CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVII

Said Marpasse to Isoult:

“If the Lord had loved us he would have kept the King at Oxford until we came there to drink wine.”

And Isoult, a little woman, the colour of ivory, lithe and strong as a snake, threw a handful of sand at Dame Marpasse, and laughed.

“Since they have taken Young Simon prisoner,” she said, “there will be no chance for the like of us under the banner of the Old Earl. God grant that Simon be soon put under the sods. He would freeze all the young men in the country. God prosper the King.”

Marpasse had taken off one of her stockings, and was darning a hole in the heel, and darning it very clumsily.

“They have slaughtered the Jews in London, and the King should come south again to see after the remnant of his flock. They say his host is moving nearer the river. We must look to our manners, my dear; I will be nothing under a great lady.”

Isoult shot out a red tongue.

“Supposing I look no lower than Prince Edward himself! We must fill our purses soon. These cursed marchings to and fro have left us out in the cold. Once in the King’s camp, I will sleep in a lord’s tent, and no other. And I will have siclatouns and silks, for there will be London and half the country to plunder.”

Marpasse looked solemn.

“They must beat Earl Simon out of the country first,” said she; “the old watchdog keeps the meat from being stolen. Phew, I would give something for a loaf of bread. We shall have to bide the night here, and chew grass. What a curse it is sometimes to wear gay clothes, and to have no gentleman near to take one up on his horse.”

Great contrasts were these two; Isoult, black as midnight as to eyes and hair, sharp, peevish, slim of body, red of mouth and white of skin; Marpasse, with large handsome face brown as a berry, hard blue eyes shining under a mop of tawny hair, and a mouth ready to break into giggles. They were resting on the road, these excellent gentlewomen, in the shelter of a sand-pit on the hills beyond Guildford, their baggage, such as it was, spread about them in happy confusion. Isoult had a great slit in her poppy-red tunic, a slit that showed the white shift beneath. She was waiting till Marpasse, that tawny woman who loved bright colours, should finish with the needle. But Marpasse’s darning was slow and clumsy, and Isoult plucked grass and gnawed it, watching the sandy track that went winding down into the valley.

Marpasse finished her botching at last, and wiping the sand from between her toes, pulled on her stocking. She stuck the needle into a wisp of thread, and tossed it into Isoult’s lap. But Isoult was still gnawing grass, and staring down the road with a brooding alertness in her eyes.

“Here comes a grey goat,” she said suddenly, spitting out a blade of grass, and wiping her chin, “maybe she is worth being gentle to. Who knows! At all events, we are hungry.”

Marpasse wriggled forward so that she had a view of the road. One stout leg protruded from under the skirt of cornflower blue, and the Juno’s limb betrayed a further need of the needle.

“Hey, grey gull, but you are tired, my dear.”

“Tired! Bah!” and Isoult bit her lips, “only married women walk so, as though they had a stick laid across their shoulders each morning.”

Marpasse held her ground.

“You should know enough of the road, little cat, to tell when a padder is footsore, and far spent. God a’ me, but she is good to look at, though she be lame. And a bag, too. If she has bread in it, I will call her dear sister.”

The woman in grey whom Isoult had sighted, came to the mouth of the sand-pit, and saw these two wenches in their bright clothes watching her; and when one of them smiled and beckoned, Denise stood hesitating, and then smiled in return. But the smile was so weary and so sad, that Marpasse, that big woman with the head of a sunflower, jumped up, and went out into the road.

Marpasse looked Denise over from head to foot, yet behind the rude and bold-eyed stare there was the instinctive good nature of a coarse, generous, vagrant spirit. Marpasse’s self-introduction was like a friendly slap of the hand. She spoke straight out, and did not stop to parley.

“The roads might be strawed with peppercorns in this dry weather. It is hot in the sun too, on these hills.”

She glanced at Denise’s feet. The shoes were dusty and worn, with the pink toes showing. Marpasse laughed. She was a hardy soul, and her brown feet were like leather.

“If you are going to Guildford, you will not make the town to-night.”

“I know the road, I travelled it only a week ago.”

“God o’ me, mistress, so do I. Come in, and rest, we are two quiet women. And we have wine and no bread. If you have bread, I will strike a bargain.”

Denise looked from Marpasse to Isoult, that slip of ivory swathed in flaming red. The two women puzzled her. She had neither character nor calling to give them, but Marpasse looked buxom, and good-tempered, and Denise had no cause to trust people who pretended to great godliness. Moreover she was very weary and very footsore, and very thirsty, as Marpasse had hinted.

