CHAPTER XXXVII
On the evening of Tuesday, the 13th of May, the Barons lay amid the woods about Fletching, knowing that they were to march on the morrow to offer the King battle outside Lewes town. All hope of peace had gone, and both parties had thrown away the scabbard. Henry believed that he had Earl Simon at his mercy, for the royal host far outnumbered the Earl’s, and where De Montfort could count in part only on burgher levies, the King and his favourites had the flower of the foreign mercenaries in their pay. Henry had refused to listen to the Bishops of London and Worcester, who had come from the Earl. God was delivering Simon and his turbulent following into the royal hands, and the King was not to be cheated of his opportunity by the tongues of meddlesome priests.
As the evening sun sank towards the west, the Barons’ host gathered and stood to their arms with the fresh green of the May woods spreading a virgin canopy above their spears. It was no gorgeous pageant so far as pomp and circumstance were concerned. There were many banners and pennons brilliant in the evening sunshine, but the bulk of De Montfort’s army was made up of the lesser gentry, and their retainers, and the burghers of the towns, plain men, but men who were in grim and sober earnest. Many of them had never fought in their lives before, and Gaillard, and such gallants in the King’s service, laughed when they spoke of the herd of hogs they were to chase through the Sussex woodlands. But the stocky, brown-faced men of the English towns, and the English manors were not to be trampled on so easily. Men who could fell timber, and handle the scythe, the bill and the hammer, were tough in the arms, and sound and strong at heart.
The Barons’ host went on its knees that evening, its lines of steel seaming the green woods. Lords, knights, gentlemen, yeomen, burghers, knelt with their shields before them, their swords naked in the grass, their heads uncovered. Between the ranks of these silent, steel-clad figures came the Bishop of Worcester, and many priests with him, chanting as they came. The whole host was confessed, absolved, and blessed under the oak trees of the Fletching woods. It was as though the heart of England was shrived that day, before the national ordeal of battle.
“Holy Cross, Holy Cross.”
Men came running and shouting through the ranks, carrying bales of white cloth which they spread on the grass, and tore into hundreds of strips. Every fighting man was to carry the White Cross on his breast. And in the midst of it all Earl Simon and a great company of lords and gentlemen came riding through, wearing the White Cross on their surcoats. Swords and spears were tossed aloft, and the heart of the host went up in sound like the long roar of a stormy sea.
Under a great oak tree De Montfort knighted many of the younger lords and gentlemen, among them Robert de Vere, John de Burgh the son of the great justiciary, and young Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester. Then he and his sons and his captains went everywhere, heartening their men, bidding them rest and eat, and keep strong and lusty against the morrow.
As De Montfort was riding back with young Gloucester, and a few knights and gentlemen of his own household to the manor house where he had his quarters, he came upon several women standing under the shade of an old yew. It happened that Earl Simon had put abroad an order that no women should be suffered to follow the army on the march. If the King and his host had seven hundred courtesans in their camp, that was the King’s affair; De Montfort would have none of it.
Earl Simon ordered his gentlemen to halt, and turned aside alone towards the yew tree. Two of the women had come forward, and were waiting as though to speak with the Earl. De Montfort had a frown on his face. Great soldier that he was, he had his rough and passionate moods; his strong sincerity sometimes ran away with his tongue.
The two women went on their knees before Earl Simon’s horse.
“Sire,” said the elder of the two, “put your anger away. We are here for love of the White Cross.”
Straight speaking, and a straight look of the eyes were things that De Montfort loved. The armed men who watched and waited, wondered why Earl Simon tarried there talking, and did not send the women away.
De Montfort’s face had begun to shine like the face of a saint. He looked very thoughtfully at the two women as they laid their lives in the hollow of his hand. The plan was Marpasse’s, but Denise would not suffer her comrade to carry it out alone. Their plan was to go as spies to Lewes that night, and bring back any news that they could gather as to what the King purposed to do on the morrow.
Earl Simon would have none of it at first. Perhaps he doubted their honesty; yet the two women contrived to convince him, Marpasse sly and valiant, Denise with the quiet eyes of one who has chosen a certain part.
De Montfort appeared puzzled by Denise. Marpasse saw the look, and broke in in her blunt, bold way:—
“She is not of my clay, sire, but we were baked in the same oven. She has seized this trick of mine, and will not let it out of her hands.”
“Is that so, child?”
Denise’s eyes met his.
“I am not afraid, sire,” she answered.
The Earl still shirked accepting a possible sacrifice. Marpasse put in a final word.
“Though it be to my shame, lord,” she said, “I have learnt how to tread among thorns. There is only one thing that I would ask, and that is the right to choose the man who shall take us within two miles of Lewes town.”
She flashed a look at Denise as though to silence her, and went close to De Montfort’s horse. A smile came over his face as he listened to Marpasse, and there was sadness in the smile, and the quiet compassion of a man who had held children in his arms.
“God guard you both,” he said, “it shall be as you desire.”
