.
“Well fought! well fought!”
She came and knelt behind him, her bow laid ready.
“Those arrows of yours saved us. By Heaven, I am thirsty.”
She went into the solar, found a piece of clean linen, and, soaking it in wine, took it to him so that he might quench his thirst.
“They are accursedly quiet out yonder. Merlin is dangerous when he is quiet.”
“I would have put an arrow through him, but he kept behind his men.”
Silence held, yet it was a silence that was not absolute, but rather a cautious suppression of sound that hinted at movement going on out yonder in the darkness. The two on the stairs strained their ears, knowing well that some fresh mischief was brewing.
Isoult held up a hand.
“Did you hear that?”
“This helmet muffles things.”
“It was like the sound of dry sticks breaking.”
Fulk started up.
“Faggots! There is a big pile behind the house.”
As he stood listening something flew from the porch across the hall, struck one of the torches, and knocked it out of the bracket. It was a cunning hand that had thrown the stick—a hand that had knocked over many a pheasant roosting low down on a tree on a windy night. A second stick brought down the other torch. One flared on the floor; the other went out instantly. Luckily, it was a stone-paved floor, or the house would have been alight. They still had a torch burning outside the doorway of the solar.
Then they heard Merlin’s voice. He stood in the porch, just screened by the door-post from one of Isoult’s arrows.
“Fulk Ferrers, a word with you and with the woman.”
“Stand forward like a man.”
Merlin laughed.
“I take no risks, since this business must be ended. Fulk Ferrers, you are dead already. We shall use cunning, my friend; we shall not rush like fools on your sword. Since you must die, I come to speak with you and with Isoult.”
“Say your say.”
“The doom has gone out against you, Fulk Ferrers, but not against this woman. Let her choose, or choose you for her. Shall she die or live? For if she bides with you, by all the saints, she shall not be spared.”
Fulk felt Isoult’s hand upon his arm.
“It is my right to answer Merlin. Merlin—you lean cur out of hell, hear me. I bide here, if it be for death; nor shall death be your gift to me.”
He did not answer immediately.
“Good, so be it. But before dawn I will ask you the same question. Think well of death, Isoult. Look in his cold eyes, and think of the worms and the clay.”
The torch on the floor spluttered and went out, and the great hall sank into sudden darkness, for the closed shutters kept out the moonlight. Fulk knew that Isoult was very close to him.
“Heart of mine, we will face it out together.”
“They shall not have thee, Isoult, I swear it. Now that the lights are out we may have these heroes crawling up to take us unawares.”
“There are two oak hutches in the solar. We can pile them one on the other, at the top of the stairs.”
“Well thought of.”
“Hallo, our last torch in there is out.”
They had to grope their way into the solar, feel for the oak chests, and carry them out into the gallery. They set one upon the other, jamming them slantwise across the entry at the head of the stairs.
Fulk went to the window of the solar, guided by chinks of light. It had a central mullion, and two shutters, and there was a drop of about fifteen feet to the ground. He opened one of the shutters noiselessly, and looked down over the window ledge. Something black showed below, three or four faggots laid across two casks that had been set on end. He heard two men whispering in this pent-house, where they were safe from arrows shot from above.
Merlin had had this bolt-hole guarded, and Fulk closed the shutter and went back into the gallery, where Isoult kept watch behind the two oak chests.
They brought a settle out from the solar, and setting it against the wall, made ready for a night’s vigil. Since the last torch had gone out the place was in utter darkness save for one patch of moonlight at the far end of the hall.
Fulk pulled off his right gauntlet, and felt for Isoult’s hand.
“Try to sleep. Why should two keep watch?”
“Then it is you who should sleep.”
“By my love, do you think that I could sleep to-night? There will be some devil’s work to be baffled.”
They sat close together like two children, listening for any sound, for the night had grown strangely silent, and silence told them nothing, save that there was danger near.