The first thing she did was to give Marpasse the bag she carried.

“There is bread there,” she said, “and some apples.”

Marpasse stared, but took the bag. Isoult had crept up, and her eyes were bright and greedy. She snatched at the bag, but Marpasse caught her wrist, and gave her a slap across the cheek.

“Play fair, little cat,” said she, “I cheat no one who does not try to cheat.”

Then she turned to Denise with a laugh, her hard eyes growing suddenly soft and bright.

“Take your share, sister, and welcome,” she said, “two mouthfuls of wine for a crust of your bread. Come in. I will keep Dame Red Rose’s fingers quiet. There are worse places to sleep in than a sand-pit.”

Peaceable folk might have fought shy of these boldly coloured, and bold-eyed women, but Denise had suffered so many things at the hands of the world that she did not stand upon dignity or caution. Marpasse and Isoult puzzled her, being so gaudy and yet so ragged, so broad and merry in their talk. When they had drunk wine and broken bread together, Marpasse came and sat herself at Denise’s feet. She unlaced the worn shoes, and finding blood and chafed skin beneath, made a noise like a clucking hen.

“You are not used to the road yet, my dear,” said she, “it is time I played the barber.”

In her blunt and practical way she pulled off Denise’s stockings, doing it gently enough, for the feet were chafed and sore.

“Black cat, throw me the oil flask.”

Isoult demurred, looking a little sullenly at Denise. For Isoult was fond of oiling and smoothing her black hair, and there would be no oil left for the toilet.

Marpasse took it by force.

“I understand these matters,” she said, “you are a selfish brat, Isoult.”

Marpasse’s broad face was so brown and kind, and her hands so motherly, that a wet mist came into Denise’s eyes. She was astonished that the woman should take so much trouble, and was touched by her great gentleness. Isoult, who was watching, saw two tears gather in Denise’s eyes, and she started up with an angry toss of the head, and a snap of her white teeth. Marpasse, bending over Denise’s feet, saw those two tears fall on to Denise’s skirt. She looked up suddenly, and for some reason showed her roughness. Such women as Marpasse and Isoult had a ferocious contempt for tears.

“Bah, come now, no snivelling. I have not hurt you, don’t pretend that.”

“You have not hurt me at all. It was not that.”

“Oh, not that! Then what are you blubbering for?”

“Not many people would have troubled about my feet,” said Denise, almost humbly.

“Bah, many people are fools.”

The two women looked at each other, and Marpasse seemed to understand. She went red under her brown skin, laughed at herself contemptuously, and began to drop in the oil.

“The Black Cat has prowled away,” she said, “and the cat is a selfish beast. Now for some cool grass.”

She scrambled aside, and tearing grass from some of the tussocks on the bank, moulded the stuff about Denise’s feet, binding it in place with pieces of rag.

“You will walk easier to-morrow,” she said, smiling, “and you had better buy new hose in Guildford town.”

She was still smiling when Denise bent down and kissed the coarse, laughing, good-natured mouth.

“Bah, if you had a beard, it might please me,” quoth Marpasse.

But from that moment she and Denise were friends.

The three of them slept that night in the sand-pit, Marpasse showing Denise how she could scoop a hole in the sand, and lie in comfort. And Denise slept till after the dawn had broken. When she woke, the two were packing their belongings into a sack.

Denise felt that they had been talking about her while she slept, for they eyed her a little curiously, but with no cunning or distrust. Nor was Denise’s instinct at fault. “She is not one of us,” Marpasse had said, “not yet, at all events, poor baggage.” And Marpasse had looked almost pityingly at Denise, for her face was beautiful yet very sad in sleep, bathed by its auburn hair. “She has had trouble,” Marpasse had gone on to declare; “curses, I was more like that myself once.” Whereat Isoult had jeered.

Marpasse came over, and unbound Denise’s feet, and in the doing of it, asked a few blunt questions.

“Maybe you would not be seen with us on the road?” she asked.

Denise’s brown eyes answered “why?” Marpasse looked at her and smiled.

“Where may you be going?”

This time Denise’s eyes were troubled, they had no answer.

“Nowhere, and anywhere? God o’ me. I learnt that road long ago, and a rough road it is. Come with us, if it pleases you. I am a wise crow.”

Denise looked puzzled. She liked Marpasse, and human sympathy was something, but she could make nothing either of her or of Isoult, save that Isoult had a jealous temper. They were so very gay for beggars, nor had they the air of being upon a pilgrimage.