Aymery had command of the guard that evening at the manor house where Simon, the Earl of Gloucester, and the great lords had their quarters. Word was brought him by an esquire of De Montfort’s son Guy, that the Earl was calling for him, and that Simon was to be found in the great barn where the Bishop of Worcester was to preach to the lords and gentlemen before sundown. Aymery found the Earl sitting on a barrow that stood on the threshing floor, a knot of knights standing behind him, and the evening sunlight that poured in striking silver burs from their battle harness.
Simon looked straight into Aymery’s eyes as he gave him his orders.
“Go down to the yew tree near the pond where we water our horses, messire. You will find two women waiting there. They have sworn to spy out the land for us. Take a guide and ten spears, and see the women as near to Lewes as you can without breaking cover.”
Earl Simon always eyed his men as though he were looking into the brain behind the eyes. Aymery saluted, and turned to obey. His face betrayed no surprise, though it was a new thing for De Montfort to rely on the wits of two women.
Simon called him back.
“Wait, and keep watch in the woods,” he said, “the women will try to bring back news. We shall be on the move before dawn.”
He rose from the barrow, and crossing the threshing floor, laid a hand on Aymery’s shoulder.
“It is in my heart to catch the King napping to-morrow,” he said. “I trust England with you, in this, and some of us may have to suffer.”
He stood considering something a moment, frowning a little, his hand still on Aymery’s shoulder.
“The two women yonder, brave hearts, have talked me into suffering this. I would not put such work upon a woman, but then, my son, we all carry the Cross. Hasten, and God speed you.”
And Aymery went out from before him, thinking of the two women as women, and nothing more.
Marpasse, who had spun her net very cleverly, and whose hope had been to catch and entangle a man and a woman therein, was bitterly disgusted at the way things happened. She had made up her mind that she herself would go to Lewes, but she had no intention of taking Denise into the hell of the royal camp. She certainly caught these two people in her net, but they broke the threads, and would not do as she desired. Yet Marpasse might have seen how it would be had she not been too eager to sweep away Denise’s pride.
Denise was standing by her, with the sunlight on her hair and face, waiting in all innocence for the escort that Earl Simon was to send for them. A prophetic fore-gleam of self-sacrifice played in the deeps of her brown eyes. She had seized on Marpasse’s plan and clasped it as something precious and something actively alive. The solemn shriving of that great host under the oaks of the Fletching woods had sent the blood to Denise’s brain. She felt herself in the midst of strong men who held their swords aloft and prayed. She was as one who saw a sacred fire burning, and was driven to throw herself therein with the ardour of a soul that seeks martyrdom in some great cause.
Marpasse, who had a corner of each eye very wide awake for the coming of the man on the black horse, began to wonder how Denise would meet the truth. And Marpasse’s expectations came back limply to roost like birds that had been drenched in a thunder shower. She had struck a spark into Denise’s soul, and the spark blazed up into a beacon that Marpasse could not smother.
Aymery came riding down past the great pool where troopers were watering their horses, the beasts trampling and splashing in the oozy shallows, and sucking lustily despite the mud. Marpasse soon marked him down, and watched his face as they came within his ken. Marpasse saw Aymery go red as a boy, and being comforted by the man’s colour, she stole a glance at Denise. Denise’s face had been shining like the face of one inspired. Marpasse saw it cloud suddenly as though a shadow had fallen across it.
So they met, with the women under the yew tree fifty paces away watching them, and the splashing of the horses and the voices of the men merging into the great murmur that seemed to fill the woods. For the moment Aymery had nothing to say. Marpasse could have pricked him with the point of her knife to make him leap out of that slough of silence. Denise stood in the long grass, a whorl of golden flowers brushing her grey gown, her face white and troubled in the sunlight. Marpasse might have had a pair of dumb and irresponsive puppets on her hands. There was nothing left for her but to pull the strings.
“I am the brown woman who mended a wound, lording,” she began.
Aymery remembered her well enough. His face resembled a grey sky through which the sun was trying to shine and could not. He had his heart in his mouth but Denise did not help him. She stood there, as though her thoughts soared into some cold and brilliant corner of heaven. Yet only the surface had the sheen of ice. The deeps beneath were full of flux and tumult.
Marpasse, being a plain and impetuous woman, could have nudged both of them, and prompted both, at one and the same moment. Matters were not moving as she had forecasted, and these two people looked afraid of one another.
“A kiss on the mouth, lording, and your arms round her,” that was what she would have said.
Her words were:—
“Earl Simon may have told you the news.”
By the sharp look that Aymery gave Denise, Marpasse guessed that he knew the truth.
“To Lewes?” he asked her, with the uneasy air of a man urging himself to do something that seemed strangely difficult.
“Oh, we women, lording, can be of use.”
He repeated the words, looking at Denise.
“To Lewes?”
Marpasse grimaced.
“God knows, we shall be walking on hot bricks,” she said; “but then, this blue gown, and this face of mine, are better than passwords.”
Aymery’s eyes were still upon Denise, as though waiting for one word or look from her. He could not see that she was as passionately mute as he was, and that a spasm of self-consciousness held her in thrall.
Marpasse broke in, feeling the silence like thorns in her flesh.
“I can do without her, lording. Listen to me, Golden-head. They shall put me within a mile of Lewes town, and wait in the woods for any news that I can gather. You need not play the moth to the candle.”