An hour passed before Fulk and Isoult heard a sound of stirring in the darkness. Voices spoke in undertones, and there was the crackling of brittle wood. There was movement down yonder in the hall, a kind of groping movement that came nearer and nearer. Fulk stood ready behind the barricade made of chests, thinking that Merlin’s men were crawling up the stairway, but it was a subtler attack that they were preparing.
A faggot was thrown down with a crash at the foot of the stairs. They heard men running. More faggots were carried in and piled in a heap that covered the dead men and the wrecked furniture. The darkness hid them at their work, though there was just one patch of moonlight where the doorway of the hall opened, and Fulk could see nothing more than the suggestion of shadows coming and going across this patch of moonlight.
He found Isoult beside him, and her very nearness quickened his consciousness of their danger.
“Are we to be smoked out?”
“Burnt like rats. The house is all timber and thatch.”
“What’s to be done?”
“Isoult, there is but one thing to be done. Help me to lift this chest aside.”
She put her hands to it, and between them they carried it back into the solar.
“Isoult!”
He caught her and held her almost roughly, for the love in him had come to desperate ends.
“Let us fight rather than burn.”
“That’s the cry. I will give these dogs cold steel in the dark. It is a chance, and nothing more. If I can but clear the hall of them, we can throw faggots across the doorway and hold it. And we can open the shutters and get out of this black pit.”
He held her a moment longer.
“Isoult, bide here, but come to me if I call. It will mean that I have won the fight. If I do not call, you will know how things have sped. Unbuckle these greaves and thigh-pieces; they are too heavy for such a game as hide-and-seek.”
She knelt down and plucked at the buckles, and her fingers trembled a little.
“Fulk, fight through, fight through.”
He touched her hair with his hand.
“There is life for us yet.”
Fulk climbed over the oak chest and went step by step down the stairs, stooping with one hand stretched out to feel what lay before him. He had laid aside his gauntlets, and stuck his dagger into its sheath, meaning to trust solely to his sword and to quick wits and quick feet. Six steps from the bottom his hand touched the faggots, and feeling about him cautiously he found that he could step down on to the daïs table. As he crouched there, faggot after faggot was carried in and thrown upon the pile. Moving along the daïs table to the end wall of the hall, he came upon a gap that had been left, and through it he was able to slip to the ground.
Fulk groped his way round by the wall till he came to the wooden screen across the far end of the hall and was able to see the outline of the great doorway filled with pale moonlight. A man appeared in it, carrying a faggot, but he vanished directly he gained the inside of the hall.
Fulk saw his chance and took it. He could not tell how many men were in the hall, but he judged that he would have to deal with no more than two or three at a time, since they were strung out in their coming and going between the woodstack and the door of the hall. Holding his sword pointed ready, he moved along the screen and reached the borderland where darkness and moonlight met just as another figure appeared in the porch with a couple of faggots on its back.
Fulk struck so hard and so swiftly that the man went down without a cry, the faggots falling on top of him. Fulk kept in the shadow as running footsteps came down the hall. A second figure appeared, bending over the fallen man, not grasping what had happened. Fulk laid him beside his comrade, only to be struck in turn by some invisible enemy. A blow on his helmet made his ears ring.
He thrust in the direction from which the blow had come, struck nothing in the darkness, but heard a quick shuffle of footsteps go up the hall. He gave chase, following the footsteps, drawing his dagger as he ran. The footsteps stopped abruptly, and Fulk halted in response, probing the darkness about him with his sword. He thought that he heard the sound of someone breathing close on his left, and he let out a deep thrust towards the sound, and touched something solid.