“Perhaps you are for Canterbury?” she asked.

Marpasse sat back on her heels, and opened her mouth wide to laugh.

“No, my dear, we are not for St. Thomas’s shrine. We are in search of service, Isoult and I. Isoult is travelling to find service in the household of some lord.”

Denise’s eyes were innocent enough as she looked at Isoult, but the girl bit her lips, and turned away. Marpasse had mastered her laughter. On the contrary she was studying Denise with a questioning frown.

“Are you after St. Thomas’s blessing, my dear?” she asked.

Denise did not know how to answer her, and Marpasse, who was wondrous quick for so big a woman, picked up Denise’s shoes and began to lace them on.

“You can come with us as far as you please, my sister,” she said, “and when that body there is asleep some time, you and I can talk together. I am called Marpasse, and I am a very wicked woman, and the good priests curse me, and the bad priests curse me also, but look after me along the road. I am so wicked that I shall certainly be claimed by the devil one day. That is what I am, my dear; but a speckled apple is sometimes sweet under the skin.”

She laughed with a kind of fierce bravado, and Denise saw her eyes flash.

Isoult broke into a sharp and malicious giggle.

“What a good girl you were once, Marpasse!”

“I was that,” said the elder woman, looking at Denise’s feet; “men make, men break, and good women prevent the mending. That is what life has been to many.”

They set out for Guildford that morning over the blue hills where the gorse blazed, and a few solitary firs rose black against the sky. It was a wild country, and Denise was in wild company had she known it, for little Isoult had had blood on the knife she carried at her girdle, and Marpasse could use a heavy hand. They trudged on over the heathlands, Isoult walking a little ahead, sometimes humming a song, sometimes glancing back sharply and impatiently at Denise. For Marpasse took her time, remembering that Denise was footsore, and she talked to Denise freely, telling her where she was born, and how she had lived, and how she had come to the road.

“For we are beggars, my dear,” she said, “though Madame Isoult there has a red dress. We must live, and the good women turn up their noses. But good women often have sharp tongues and sour faces, and the poor men run to the mead butt and to us for comfort.”

Marpasse was so frank that she could not but doubt that Denise knew what company she was in. But Denise had taken a liking to Marpasse, and perhaps for that reason she did not read very clearly the truth that the woman put honestly upon her own forehead. It was not surprising that Marpasse should draw her own conclusions, yet she was sorry in her heart for Denise.

The day passed, a day of blue haze, of blue distances, and of sunlight shimmering over purple hills. Bees were on the wing, humming here and there amid the gorse. At noon the women shared out the bread, wine, and apples, and Marpasse looked at Denise’s feet. It was near evening when they came over the last hill towards Guildford town, with the west a pyre of peerless gold.

Isoult, who walked ahead of the other two, turned suddenly, and waved to them, and pointed towards the sky line. And against the deep blue of the northern sky they saw a line of spears moving, with here and there the black dot of a man’s head. A banner was displayed at the head of the company, but neither Isoult nor Marpasse could decipher it at such a distance.

The line of spears went eastwards towards Guildford, and dropped slowly out of view. Denise saw that Black Isoult’s nostrils had dilated and that her eyes had the glitter seen in the eyes of a beast of prey. She ran on ahead, light on her feet as a young lad, and they saw her stand outlined against the sky line, and then turn and wave her arm.

Below, towards the valley, dark masses of men were moving on Guildford town. The faint braying of the trumpets came up on the evening breeze. Isoult saw a part of the King’s host on the march.

She tossed her head, laughed, and spread her arms.

“The good saints have blessed us,” she said, and she looked at Denise curiously under her black brows as though searching her inmost heart.

Marpasse beamed.

“Our grey sister has brought us luck. We must keep our wits sharp to-night.”

They went on down the hill, and Isoult, walking softly and lightly as a cat, pointed out where a great baggage train lumbered with a crowd of people like black ants about it. Already they were pitching tents and pavilions in the meadows outside the town. The evening sunlight seemed to strike upon water, for the glitter of the King’s host was like the glitter of a river flowing in the valley. Everything looked so peaceful and minute, so orderly, and yet so human. It was like the green grass over a quagg, bright and rich at a distance, but covering rottenness beneath. Up on the hills one did not smell the sweat of the horses nor hear the men’s foul talk, nor see the savagery that was loose in their eyes.

Isoult turned, and looked sharply at Marpasse.