Marpasse saw Aymery’s eyes flash something at her that made her less uneasy. The judgment lay with Denise. They looked at her and waited.
Denise looked at neither. She hid everything, nor was there a ripple of emotion about her mouth.
“I shall go with you, Marpasse,” she said.
The big woman shrugged her shoulders.
“Bah, I can as well take one of the others with me. They would play the part better, and look less dangerous.”
Denise kept her eyes from Aymery, as though her pride had set itself a pilgrimage, and would not see anything that might hinder it.
“Say what you please, I shall go with you, as I promised.”
Marpasse nodded her head, and seemed to consider the situation. Biting her lips, she looked from Aymery to Denise. Neither of them helped her, and Marpasse could have stamped her foot at the man, and told him what to do. “Fool, take her away from me, and hold her fast!” She shrugged her broad shoulders, and laughed a little mockingly.
“We are all talking so much,” she said, “that we shall get nowhere to-night unless we tie up our tongues. You, lording, can find us a couple of mules or asses.”
Marpasse’s sarcasm sank into sand, for Denise turned and walked back towards the rest of the women who were making a meal under the yew tree. Some of them were using their needles, and sewing the white crosses on to the surcoats of the men.
“I will say good-bye to them.”
Perhaps there was a set purpose in this act of hers, for Denise would have Aymery see the comrades with whom she had travelled.
Aymery was turning his horse when Marpasse caught his bridle.
“Lording,” she said, “keep the fog out of your eyes. We, and the rest yonder, followed the host to do what we could when men were knocked out of the saddle. I have changed my cloth, if not the colour of it. She has done that for me.”
She looked up almost fiercely into Aymery’s eyes.
“Speak to her on the way, lording. Women are not won by looking, charge home, and let the trumpets blow, unless,” and she let go the bridle, “unless my lord has changed.”
The man’s eyes answered her that.
“Marpasse, have you forgotten that night?”
“No, not I, nor you, lording.”
“It seemed death then, but now——”
Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him.
“Man, man, what makes the hills blaze, a wet fog, or the sunset?”
Dusk was beginning to fall when they set off into the woods, Denise upon a grey palfrey that a priest had lent them, Marpasse perched on a mule, Aymery and his men in full battle harness, their spears trailing under the trees. They had a guide with them, a swineherd who knew every path and ride even by night, and though the sun was touching the horizon, they had before them the long twilight of a clear evening in May.
Aymery sent the guide on ahead with the men-at-arms, and Marpasse, knowing what she knew, manœuvred her mule so as to leave Aymery with Denise. But the priest’s palfrey seemed to have conceived a great affection for Marpasse’s mule. Denise had hardly a word to say. She kept close beside Marpasse and appeared blind to the glimmerings of that good woman’s impatience.
Marpasse could bear it out no longer. She struck her mule several resounding smacks with her open hand, and the beast went away at a lazy canter, leaving Denise and the man on the black horse together.
“May God untie their tongues,” Marpasse said to herself; “it is a curse to have too quick a conscience. I shall be hoisted on my own fire unless the man can bring her to reason.”
So Marpasse rode on behind the men-at-arms, leaving the two to work out their own salvation.
The woods were steeped in a green twilight, and a great stillness reigned everywhere, save for the song of the birds. Here and there a great tree stood tongued as with fire. The foliage grew black against the golden glow in the west, while long slants of light still stole in secretly along the solemn aisles. The birds were at their vespers, and a cold dew was falling, drawing out the fresh perfume of the woods at night.
Aymery and Denise were riding side by side, the woman pale, sad-eyed, yet resolute, the man sunk in that deep silence that follows some ineffectual and passionate outburst of the heart. They seemed afraid of one another, nor could they meet each other’s eyes. Denise’s white face might have stood for the moon. And though the birds sang, their voices gave the dusk a sadder and a stranger mystery.
Aymery spoke at last, passing a hand over his horse’s mane.
“Our Lady keep you,” he said, “I will not quarrel with your desire.”
Denise’s lips were dry, and she felt as though the old wound had broken over her heart.
“If I have suffered,” she said simply, “I have learnt what life is.”
“Self-martyrdom?”
His voice woke echoes that she strove to smother.
“It is God’s whim in me, perhaps, that I should prove myself. Marpasse and I will go together.”
Night had come and the glare of many fires lit the southern sky when they reached the edge of the woodland and saw the great downs black, and vague and ominous. The men were waiting under the woodshaw, and Marpasse stood rubbing the nose of her mule. She could hear voices, slow, suppressed, stricken into short, pregnant sentences like the disjointed fragments of a song struck from untuned lutes.
Denise had left her palfrey under a tree. She came out from the shadows, and taking Marpasse in her arms, kissed her.
“We go together, you and I,” she said. “No, no, say nothing to me, it is my heart’s desire.”
Marpasse held her, and was mute. She looked towards a shadowy figure on a shadowy horse, and Denise understood the look.
“I have told him, he will not hinder me in this.”
“Heart of mine, stay here in the woods. I can go alone, my carcase is of no account.”