The unseen gave a snarl of pain. A body blundered against Fulk, staggered, and gripped him with desperate arms. Fulk could not use his sword, and the man who had closed with him crooked one knee round his, and tried to throw him on his back. They swayed and tottered across the hall, Fulk stiffening every muscle and sinew. His dagger cut that tangle. The man made a sobbing sound in his throat; his arms relaxed; Fulk felt him sink away into the darkness. He used his sword again to make sure of the business, and, turning towards the doorway, reached it as two other figures appeared with faggots on their shoulders. The long sword shot out into the moonlight; the first man fell on his face; the other dropped his faggots and ran.
Fulk called to Isoult, and he heard the crackling of wood as she climbed over the faggots, and for a moment he listened anxiously, wondering whether he had left any live thing lurking in the darkness.
“Here—here, by the doorway.”
He stepped forward into the moonlight, and she joined him there, her bow in her hand, her arrow ready in her girdle.
“Not hurt?”
“Not a scratch. Stand here with your bow. I will give them something to climb over.”
He picked up the fallen faggots and threw them across the doorway, on top of the dead men who lay there. Several more from the stack against the solar stairway made a breastwork four feet high, sufficient to stop a rush.
“Keep in the shadow.”
As he spoke he saw her raise her bow and take a snapping shot at something that had showed outside the porch. A man yelped like a dog struck with a stone. Voices muttered together—voices that moved slowly away from the porch.
Fulk and Isoult stood listening.
“I slew four here: three by the door and one in yonder. That leaves but five.”
Isoult’s eyes never left the panel of light framed by the heap of faggots and the arch of the doorway.
“All the windows are shuttered.”
“They may try to fire the house from the outside—thrust a torch into the thatch.”
“Let them try it. There is God’s air outside for us. Your bow and my sword can tackle five men.”
“Listen!”
She touched his arm, and he heard what she had heard—the splashing of water down by the mere.
“Are more coming over?”
“No, no; it is on this side.”
There was no doubt as to the sound; it was the noise made by the men’s rough paddles striking the water. They had taken to the raft of tree trunks, and were ferrying back across the mere, for the sound went away towards the farther bank.
Fulk dropped his sword, caught Isoult, and held her.
“Isoult, Isoult, death goes over the water.”
“Ah—and life comes in!”
A great silence descended over the Black Mere—a silence that was strangely soft and kindly after that half silence that had hidden the stealthy movements of men. For a while they stood listening, hardly believing that they were alone. But the stillness was unbroken; the peril that had threatened them had melted into the night.
Fulk threw the faggots aside and went out into the moonlight. He was cautious at first, half suspecting some trick, and he looked sharply to right and left as he walked down through the garden to the mere. All ripples had died away; the water lay still and untroubled.
Isoult had followed him, and they held hands and looked over the mere.
“What of to-morrow, Isoult, what of to-morrow?”
“I would rather be beyond the sea, where Merlin is not.”
“Is Merlin still to be feared?”
“He is a lustful hound who has hunted for many masters. Who knows whom he serves?”
They made their way back to the house, but it seemed full of a horror of darkness and of dead men lying in their blood. Isoult would not enter it.
“That darkness would choke me. I would rather lie out under the moon.”
Fulk remembered the horses, and went round to the stables to see if the beasts were safe. The door was still shut as he had left it, and he blessed the good luck that had left them the horses, for they might need them on the morrow.
He found a truss of hay, and, carrying it into the garden, broke the bands, and spread it under an old yew tree about ten paces from the house.
“Lie down and sleep. I will keep watch.”
“We will take turns at watching.”
“Sleep first, then.”
“Promise that you will wake me.”
“I promise.”
She lay down, being dead weary, and conscious of her weariness now that the stress of their peril had passed. Fulk sat down beside her under the yew, and very soon she was asleep; nor had he the heart to wake her that night, though he could hardly keep his own eyes open. So he watched the night out and the dawn in, listening to Isoult’s breathing, and loving her as he listened. The grey half-light grew in the east; the birds woke; a soft wind came out of the west and stirred the willows.
A sudden restlessness seized on Fulk as he looked at Isoult sleeping, and thought of the dead men in yonder. He rose, and went towards the porch, telling himself that he would carry out wine and food, so that the horror of the place should not hurt her.