“Shall we try the town?”

Marpasse shook her head. Her face was hard now, and her eyes watchful. Denise wondered at the change that had come over the two women.

“A quick bargain is a bad one,” said Marpasse, “let us bide our time, and listen. We are good enough to take our choice. I shall keep my knife in my hand to-night.”

And they went on down hill towards the camp that was being pitched about the town.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Night came while Marpasse and Isoult were building a fire under the lee of a grass bank in a meadow outside Guildford, for Marpasse, shrewd woman, had no sooner heard the din that the King’s men were making in the town, than she had chosen to pass the night in the open rather than within the walls.

“They will all be drunk as swine,” she said, “and a drunken man is no bargain. Out with your knife, Black Cat, and run and cut some of that furze yonder. Some lazy soul has left faggots in that ditch.”

Marpasse made Denise sit down under the shelter of the bank, for the grey sister’s feet had hurt her through the last two miles. So Denise sat there in the dusk, lost in a kind of vacant wonder at life, and at herself, and at the strange way that things happened. She felt tired, even to stupidity, and the sounds that came up out of the town were not more audible than the roar of a distant mill.

Marpasse and Isoult made the fire, Isoult using the flint, steel and tinder they carried with them, Marpasse playing the part of bellows. The fire proved sulky, perhaps because of Isoult’s temper, and her muttering of curses. Marpasse knelt and blew till her brown cheeks were like bladders. The flames seemed pleased by her good-natured, strenuous face, for they shot up, and began to lick the wood.

Marpasse sat back suddenly on her heels, her face very red, and shading her eyes with her hand, she looked out into the darkness.

“Poof, is it the blood in my ears, or do I hear something?”

Isoult was also on the alert, her eyes bright under a frowning forehead.

“Horses,” she said.

“What are they doing this time of the night?”

From somewhere came the dull thunder of many horses at the trot. Nothing was distinguishable but the fires that had been lit here and there about the town, fires that shone like golden nails on the sable escutcheon of the night. Isoult, who was very quick of hearing, swore that more than a thousand horses must be moving yonder in the darkness.

“Curses, but it must be the rear-guard,” said Marpasse; “God send them clear of us, or we shall be over-crowded. The fire will save us from being trampled on.”

The thunder of hoofs came nearer, a sound that sent a vague shudder through the darkness as though something infinitely strong and infinitely savage were rushing on out of the gloom. The earth shook. A sense of movement grew in the outer darkness, a sense of movement that approached like a phosphorescent wave swinging in from a midnight sea. Then a trumpet screamed. There was a rattling and chafing like the noise made by the tackle of a great ship when she puts about in a high wind. A shrill, faint voice from somewhere shouted an order. The belated rear-guard of the host, for such it was, halted within a furlong of the women’s fire.

Marpasse shook her fist at the dark mass.

“Fools, you should have been drunk down yonder in the town by now! We can do very well without you. And as likely as not you will thieve our fire.”

Isoult laughed.

“Some thieves might be welcome,” she said.

And Denise, who had listened to it all with tired apathy, seemed to wake suddenly and to feel the cold, for she shivered and drew nearer to the fire.

Despite the newcomers, Isoult, Marpasse and Denise sat round the burning wood, breaking their bread, and listening to the shouts of the men, and the trampling and snorting of horses. It was pitch dark beyond the circle of light thrown by the fire, though torches began to go to and fro like great moths with flaming wings. Marpasse and Isoult both had their ears open. They were rough women in the midst of rough men, and their instincts were as fierce and keen as the instincts of wild things that hunt or are hunted at night.

Voices seemed to rise everywhere in the darkness. A waggon went creaking by, with the cracking of a whip, and the oaths of the driver. Mallets began to ring on the polls of stout, ash pegs and Isoult pricked up her ears at the sound.

“They are pitching a tent yonder!”

Marpasse nodded as she munched her bread.

“Some of the lords must be near,” Isoult ran on, “we may be in good company. The saints bring us luck.”

Her eyes met Denise’s, and there was a startled something in Denise’s glance that made Isoult flinch, and then burst into spiteful laughter. Isoult had the wine flask in her hand, and she lifted it, and drank deep.

“Blood of mine, have we an unshorn lamb here?”

She stared at Denise impudently as though challenging her. Denise looked away.

Isoult’s face sharpened, the face of a little vixen ever ready to snap and bite.

“Lord, how proud we are! Coarse sluts, that is what we are, Marpasse.”