Denise would not be put away.
“Marpasse,” she said, “this is our Lord’s true passion working in me. Nor shall the cup from which He drank be snatched from me to-night.”
Marpasse was silent, feeling a greatness near her that awed her rebellious impulses. She kissed Denise, and was very humble, thinking that she herself had brought this thing to pass.
“Come then,” she said, “it may be that God goes with us to-night.”
Aymery, standing with one arm over his horse’s neck, watched them disappear into the darkness, the swineherd going with them to show them the road to the town. The whole northern sky still burnt with a faint glow of gold, and in the south a hundred fires flickered amid the black folds of the downs. And Aymery watched these distant fires, thinking with grim impatience of the King’s host that lay yonder like a great dragon ready to tear and slay.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The King and Richard the Roman were lodged that night at the Priory of St. Pancras, Prince Edward with De Warenne in the castle of Lewes. Nor would it have been easy to choose between St. Pancras Priory and Lewes Town in the matter of furious and indiscriminate drinking. Some said that the King’s host mustered sixty thousand men. One thing was certain, that a very great number of them were drunk that night, and that the lords and captains were no better than the men.
“The King will hunt swine to-morrow.”
Such was the night’s apothegm, and men flung it with variations and with a liberal garnishing of oaths into each other’s faces. The metaphor was acceptable to those who were in their cups, and much repetition piled assurance upon assurance. The great army of the King had its head full of drunken insolence. Its mouth uttered one huge oath. It would only have to show itself on the morrow, and De Montfort’s dirty burghers would take to their heels and run.
Bonfires had been lit everywhere, and round them were crowds of grotesque faces that bawled, and gulped, and fed. There was no lack of food and drink, sheep and oxen were roasted whole; men gorged themselves like dogs about the carcases. Cressets flared upon the castle towers, and Prince Edward had set twenty trumpeters to blow fanfares before the gate. The Priory bells were jangling like fuddled men quarrelling with one another. There was no discipline anywhere, no sign of a high purpose, no forethought for the morrow. “The King will hunt swine!” Men bellowed it to one another, and the superstition contented them.
When Denise and Marpasse came near the west gate of the town, they saw a huge fire burning there, the flames lighting the black battlements above. A great crowd had gathered about the fire, and the noise might have equalled the noise at Barnet Fair. Men were running about half naked like hairy-legged satyrs mad with wine. The platform of the town gate was crowded with a roaring, squealing mob that amused itself by emptying nature upon the equally repulsive mob below. Mounted upon a tub, a man with one eye, dressed like a Franciscan, spouted indecent skits on the clergy, pretending the while to be zealously in earnest. Elsewhere a crowd of excited and contorted figures made a ring round two women who, stripped to the waist, were wrestling, their faces smeared with the blood of a dead ox. Drunken rascals were scrambling about on all fours, and pretending to be dogs. If any mad whim came into a man’s head, he acted on it, and did not stop to think.
Marpasse had taken Denise by the wrist, and they had melted back into the darkness, holding their breath over the chance of being plunged into that simmering human stew. Marpasse was no innocent, but her face went hard and ugly with the sincerity of her disgust.
“Drunken swine! We will keep away from your sty, I warrant you.”
She spoke in a harsh whisper, her pupils contracting as she stared at the gate and the bonfire that was half hidden by live things that swarmed like beetles. Denise shuddered inwardly, and was silent. She thought of the cool, dark woods over yonder, and of the grim and quiet men who waited for the dawn.
Marpasse waved an arm towards the town.
“You see,” she seemed to say.
“They are like wild beasts.”
“What did you think to find, my dear; blessed banners and crosses, and priests galore? Or perhaps so many Sir Tristans keeping watch under the stars, and thinking of noble and great ladies. No, no, the King and Earl Simon handle their hot coals differently. Come away, we shall do no good yonder.”
They retreated along the road, and hearing loud squeals of laughter near them, drew aside, and hid themselves in a ditch. Marpasse could feel Denise shivering. When the laughter had gone by them towards the town, Marpasse stood up and looked about her in the darkness.
“We were walking into the cattle market,” she said in an ironical whisper. “The Priory lies yonder, most likely the King is lodged there. Pick your feet up out of this mud.”
They scrambled out of the ditch, and leaving the road, went on cautiously hand in hand. Marpasse’s eyes seemed like the eyes of a cat. Sometimes they stopped to listen, standing close together as though for comfort. The darkness, rendered more weird and baffling by the glare of the watch fires, seemed to threaten them with all manner of evil shapes.
An overbearing desire to talk mastered Denise. The sound of her own voice tended to smother the whisperings of panic. Marpasse let her run on till the mass of the Priory began to blacken the clear sky.
“Ssh,” she said, “we shall need our ears now, more than our tongues. If we are stopped by any of these gentry, leave the talking to me.”
Aymery’s face flashed up into Denise’s consciousness. Her hand contracted convulsively upon Marpasse’s wrist.
“If Earl Simon could have fallen on them to-night,” she whispered.
“To-morrow will do, or I am no prophet,” answered Marpasse.