Dead men and faggots were lying in a tangle by the door. Fulk stepped over them, his nostrils narrowing, his eyes looking at them askance. He threw open several of the shutters, and let daylight into the hall, and it was then that he saw something that made him turn sharply and stand staring at a grey figure that lay in the middle of the hall close to the round hearth.
The grey cowl had slipped back, and a line of grinning teeth and a gaunt, stark chin showed. One arm was half bent and standing up rigidly in the air, the fingers and hand turned over like a shepherd’s crook. It was Merlin, the man who had wrestled with Fulk in the dark and been stabbed for his pains.
Fulk went and stood over him, staring. Then he bent nearer, his eyes fixed upon Merlin’s upraised hand. It was as though the dead man were holding it up for him to see—Richard’s ring, the very ring that Fulk had worn when he had played the King behind the King.
He turned sharply and ran out of the hall, to find Isoult awake and sitting up under the yew. She had unlaced his helmet for him before she had fallen asleep, and Fulk’s face was as grim as a cold winter dawn.
“Merlin is in yonder.”
“Merlin?”
“Dead. He is one of those whom I slew in the dark. I know now whom he served.”
“Ah!”
“He has the King’s ring upon his finger.”
Fulk’s eyes were cold as a frost, and a great and bitter scorn possessed him. He had kept faith with the King and his lords, and now that they no longer needed him they had gone about to be rid of so dangerous a friend by setting bravos to murder him.
Fulk had a sullen face when they sat down under the yew tree to make their morning meal, nor did Isoult vex him with much talking. Her own scorn was up in arms. She thought of Knollys and Cavendish, and of the way they had brought them down to the Black Mere and left them to be set upon and butchered by ruffians and outlaws in charge of an arch-rebel. And somehow she could not believe it—could not believe that Knollys knew.
“Are you sure it is the King’s ring?”
He answered her grimly:
“I wore it on my own finger.”
“Yet I could swear that Knollys knows nothing of it.”
“You think that? It would be strange if he did not!”
His voice was sharp with scorn.
“Knollys planned the adventure. Knollys brought us here—in secret. Pah! it makes my gorge rise!”
“Have faith in a friend. Might not I be the traitress?”
He flashed a look at her.
“Isoult, if I sneer and am savage, bear with me. This—has hurt—more than wounds.”
Instantly she was kneeling before him, her hands on his shoulders.
“I know, I know. Such treachery bites deep. But there are other lands than this, and you and I will seek them.”
He caught her and held her fast.
“Dear heart, heal me. We will ride out together, this very morning, and take ship for France. The shipmen will want money, and, by God, I feel minded to turn robber for a day and empty some rich fool’s purse. We must have money.”
“Sell the horses.”
“Then as to the ports. Southampton and the great ones will be watched. The King’s doom is on us.”
She laughed softly.
“Am I not something of a wanderer, and yet know nothing of the ways? We have no need of ports and shipmen. A fishing-boat will serve. I have money for that.”
She showed him where she had ten gold pieces sewn up in her tunic.
“Isoult, you are a wonder of a woman.”
Yet his face and eyes looked sad.
“We shall go out like beggars. And it was in my heart to make you a great lady, with a ship to carry us, and ‘spears’ in our pay.”
“Then make me a great lady. Who will be prouder than Isoult when your sword wins that which it deserves? A stout heart is better than a full purse.”
He kissed her, and her fresh breath mingled with his, and for a while she lay in his arms, loving him dearly, and the dead men and the King’s ring were forgotten.
Then Fulk gave a sudden cry. She looked up and saw his eyes flashing at something over the water.
“Merlin’s men?”
“No. A pennon and spears.”
She drew away and sprang up, shading her eyes with her hand, the hot colour out of her face.
“It is Knollys! Surely it is Knollys!”