The big woman held up a brown hand.

“Keep your claws in, cat,” she said, “you were born quarrelling. Curse you, be quiet.”

And Isoult obeyed, having felt the weight of Marpasse’s fist.

It was not long before a couple of soldiers passed close to the fire, and seeing the three women, red, blue, and grey, they stopped, and began to talk banteringly to Marpasse and Isoult. The women returned the men better than they gave, and showed them plainly that they had no need of their company, for the fellows were rough boors, and sweeter at a distance. Denise sat and shuddered, huddling into herself with instinctive disgust, and understanding why Marpasse had a naked knife in her sleeve. The men slunk off, sending back jeers out of the darkness, for Marpasse had shown her knife.

“The sting of a wasp keeps such flies from buzzing too near,” she said; “we are great ladies on occasions, Isoult and I. We cherish our dignity for the sake of the gold.”

They went on with their meal, hearing movement everywhere about them in the darkness. Isoult’s eyes were fixed upon a fire about a hundred yards away, whose light seemed to play upon the rose-coloured canvas of a tent. Men were going to and fro there, and Isoult guessed that it was some great lord’s pavilion. As for Marpasse she ate, drank, and kept eyes and ears upon the alert.

Denise had nothing before her but the black half sphere of the night chequered with the yellow flutter of the fires. Isoult and Marpasse sat facing her and looking towards the town. Therefore they did not see what Denise saw, the tall figure of a man in war harness, unhelmeted, and wearing a blue surcoat blazoned over with golden suns. He came along the bank out of the darkness, and stood looking down at the three women round the fire.

Now Denise’s hood was back, and the firelight shining on her hair and face. Gaillard stood on the bank above, and stared at her, intently, silently, and she at him. Denise felt stricken dumb, and the heart froze in her, for Gaillard was near enough for her to recognise his face. It seemed to Denise that he stood there and gloated over her, opening his mouth wide to laugh, but making no sound. She saw him raise his hand, touch his breast, and then make the sign of the cross in the air, watching her as a ghost might watch the confused and half-stupefied terror of one awakened out of sleep.

Marpasse happened to raise her eyes to Denise’s face, and its bleak, fixed stare put her upon the alert.

“Heart alive, sister, is the devil at my back?”

She twisted round in time to see a man moving off into the darkness, and Marpasse caught a glimpse of the gold suns on the blue surcoat. She jumped up, looked hard at Denise, and then went a few steps after Gaillard into the darkness. But the man did not wait for her, and she was recalled by a sharp cry from Isoult.

Marpasse saw Denise climb the bank, and disappear into the darkness, and in a moment Marpasse was after her, knowing more than Denise knew of a camping ground at night. She still had view of the grey cloak, and Denise fled like a blind thing, and like a blind thing she was soon in trouble. She had run towards the place where the night seemed blackest, but the passion of her flight carried her into nothing more sympathetic than an old thorn hedge. It was here that Marpasse came up with her, while she was tearing her cloak free from the clinging thorns and brambles.

She caught Denise and held her.

“Fool, where are you running?”

“Let me go, Marpasse.”

Denise’s voice was fierce and eager, the eager fierceness of a grown woman, not the petulance of a child. She struggled with Marpasse, but the woman kept her hold.

“Let me go, take your hands away!”

Marpasse found Denise stronger than she had thought.

“Fool, I am holding you for your own good. Strike me on the mouth, I am used to it. I know what a camping ground is like at night. Some great, fat spider will have you in a twinkling.”

Denise struggled for breath.

“I must go, Marpasse, take your hands away.”

“Saints, don’t shout so, they are as thick here as flies on a dead horse! Ssst, listen to that!”

She dragged Denise close to the hedge, for they heard men stumbling and calling in the darkness.

“Hallo there, hallo!”

“Come here, you squeakers, and keep us company.”

“Find ’em, good dog, find ’em.”

Marpasse laid a hand over Denise’s mouth, and they crouched there while the men beat the hedge and shouted like boys bird hunting with clap nets at night. They were on the wrong side of the hedge, however, and soon grew tired of the game. The women heard them move off into the darkness.

Marpasse took her hand from Denise’s mouth.

“There, you grey pigeon, the night hawks would have had you!”

“Help me, Marpasse. My God, I cannot stay here.”

She was still in a fever for flight, but more reasonable towards Marpasse. The woman sat down under the hedge, and pulling Denise after her, held her in her arms.

“Let me play mother,” quoth she gently, “keep to a whisper, my dear. I know something about trouble.”