The Priory of St. Pancras was shut in by its great precinct wall, but Marpasse and Denise found it only too easy to make their way within. There was a guard at the Priory gate, but the men were drinking and dicing, letting the night look after itself. People did what they pleased, and St. Pancras had no heavenly say in the matter. The men of the sword had pushed the good saint into a corner, his monks, too, were exceeding meek and docile, holding to the Christian doctrine that one must suffer in the spirit of patience. Yet their patience was largely a matter of discretion and of necessity, for put power in a priest’s hands and he is a tyrant among tyrants.
Booths had been set up inside the precinct wall, and there were clowns who kept the crowd a-laughing, and minstrels who sang songs fit for the lowest ear. Women in bright-coloured clothes went to and fro between the bonfires, fierce, hawk-faced women who knew how to take care of their own concerns. Marpasse and Denise kept in the shadow, though there were things to stumble over in the darkness, as Marpasse found when she trod on something that kicked out at her and cursed. They wandered into the cloisters, and through the dark passage-ways and slypes; all doors were open, and no one hindered them, for no one seemed to boast any authority that night. Sometimes they stood in dark corners, and listened to what was said by those who passed. St. Pancras might have stood with his fingers in his ears, for the humour was very broad, and the language primitive. “The King will hunt swine to-morrow.” The same snatch served here as in Lewes town, and Marpasse understood the significance thereof. The King meant to attack De Montfort on the morrow, and was letting his men debauch themselves into reckless good humour.
The great church was full of tawny light, all the doors stood open, and Marpasse and Denise gliding from buttress to buttress, looked in through the door of the north transept. Torches had been stuck about the walls, the smoke pouring up, and filling the dim distance of the vaulting with drifting vapour. The church was full of men and women in cloths and silks of the brightest colours, men and women who danced and drank, and sprawled about the flagged floors. Nor were the men from the common crowd of the King’s army; they were the lords, the knights, and the esquires, wild captains of free-lances who held a debauch before to-morrow’s battle. The high altar was like a rostrum in old Rome, seized upon by a drunken crowd, and covered with creatures that laughed and howled, and clung to one another. Some of the women had put on the men’s helmets, others wore garlands of half-withered flowers. A party of young nobles had broken open the sacristy, and dressed themselves in precious embroidered vestments. The scene was a scramble of colour, a scene of perpetual movement, of flux and reflux, of strong sensual life throbbing in and out of half-darkened sanctuaries.
Marpasse had seen enough, and Denise too much. They were moving away, when Marpasse started aside and drew Denise into the shadow of a buttress. A blur of movement disentangled itself from the darkness, and took shape in a knot of figures that approached the transept door. The party halted, and the two women saw a man wearing a cloak of sables, and a surcoat of some golden stuff, come forward alone and stand looking into the church.
The glare from the torches fell upon the face of the man who wore the sable cloak. It was a handsome face, yet weak and troubled, the face of a man without great self-restraint, a man who would attempt to be violent when he should be patient, and who would betray his weakness when he needed strength. There was something tragic about the figure standing there alone, and looking in upon the wild night before the dawn of the morrow. It might have been the figure of a magician gazing upon the fierce and elemental things that he had brought into being, and who had lost the power of holding them under his spell.
Marpasse saw the man cross himself, and turn away with an air that suggested foreshadowings of disaster. It was a figure full of infinite significance, in that it had striven continually to strut upon the world’s stage, and yet had never succeeded in being more than a puppet.
Marpasse had whispered in Denise’s ear.
“The King!”
And then:—
“The poor fool! He is not a shepherd like Earl Simon. Even his sheep dogs are out of hand.”
As he had come out of the darkness, so he disappeared, silently, almost furtively, with no blare of trumpets and no tossing of torches. Men who were wise saw in him a thing that was sometimes a saint, sometimes a mean, contriving Jew, often a firebrand, more often still a beauty-loving fool. Brave enough in battle, and a clean liver, yet the grim, animal energy of his father might have served him better than his own flickering and inconstant brilliancy. Henry could delight in the colour of a painted window, and he had the heart of a sentimental woman. In one thing alone he may have been of use, for his follies taught the stronger son to be warned by the mistakes of a weak father. Henry made war against the spirit of liberty stirring in the heart of a great people. Edward the Strong was wiser in knowing the nature of his own strength.
Marpasse nudged Denise, and pulled her hood forward over her face.
“We have seen enough,” she said; “they are to hunt swine to-morrow! Good, very good, let them beware of the boar’s tusks.”
They made their way back towards the gate, and St. Pancras, kind saint, blessed them, for they escaped unscathed out of the place. And coming out to the cool darkness that covered the downs, they sat down side by side to wait for the dawn.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Marpasse was up as soon as the first grey light began to spread above the hills, and it was possible for them to see their way. Denise had passed the night, lying with her head in Marpasse’s lap, and sleeping soundly despite her promise to remain awake. Marpasse had smiled, and let her sleep, trusting to her own ears and eyes to warn her of the approach of any peril.