Fulk stood in the shade of the yew.
“Yes, it is Knollys. How many men can you count? Thirty, if there is one. He has come to bury us, perhaps, or to do Merlin’s work if Merlin should have failed.”
“Fulk, I’ll not believe it.”
“We shall know the truth soon enough. Stay here.”
He took his sword, and, walking down to the water’s edge, posted himself there like a sentinel, the point of his sword grounded, his hands resting on the pommel. Knollys and his men came riding down towards the mere, the sunlight flashing on their harness, for the gentry rode armed through the months that followed the rising.
Knollys tossed his spear, but Fulk did not move. He mistrusted all men that morning.
“Hail, hail!”
They reined in on the farther bank, not knowing that dead men had been dragged by the heels into the thickets. But Merlin’s raft of tree trunks lay in the shallows and Knollys eyed it and looked puzzled.
They could see Isoult under the yew tree, and Fulk standing in his harness by the water’s edge, and looking more like an enemy than a friend. Knollys’ face darkened. He spoke sharply to Cavendish, who set his horse beside him.
“Somehow, I smell blood here. And I see no boat.”
He looked across at Fulk, who had not moved, but waited there as though ready to fight any man who should seek to land.
Knollys dismounted, and, climbing down the bank, stepped on to Merlin’s craft that lay among the flags and sedges. It was solid enough, and the rough paddles were there just as the men had left them, but Knollys stepped ashore again and called Cavendish to him.
“Something has flown askew here. Unbuckle this harness of mine. I am going over on this noble ship and may have to swim for it. The lad over yonder looks as though he were in a white rage and ready to fight all Christendom.”
He left his sword and armour with Cavendish, put on his cote-hardie, and, calling two unarmed servants down to the water, bade them take the paddles and ferry him over. It was a slow and a devious passage, the raft doing its best to spin in a circle, for the paddles were clumsy tools. Knollys stood with his feet well apart on the tree-trunks, watching Fulk with increasing curiosity.
“Hold there! Sir Robert Knollys, let those fellows of yours keep their places. I will speak with you—alone.”
His hands were on the hilt of his sword, his head held high, his eyes dangerous.
Knollys sprang ashore.
“What game is this that you are playing, my friend?”
“If you had come armed you would not have set foot here. Tell those fellows to keep their places.”
“Come, come, lad.”
“Knollys, there is a devil in me. Beware! I have looked murder and treachery in the eyes. I trust no man this morning.”
“These are strange words.”
“Are they, by God! If you would see dead men—come hither.”
He turned sharply, and strode off towards the house, Knollys following him with a face that was growing grim. In the porch dead men and faggots were still jumbled together, and the stones were crusted with blood.
Knollys stared.
“Whose men are these?”
“You shall see.”
He led him into the hall where Merlin lay, and stood pointing with his sword.
“Dost know that hound, Knollys?”
“No, by my God!”
“Look closer. Whose ring is that—there, on the crooked hand?”
Knollys stooped, and then straightened, as though dumbfounded.
“The King’s ring!”
“Even so—the King’s ring. And these were the King’s men, these footpads and brothel-sweepings led by that damned priest. We fought and beat them, and they tried to burn the house about us. And this grey hound carried the King’s ring. Strange happenings, Knollys! Stranger still, who was it that betrayed us?”
Knollys started round with a face like thunder.
“Fulk Ferrers, you speak as though you charged me with this.”
“I charge the whole world—till I know the truth. Who brought us here? How was it the place was empty? Who betrayed the secret to Merlin? Who gave Merlin the King’s ring?”
Knollys opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He turned, and began to stamp up and down the hall, glancing at Merlin every time he passed.
“Thunder!”
He wheeled round and faced Fulk.
“By God, lad, such words take some swallowing! And this black treachery! The boy knew! He gave the ring! He has spat upon our honour!”
His eyes were like the eyes of a man leading a charge of horse.