So with the camp fires about them, and with the sound of trumpets blown madly and at random in the town below, these two women opened their hearts to one another. Denise told Marpasse how Gaillard had served her, how she had seen him that night, how she loathed and feared the man, and Marpasse understood. She was wise, poor wench, in the ways of the world, and Denise’s tale might have been her own in measure. But Marpasse had not been wholly hardened and brutalised by the life she had led. She had the instinct of generosity left in her, and she could be superlatively honest when she was not rebuffed by sneers.

Marpasse had an honest fit that night. She told Denise the truth about herself, and knew by Denise’s silence and a certain stiffening of her body that the truth had roused a counter-shock of repulsion. Denise’s instincts recoiled from Marpasse. The woman was sensitive to the change. She drew aside from Denise, and sat with her knees drawn up, and her arms clasped over them.

“You are like the rest of the world, sister,” she said, with a laugh on edge with bitterness; “even when we try to be honest, good people spit on us, and draw aside their clothes.”

Denise stretched out a hand and touched Marpasse’s shoulder.

“It is not that,” she said.

“Bah, I am used to it! We are never forgiven, and I want no forgiveness. Fawn and cringe on the godly? To hell with their smug faces! But after all, you and I, my dear——”

She stopped, and began to pull at the grass with her hands. Denise’s eyes were shining.

“God forgive us both, Marpasse. Sometimes fate is stronger than we are. We are sisters, in that.”

Marpasse did not move. It was Denise now who played the comforter. Marpasse did not repel her a second time.

“Bah,” said she, “what is the use of talking? The good people will never let me be other than I am, and even a pig must live. But you, you can climb out of the quagmire, my dear. The Gascon devil, I would stick my knife in him for nothing. Listen to me now, we must go back to the fire, and wait till the morning. It will be easier to bolt then. You must not risk it in the dark.”

Denise still clung to the darkness, as though it could keep Gaillard at arm’s length. Marpasse scolded her.

“Why, you chicken, you have never learnt how to rule a man! Who is this Gaillard, indeed? I tell you I am not afraid of him, Marpasse is a match for any Gascon.”

She held out her arms, and the Denise she held in them was white-faced, and very earnest.

“You have a knife, Marpasse,” she said, “you can strike me if needs be.”

Marpasse held her close.

“There, now, there, what mad things are you saying?”

But Denise clung to her passionately, looking straight into Marpasse’s eyes.

“Promise to strike with the knife, Marpasse. Promise or I will run, and take my chance.”

And Marpasse promised so far as the knife was concerned, knowing that she would strike Gaillard before she struck Denise.

CHAPTER XXIX

When they returned to the fire Isoult was no longer there, but she had left some sign behind her that Marpasse understood, for the elder woman showed no concern. She was discreetly curt with Denise when the latter began to wonder what had befallen Isoult.

“Lie down and sleep, my dear,” she said, “and take care of your feet, for you will want them on the morrow. The black cat can see in the dark, she will come to no harm, will Isoult.”

Marpasse might as well have told Denise to love Gaillard as to sleep. Her brain was full of a listening wakefulness that started uneasily when a stick cracked on the fire. So she and Marpasse kept vigil together, while a gradual silence spread over the valley with its armed host and its sombre town. Nor were Marpasse and Denise disturbed that night, for the men of the rear-guard had been marched and counter-marched that day owing to some mad rumour, and they were dead tired, and glad to snore under any hedge.

The dawn came listlessly, and without colour. The birds were awake and singing, and with their song, bizarre and discordant came the blowing of trumpets and the stupid curses of the stirring men. The dawn seemed heavy, and full of a dull discontent. Yet the birds sang, and the men cursed perfunctorily, sulkily, the creatures of a habit. So with the voices of the morning thrilling from the throats of the choir invisible, the camp of the King was one great oath.

Denise was ready, and shivering to be gone. The fire was out, her body stiff and cold, the dew heavy upon the grass. The dawn had shown Denise how hemmed in she and Marpasse were. Horses stood tethered everywhere, gaunt, clumsy waggons waited like patient mammoths, not a hundred yards away a red pavilion had been pitched, its coloured canvas swelling and falling lazily with the morning breeze. The babel of coarse, rough voices that rose out of the green earth made Denise shudder and yearn to be gone.

But Marpasse held her ground.

“Food and drink first,” she said.

Denise’s restless eyes betrayed her desire.