They were on the move while the land was still half in shadow, for Marpasse was as eager as any man to let Earl Simon know the truth about the King. Standing and looking back on Lewes as the dawn increased, Marpasse could gauge how cheaply the King and his captains held their enemy. There were Gascons too with Henry, and the Gascons should have known what manner of man they had to deal with in Earl Simon. Yet the green slopes of the downs, gleaming with dew as the golden light of the dawn began to play on them, were utterly deserted. The King’s host lay snoring after its debauch, without a single troop of horse to patrol the hills. Only on the hill that was afterwards called Mount Harry could Marpasse distinguish what appeared to be a solitary sentinel. And he, too, was lying like a grey stone on the hillside, asleep at his post while the sun made the east splendid.
Marpasse clapped her hands.
“The fools!” she said; “come, there is no time to lose. We ought to bear more yonder towards the west. They will be on the watch for us. I know of one man who will have been awake all night.”
She looked at Denise and saw her redden.
“Give him one kiss, heart of mine,” she said, “for a man fights the better with his woman’s kiss upon his mouth.”
“Then, it will be the last, Marpasse,” she retorted.
“Bah, have you had him killed already!”
“It will be the last whatever happens,” said Denise sadly. “Do you think that I would let him make so poor a bargain.”
Marpasse would have taken her to task for showing such hypersensitive self-consciousness, had not a horseman appeared above the crest of a low hill, and come galloping down into the freshness of the May morning. Marpasse looked at him as he came up, and the man’s face shone in the sunlight. He was out of the saddle, and standing by Denise, as though it was not easy for him to keep his hands from touching her.
Marpasse laughed, and looked brown and joyous.
“You see, lording,” she said, “I have brought her back fresh as a white may bough.”
None the less the may bough had a rich colour. Marpasse turned her back on them, and looked intently towards Lewes.
“Lording,” she said, “I give you while I count fifty. There is no time to lose, for the King means to fight to-day.”
Whether she wished it or not, Denise found her hands in Aymery’s. He stood and looked into her eyes, and neither of them said a word.
“Ten,” quoth Marpasse.
Aymery’s face came nearer to Denise’s.
“My desire,” he said, “if I live through it, I would have your heart for mine.”
Denise had gone red at first, but she was as white now as her shift.
“Lord,” she said, “I cannot.”
“Bah! Twenty!” called Marpasse.
Aymery’s eyes were like the pleading eyes of a dog. He remembered what Marpasse had said to him. Yet despite her vigorous counsel the great love in him made him reverent.
“Whycannot?” he asked her simply.
She looked up at him and her eyes swam with tears.
“Because of—of the pride in me, because of all that has happened.”
“Fool, kiss her! Thirty!” murmured Marpasse.
Aymery still held Denise’s hands. Yet he was looking beyond her towards the town hazy with the golden mist of the morning.
“It was I who brought it on you,” he said.
He felt Denise shudder, and the impulse mastered him, he drew her to him, and kissed her upon the mouth. She did not resist, but her mouth was cold, and her eyes troubled. Gaillard’s shadow seemed to come between them.
“Forty,” called Marpasse, “and a buxom age for a woman.”
Aymery let go of Denise’s hands. He stood with bowed head, looking into her face.
“Whatever God wills to-day,” he said, “remember the words that I have spoken.”
“Fifty,” trilled Marpasse. “I will see to it, lording. Up on your horse, my gallant. They are all in a drunken sleep yonder at Lewes, and there is not a man of them on the watch.”
She turned, and glanced sharply from Aymery to Denise. And the wet, passionate trouble in Denise’s eyes betrayed to Marpasse how things were tending. It was best to leave the tenderness to ripen of itself that day, for none but a woman understands a woman’s heart.
Aymery was in the saddle. His man’s face had grown tense and keen, the face of the strenuous fighter who puts softer things aside. And Marpasse loved him for that hawk’s look of his, and the way he spread his pinions to the wind.
“Simon is marching through the Newick woods,” he said; “if he can but come in time, he can seize and take the ground that pleases him.”
He looked down at Denise, and Marpasse understood the look.
“Ride, lording,” she said, “leave us to follow.”
Aymery drew his sword, and kissed the blade.
“Denise!” and wheeling his horse he went away at a gallop.
De Montfort had the news soon after dawn that May morning as his host came streaming through the woods of Newick. Sending forward a company of knights and men-at-arms under young De Clare and William de Monchesny, Simon followed on with the main body, climbing the narrow coombe that led to the chalk ridge running westwards from Lewes town. The vanguard had found Marpasse’s solitary sentinel still asleep on the hillside, and they woke him roughly, and laughed at his gaping and astonished face. Meanwhile the main host gained the ridge, and pouring on steadily in the morning sunshine, did not halt their banners till they could see the bell tower of the Priory of St. Pancras.
Simon, who had been carried in a litter through the Newick woods because of a wrenched tendon in the leg, mounted his horse, and rode out in front of the ranks. Standing in the stirrups he spoke a few brave words to hearten his men, pointed to the white cross he wore, and commended himself and the host to God.
“God, and the Cross,” the shout came back to him.
Some knelt, others prostrated themselves, with arms outspread, and kissed the earth. The King would have to fight an army of zealots that morning.