“Shall I, Robert Knollys, have to pledge myself on the Cross? Where is Isoult?”
“Out yonder.”
“Bring her in to me. Let her hear.”
Fulk went out into the garden and brought her into the hall, where Knollys was pacing up and down. He paused in his stride, swung round, and saw Isoult’s bandaged arm.
“Wounded?”
“She turned a knife aside from me, Knollys.”
“Isoult, a woman can look into a man’s eyes and read his honour. Fulk here looks at me askance, as though I, Robert Knollys, were a false and bloody dog fit to hunt with that dead hound yonder. By the Cross of Christ, I knew nothing of this treachery.”
Isoult was ready with her answer.
“I believe it.”
But Knollys looked at Fulk.
“Let him speak, for I was his father’s comrade in arms.”
Something gave way in Fulk’s mistrust. The blood rushed to his face; his eyes grew generous. He stood forward, holding out a hand.
“Knollys, God pardon me. I have had a devil in me since I saw the ring on that friar’s hand.”
“And, by heaven, lad, I too have a devil in me. Richard is at Windsor; I would put this ring in the false boy’s nose.”
He went to where Merlin lay, and, taking the ring from the dead hand, slipped it on his own little finger.
“Madame Isoult, trust your man to me. I will leave Cavendish and a guard here. They shall clear out these shambles. And to-morrow you shall see our faces again.”
She looked Knollys steadily in the eyes.
“Yes, I trust you. But this man of mine has not slept.”
Fulk laughed.
“What is a night without a bed to a forester? Knollys, I am with you. Our horses are in the stable.”
“You shall take Cavendish’s. It will save time, and we can get fresh mounts on the road. I blow like a north wind when my blood is up. Come.”
He took Isoult’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and then turned towards the door.
“Take her in your arms, lad. A brave woman is worth all the good wine in the world.”
It was late in the afternoon when they saw William of Wykeham’s tower rising above the trees like a casket of rose-red marble. The track ran near the river, and a long curve of placid water ended in the great castle set upon its hill. It was lush country, and very green, and pleasant to behold, and in some of the meadows men were making hay.
Fulk had donned his helmet before leaving the Black Mere. He had said but little during the ride, and his heart was still bitter in him. He looked at the great round tower rising against the sky, and muttered to himself, “That the King of such a castle should be a liar and a coward!”
The royal banner drifted in the wind, and as they rode up the narrow street a company of men-at-arms clattered down with a knight in green armour at their head. Knollys beckoned him aside, and they drew apart and spoke together while the men-at-arms rode on. And Fulk looked at them longingly; he would not grumble if he had five hundred such fellows at his back.
Knollys rejoined him.
“Richard is out with his hawks, but will be back before nightfall. The Princess is in the castle, and so are Salisbury and Warwick.”
They rode up to the gate, and the guard passed them when they saw Knollys’ face. In the first court they dismounted, leaving their horses with the grooms. A page came forward. Knollys asked for my Lord of Salisbury, and the lad answered that Salisbury was at chess in the garden with the Princess. Knollys bade him lead on.
He spoke to Fulk as they followed the page.
“Keep your vizor down; say nothing; leave all to me.”
They came into the garden, a green space surrounded by a great yew hedge. Two peacocks strutted about, spreading their tails. In the centre was a stone basin in which goldfish swam to and fro. The Princess had set up her chess-table in the shade of a little stone pavilion that was covered with climbing roses, and on a bench sat three of her ladies, two reading together out of a book, the third busy with gold orfrey work. A page stood behind Salisbury’s chair. The chessmen were of ivory, white and red, and at Knollys’ coming the Princess was conning the board, one hand poised tentatively over her queen.
Knollys and Fulk paused some paces away; Salisbury was bending forward in his chair and frowning a little. The Princess made her move, not having heard the footsteps on the grass.
“Madame, here is Sir Robert Knollys.”