“Rest easy,” Marpasse assured her, “men are meek in the morning, though they curse all heaven and earth. Eat and drink, and see that your shoes sit comfortably.”

Denise ate with such hurry and such artificial greed that Marpasse could not help but laugh.

“My teeth are not so good as yours,” she said; “if your legs are as sound we shall not do amiss.”

Denise’s eyes were on the red pavilion. The flap thereof was open, and in the black slit that clove like a wedge into the colour, Denise thought that she saw a man standing and looking towards where she and Marpasse sat. Marpasse was still at her meal, when two men-at-arms came out of the red pavilion, carrying their shields as servers carry dishes to a table. They came over the grass towards the women, while a man in a blue surcoat appeared at the door of the pavilion, and stood as though to watch.

Denise half rose, but Marpasse caught her, and pulled her back.

“Sit still. You are far too simple.”

“It is Gaillard, yonder!”

“Yes, yes. Fool him first, my dear, and then run away when he is not looking. That is what we women have to do when men are the stronger.”

The two soldiers came up, and stood before Denise. One carried food and a flask of wine in the hollow of his shield; the other, a red scarf and a silver girdle.

“Messire Gaillard, our lord, yonder, begs for the Lady Denise’s good-will.”

Marpasse beckoned with her arm.

“Give them here, sirs, my good will is worth homage.”

The men grinned, and inclined their heads with quaint accord towards Denise.

“It is the grey, not the blue,” said one.

Denise stared at the grass, and did not catch Marpasse’s urgent nods and winks.

“I take no gifts from Messire Gaillard,” she said.

Marpasse made an impatient clucking with her tongue. How prejudiced people did bungle matters, to be sure!

“Think twice, my dear,” she said meaningly.

Denise repeated the same words. The men grinned, looked at one another, and did not stir.

“Messire Gaillard,” said they, “has set us at your service. It is proper that you should be guarded when all men are not as honourable as our lord.”

Denise saw herself trapped, and went red, and then white. She looked at Marpasse, but Marpasse stared obtusely into the distance, knowing that they were in the Gascon’s hands, and that the men had been sent to see that they did not flit. Marpasse remembered the promise of the knife, but the morning was cold and grey, and Marpasse too practical and hopeful to indulge in such heroics. Therefore she put the best face she could upon it for Denise’s sake, and Marpasse knew how to deal with men.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” said she, “I am sorry the fire is out, but we shall be moving before long. You, there, with the beard, since my sister is in the sulks, I will take some of that baked meat and wine you have brought us. Now, good health to the King, and all soldiers.”

Marpasse ate and drank with relish, a second breakfast not coming at all amiss to her, and she talked and laughed with the men, and soon had them at her service. Denise would touch nothing, though Marpasse smiled, nodded and whispered in her ear. “Courage, girl,” she said, “leave it to me, a laugh and a flash of the eyes work marvels, even with pigs. We will spread our fingers at them before the day is old.” But Denise sat like one stunned, and would not believe that Marpasse meant what she said. The red tent had a fascination for Denise, and she saw Gaillard and two other knights come out, sit down on cloaks their servants spread for them, and make a meal. Then they were washed, barbered, and armed in full view of the two women, while a boy stood near, and sang to the sound of a lute. The whole camp was full of stir and movement. Already, black columns were pouring out of Guildford town. In an hour the whole host would be on the march.

So it befell that Denise found herself walking beside Marpasse that morning at the tail of Gaillard’s company of spears. The two men-at-arms who had been set to guard them, walked their horses one on either side. Marpasse trudged along, merry and insolent; Denise, with her thoughts humbled into the dust. Gaillard had ridden up and spoken to her, not mockingly, but with the arrogance of a man in power. “Sanctissima,” he had said, “before long I will find you a palfrey, and you shall ride at my side. Hold up your head, my dear, and be sensible; I have something on my conscience, and by my sword, I am not unready to right a wrong.” Denise had answered him nothing, for she was bitter with the humiliation of it, and that Gaillard of all men should look at her as on one whom he might graciously lift up out of the mire. Chance had joined her to these two women, and she guessed that Isoult’s red gown had coloured Gaillard’s vision.

When they had gone a mile or more Denise asked Marpasse in an undertone for her knife. But Marpasse shut her mouth firmly, and shook her head.

“Have patience, my dear,” she said in a whisper, “I have my trick to play. Be ready when I give the word.”

And Marpasse trudged on cheerfully, mocking at herself in her heart.