De Montfort soon had his battle in order. He divided his host into three main bodies, each holding one of the promontories or spurs into which the chalk ridge broke on the side towards Lewes. On the northern spur that stretched towards the castle stood the Londoners under Nicholas de Segrave. Young Gilbert de Clare had the centre, and with him were John Fitz-John and William de Monchesny and the pick of the Barons’ host. On the southern spur were De Montfort’s two sons, Guy and Henry, and with them Humphrey de Bohun and John de Burgh. Simon himself remained with the reserve, and he had called about him some of the men whom he could trust to the last blow, men whom he could weld together, and hurl like rock into the fight, to beat back a charge or to tear a passage. Aymery and Waleran de Monceaux were with Earl Simon, knee to knee, and speaking hardly at all. To deceive the King, De Montfort’s litter was packed with certain London merchants who had plotted against the cause, and set with the Earl’s standard on the higher ground towards the west. There also was stationed the baggage. Young William le Blund had command of the guard.
The Barons’ men, resting in their places after a nine miles’ march, and quietly making a meal, were able to watch at their leisure and to their own comfort the scurry and alarm in the town and Priory below. The King’s host ran to arms amid infinite confusion. Trumpets blew, bells rang, banners went tossing hither and thither like bright clothes blown abroad by the wind. Something suspiciously like a panic had seized some of the less disciplined troops camped about the Priory. Knights and captains who had scrambled into their battle harness, had to ride in among their men and beat courage into them with the flat of the sword. Prince Edward, who had the flower of knighthood with him in the castle, was the first to take the field. They came pouring out from the town and the castle, a gorgeous cataract of heavily-armed men, surcoats ablaze, shields flashing gules and or, azure, argent, and vert; pennons jigging, banners aslant from gilded banner staffs. Their van curled like a brilliant billow carrying the masts of many ships, and flecked with steel for foam. The great, grotesque war helmets were like the masks of strange creatures called up by a magician’s wand. Their trumpets rang out cheerily, sending a thrill through the hearts of Simon’s men. The Londoners, who faced this mass of lords and knights, and burly free-lances, began to talk too much, and to give each other orders.
Denise and Marpasse were with the baggage behind De Montfort’s standard. They had climbed into a waggon, and could see a great part of the field stretched out before them. Dark columns were pouring up from the Priory, and Marpasse, who was watching them, caught Denise by the arm.
“Look yonder, they have hoisted the Red Dragon.”
The whole of Simon’s host had seen it also, for a long sullen roar rose like that of a wave breaking upon shingle.
“What does the red banner mean?”
“Mean!” and Marpasse bit her lips in her excitement; “death to all, no prisoners, and no quarter if the King wins. That is the song of the Red Dragon.”
Denise said nothing. Marpasse glanced at her with a sudden, sidelong stare.
“You will not grudge him that one kiss,” she said, “for to-night we may go a-searching for dead friends by torchlight.”
The two dragons of war were trailing their coils nearer to one another. The King’s red banner came tossing up the slope, he himself riding before it, holding his shield aloft with the lions of gold thereon.
“Simon,je vous défie!”
That was his cry that morning, a cry that his men took up, and screamed at the silent masses that watched and waited on the slopes above. The royal host was flushed now and confident, trusting in their numbers and in the great lords whose banners blew everywhere.
Edward the Prince was the firebrand that morning. He was pricking his horse to and fro like a mad boy, and his lips were bloody under his great helmet. For he had the Londoners before him, those Londoners who had thrown offal and foul words at his mother. The son had taken a vow to wipe out those words with blood.
Trumpets rang out on the King’s right. Edward threw his spear into the air, caught it, and stood up in the stirrups.
“Death to the dogs! At the gallop, sirs, come.”
He was away, a splendid and furious figure, with many thousand horses trampling at his heels. The iron ranks roared, and rocked and thundered. Those who watched saw a tossing sea of horses’ heads, a whirl of hoofs tearing the grass, a mist of slanted spears, a confusion of grotesque heads bending behind painted shields. The mass plunged in on the Londoners like a rock that falls with a deep sob into the sea. There was no submerging of that mass of steel, and flesh, and leather. It went in and through as a fire leaps through dry corn, terrible in its red ruin, unquenchable and splendid.
Marpasse, on her waggon, caught her breath, and held it. Simon’s left wing was wavering. Its spears went down in long swathes, and did not rise again. Black puffs of panic started out from the rear of the shaken mass, and spread like smoke over the green hillside.
“The Londoners have had enough! The fools always suffered from too much tongue. Dirty dogs, run, run, the devil is at your heels.”
She had hold of Denise’s arm, and Denise drew her breath in with a short, sharp sound, for Marpasse’s nails had made blood marks under the skin. But Marpasse never so much as noticed that she had hurt Denise. Her heart was a man’s heart as she watched the Earl’s left wing streaming away in rout with the mailed knights and men-at-arms scudding through it, and spearing the burghers as they ran. Away down the slope of Offham Hill, and across the level towards Hamsey and Barcombe went the tide of slaughter. The flying Londoners trailed a fatal lure for Edward the Prince that morning. The paradox proved true in the main, that by running away they won Earl Simon the battle, for Edward hunted them for a league and a half, wiping out the insults they had thrown at his mother. And while he trampled the Londoners into the grass, and drove many of them into the river, Earl Simon won the battle of Lewes, and taught Prince Edward a lesson in the self-restraint of war.