She turned slowly, smiling, though her eyes were sad.
“Sir Robert, our very good friend.”
Knollys walked forward, but Fulk kept apart.
“Madame, I break your game. I ask you to pardon me. I have ridden twenty miles that you may help me to heal my honour.”
“Is a Knollys’ honour ever in need of healing?”
“Madame, it has suffered in serving another.”
He glanced meaningly at the gentlewomen and at Salisbury’s page. The Princess understood.
“Ladies, I would be alone.”
They rose, bowed to her, and moved away over the grass. Salisbury spoke to his page.
“Get you gone, child.”
He too rose, but Knollys motioned him to remain.
“My lord, your honour is in like case with mine. We need you here with us.”
The Princess glanced at Fulk, who stood some ten paces away in the shadow of the yew hedge.
“Who is that man who comes to us in harness—with his vizor down?”
“Madame, you shall hear. Of your courtesy I would ask you to look at this ring.”
He gave her the ring that he had taken from Merlin’s hand, and she held it in her palm, her eyes growing suddenly troubled.
“It is my son’s ring.”
She looked steadily at Knollys.
“Sir, I charge you—tell me, has anything evil befallen my son?”
“Madame, my news does not run that way. No harm has come to the King through this ring, save the harm that he has done to his own soul and to my honour. I pray you, let my Lord of Salisbury see it.”
She passed it to Salisbury, her pride rising.
“How came you by this ring, Sir Robert?”
“I took it this day from the hand of a dead man—a man who had been sent out to murder, but had been slain by him whom he was to murder.”
“What mean you?”
“Madame, I will tell you why my honour is sorely wounded, as is the honour of my Lord Salisbury and all those who counselled the King. Was it not but yesterday that a certain young man saved this kingdom? Did he not keep faith with us, and did not we pledge ourselves to keep faith with him?”
Her eyes darkened as she heard him.
“Sir Robert Knollys, I judge that I am no coward. If some shameful thing has happened, let us have the truth, and that quickly.”
“Madame, when the Devil gets to work, the wrath in a man is apt to rage. Need I tell you how Fulk Ferrers and Isoult of the Rose were sent secretly to the Black Mere? The King knew it. Whether another tempted him I cannot say, but a certain Franciscan led some thirty rogues thither. Wit and bold fighting saved Fulk Ferrers. The friar was slain in the fight, and on his finger was the King’s ring.”
She sat stiffly in her chair, bleak-faced and horror-stricken.
“Is this possible?”
Her eyes wandered towards Fulk, and Knollys understood the look.
“Madame, it is he. Forgive him if he is bitter against his own half-brother.”
For some moments the Princess sat rigid, staring at nothing. Then she spoke in a slow, toneless voice.
“Let him draw near.”
When Fulk Ferrers looked on the Princess’s face a sudden great and chivalrous pity stirred in him. The look in her eyes slew the bitterness in him.
“Fulk Ferrers, let me see your face.”
He put his vizor up, and, going on one knee, bent his head to her.
“Madame, it seems that I have brought you evil when I would have brought you good.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Look up. Ah, how strange! Should I not hate you, Fulk Ferrers, with all the strength of the woman in me?”
He answered her simply.
“Hate me, Madame, if it eases your heart. For, somehow, you have put all anger out of me.”
She looked at him intently.
“Why has God given you what my son has not? Had not his father courage? Am I a coward? Oh, it is bitter!”
She strove with herself, and her face grew beautiful as her calm pride won the day.
“Sir Robert Knollys, and you, my Lord of Salisbury, I swear that no dishonour shall live when I can drive it forth. I will go through with this to the end. Who knows but that out of deep shame honour may rise re-born and valiant?”
She rose from her chair.
“Come with me to the King’s chamber to-night. Let Fulk Ferrers be ready without the door. I will see this great wrong righted.”
They stood with bowed heads as she left them there in the garden.