“Fool,” she said to herself, “what is the girl to you? Why burn your fingers pulling cinders out of the fire? You may get kicks for it, and no money. And you may lose your chance, too, of getting a lover. Fool! You have had a heart of pap ever since you were born.”

Yet though Marpasse talked to herself thus, her mind was set on cheating Gaillard of Denise.

The King’s host went winding through the green valleys that spring morning, marching Kentwards, where Earl Simon had taken the town of Rochester by assault, and pressed hard upon John de Warenne who held out in the castle. Horse and foot, archers and camp-followers, baggage-waggons, sumpter mules, and loose women, made up the stream of steel and colour. It was a rough, careless, confident march, for had not the first triumphs fallen to the King? Northampton had been taken, and Simon the Younger made prisoner, with Madame Etoile, his lady. Leicester and Nottingham had fallen, and Gifford’s seizure and destruction of Warwick was all that the Barons could claim on their side. The Mise had gilded Henry’s cause. Even the King of the Scots had sent aid to his Brother of England; a Balliol, a Bruce, and a Comyn were among his captains. John de Warenne should keep Earl Simon under Rochester’s walls, until the King should come and crush him, or drive him headlong over the sea.

Henry, weak, persuadable, false, yet brilliant gentleman, might count himself strong that spring, with his Poitevins and his adventurers, and the rougher lords who preferred the licence of a weak King to the justice of Earl Simon. But the old lion was not driven to bay yet, much less cowed or beaten. De Montfort and his men were not asleep, nor over confident like the King’s party. Rochester might be many miles away, but Earl Simon had sent some of his most trusted men to watch the march of the King’s army, to judge its strength, and keep him warned as to all that passed.

Waleran de Monceaux and Sir Aymery, woodlanders both of them, and wise in woodland law, lay that morning in a coppice close to the road and watched the King’s host go by. These Sussex men were men whom De Montfort trusted to the death. And they lay on their bellies in the thick of the dead bracken and the brambles, two wise dogs that saw and were not seen.

Aymery was stretched at full length, his chin upon his two fists, his grey eyes at gaze, while Waleran, more restless and impetuous, carried on a mumbling monologue, and chewed grass with hungry jaws. They were counting the banners and the pennons, and marking as best they could the lords and knights who were with the King. Aymery lay still enough till Gaillard’s company came up, the Gascon riding bareheaded, his blue surcoat ablaze with its golden suns. Gaillard had found favour with the King, despite the happenings at Pevensey, and the anger of Peter of Savoy. Aymery knew Gaillard at the first glance, and set his teeth hard so that the muscles stood out about his jaw.

Yet the tail of Gaillard’s company brought a far fiercer inspiration, for Denise walked there beside Marpasse, Denise with her hair of red gold shining like a torch against the green. She walked as one going to the ordeal of fire, white-faced, mute, looking neither to the right hand nor left. Her grey cloak went like a cloud beside Marpasse’s azure blue. The two men-at-arms rode stolidly behind, while the men in the rear rank of Gaillard’s troop were laughing and joking with Marpasse.

Aymery stiffened as he lay, and his hand went to the sword in the dead bracken beside him. He scrambled suddenly to his knees, with a fierce, inarticulate cry deep down in his throat. Waleran seized him, and dragged him back to cover, for they were so near the road that the slightest movement might betray them.

“God, man, are you mad!”

Aymery lay there a moment with his face on his arms. He said nothing to Waleran, but when he raised his head again his face was grim and full of thought. He kept watch there in silence, but the road was empty now save for a few camp-followers, women and beggars. Aymery rose on one elbow, and looked towards the drifting dust that hung on the heels of the King’s host.

He turned suddenly to Waleran.

“Brother, you and I must part company for a while. Go back to our men. I must follow the march farther.”

Waleran looked at him curiously out of half-closed eyes.

“I know the man you are. Simon trusts us both.”

They scrambled up out of their “forms,” and went back through the wood till they came to a dell where they had left their horses. Aymery laid his hands on Waleran’s shoulders.

“Brother-in-arms,” he said, “trust me. I have a book to read, and a debt to pay. There is nothing of the traitor in my heart.”

Waleran hugged him like a bear.

“Blood of my father, I know that! I can carry the news.”

They parted there, two men who loved and trusted one another. Aymery took spear, shield, and helmet, and mounted his horse to follow the march of the King’s host, that splendid stream that seemed to gather and to carry with it all the pomp and music, the violence and passion, and the suffering sinfulness that the land held.

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