The reckless assurance that possessed the King’s army betrayed itself in an incident that followed the routing of Simon’s left wing. A crowd of women had followed on the heels of Edward’s lords and gentlemen, their lovers of the night before. The women had come out prepared to enjoy the battle as a spectacle, and perhaps to gain their share of the plunder. Some of them were mounted on mules and palfreys, others went on foot. And no sooner had the Londoners been driven off the field than these bona-robas came laughing and shouting up the hill, waving their kerchiefs and making a great to do. Most of them followed in the track of Prince Edward’s victorious banners, though a few spread themselves abroad to plunder the dead.
Marpasse and Denise had a distant view of all that happened after the flight of the Londoners down Offham Hill. They saw the massive centres of the two hosts come to grips, and stand like two bulls with locked horns, neither able to budge the other. Then Earl Simon’s genius gleamed out. Reinforcing his right wing with the reserve, he fell upon the left of the royal army under Richard, King of the Romans, crushed and scattered it in rout. Turning, he fell furiously with his flushed troops on the exposed flank of the King’s centre, broke through their ranks, and gave Gloucester’s men their opportunity.
From that wild mêlée the royal centre streamed away like ragged clouds driven by the wind. The green hillsides were covered with savage and furious figures, charging, and counter-charging with a riot of colour and glittering harness that sank slowly towards Lewes town. Henry, who had had his horse killed under him, and was wounded, was dragged away in the thick of a knot of desperate men, and carried off at a gallop to the Priory of St. Pancras. The battle was over as a struggle between two great masses of men. It dwindled into a series of scattered episodes, and of wild scuffles that rose suddenly like small dust storms, and then dispersed. A few of the sturdier spirits fought it out before they surrendered, happier in their valour than the King of the Romans who took refuge in a windmill and was besieged by a mocking and exultant mob till he delivered up his sword to Sir John de Befs. The fighting flowed in scattered trickles down to Lewes town, the west gate was taken by assault, though the King’s men held out in the castle and in the Priory of St. Pancras.
Now those about De Montfort’s standard were so taken up with watching the rout of the King’s army that they were caught open-mouthed when one of the last episodes burst on them like a thunderclap. There was a shout, the scream of a trumpet, a quivering of the earth under the thundering hoofs of galloping cavalry. Prince Edward was riding back from the slaughter of the Londoners, assuming the battle won, having spent precious hours in hunting down mere lads amid the windings of the Ouse. He and his men burst in among the waggons and the baggage, hot and bloody, their horses covered with sweat. And since Simon’s standard and litter were there, they thought they had him in their hands.
Young William le Blund was cut down under De Montfort’s banner, and his men slain and scattered. The servants and camp-followers fluttered and flew like frightened chickens in a farmyard. De Montfort’s litter was overturned, and the London merchants dragged out by the heels, and put to the sword despite their babblings and their protestations. It was shouted abroad that Simon was hiding somewhere amid the baggage, and the camp was turned into chaos, men tearing the loads out of the waggons, thrusting their swords into trusses of fodder, yelping like dogs about a fox’s hole. The women who had followed them shared in the scramble. And since that traitor Simon was not to be found, the whole rout took to plundering the baggage, not troubling to discover that the battle had been lost down by Lewes town.
Marpasse had dragged Denise out of the empty waggon, and set to at once to pull bales out of a cart.
“Play the game.”
She had to scream at Denise because of the uproar.
“Play the game. Swear, curse, be one of them.”
Denise fell to, and helped Marpasse. The big woman had whipped out her knife, and slit the sacking of the bale she had dragged down over the tail board. The bale contained nothing more than rolls of white cloth.
Marpasse spat on it, and swore, for other men and women were crowding up.
“White bibs for the fools, curse them! May Simon’s corpse be a bloodier colour.”
She seized Denise by the wrist, and dragged her off as though to hunt for richer spoil. But in the thick of the scramble she ran against the chest of a white horse that came out from behind one of the waggons. Marpasse saved herself by holding to Denise.
The rider on the white horse broke into a shout of laughter.
“Great, fat sheep, where are you running?”
And Marpasse stood open-mouthed, for it was Isoult, Isoult in a man’s hauberk, and red surcoat, her black hair bundled up under a steel cap.
“Black cat!”
Isoult reached down, caught Marpasse by the cloak, drew her in, and kissed her.
“You big brown devil, how I love the smell of you. And sister Denise, too, with all the fun of the fair.”
She tossed her head and laughed, and shouted to a knight on horseback who was watching his men scrambling over a coffer full of plate.
“Lording, come you here. I have found your red head for you. Though you will not be wanting her now, unless you would like a touch of my knife.”
The knight turned in the saddle; he had taken off his great helmet, both Denise and Marpasse knew him at the first glance.
“Gaillard!”
Marpasse took Denise by the hand, and kept very close to Isoult’s white horse.