MARTIN VALLIANT




                            MARTIN VALLIANT



                                  _By_

                            WARWICK DEEPING
                     _Author of “Sorrell and Son”_


                             [Illustration]


                      ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY
                               _New York_




                            MARTIN VALLIANT
                           BY WARWICK DEEPING

                      PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
                               OF AMERICA

                             FIRST EDITION




                            MARTIN VALLIANT




                              _Chapter I_


Brother Geraint pulled his black cowl forward over his head, and stepped
out into the porch. Some one thrust the door to behind him, and there
was the sound of an oak bar being dropped into the slots.

A full moon stared at Brother Geraint over the top of a thorn hedge. He
stood there for a while in the deep shadow, licking his lips, and
listening.

Somewhere down the valley a dog was baying the moon, a little trickle of
discord running through the supreme silence of the night. Brother
Geraint tucked his hands into his sleeves, grinned at the moon, and
started down the path with his shadow following at his heels. He
loitered a moment at the gate, glancing back over his shoulder at the
house that blinked never a light at him, but stood solid and black and
silent in the thick of a smother of apple trees.

The man at the gate nodded his head gloatingly.

“Peace be with you.”

He gave a self-pleased, triumphant snuffle, swung the gate open, glanced
up and down the path that crossed the meadows, and then turned homewards
through the moonlight.

In Orchard Valley the dew lay like silver samite on the grass, and the
boughs of the apple trees were white as snow. Between the willows the
Rondel river ran toward the sea, sleek and still and glassy, save where
it thundered over the weir beside the prior’s mill. The bell-tower of
Paradise cut the northern sky into two steel-bright halves. Over yonder
beyond the river the Forest held up a cloak of mystery across the west.
Its great beech trees were glimmering into green splendor and lifting a
thousand crowded domes against the brilliance of the moon.

Brother Geraint had no care for any of these things. He swung along
toward Paradise like a dog returning from an adventure, his fat chin
showing white under his cowl, his arms folded across his chest. The
cluster of hovels and cottages that stretched between the river and the
priory gate was discreetly dark and silent, with no Peeping Tom to watch
the devout figure moving between the hedges and under the orchard trees.
Paradise slept peacefully in its valley, and left the ordering of things
spiritual to St. Benedict.

The priory, lying there in the midst of the smooth meadows, looked white
and chaste and very beautiful. The night was so still that even the
aspen trees that sheltered it on the north would not have fluttered
their leaves had the month been June. The gold weathercock at the top of
the flèche glittered in the moonlight. The bell-tower, with its four
pinnacles, seemed up among the stars. Sanctity, calm, devout splendor!
And yet the gargoyles ranged below the battlements of the gate opened
their black mouths with a suggestion of obscene and gloating laughter.
It was as though they hailed Brother Geraint as a boon comrade, a human
hungry creature with wanton eyes and scoffing lips:

“Ho, you sly sinner! Hallo, you dog!”

The black holes in the stone masks up above mouthed at him in silent
exultation.

Brother Geraint did not make his entry by the great gate. There was a
door in the precinct wall that opened into the kitchen court, and this
door served. The monk passed along the slope under the infirmary, and so
into the cloisters. He had taken off his shoes, and went noiselessly on
his stockinged feet.

Suddenly he paused like a big, black, listening bird, his head on one
side. For some one was chanting in the priory church. Geraint knew the
voice, and his teeth showed in the dark slit of his mouth.

“Brre—pious bastard!”

Hate gleamed under his black cowl. He crept noiselessly up the steps
that led to the doorway, and along the transept, and craning his head
around the pillar of the chancel arch, looked up into the choir. The
great window was lit by the moon, its tracery dead black in a sheet of
silver. The light shone on the lower half of Brother Geraint’s face, but
his eyes were in the shadow.

A man was kneeling in one of the choir stalls, a young man with his hood
turned back and his hair shining like golden wire. He knelt very
straight and erect, his head thrown back, his arms folded over his
chest. He had ceased his chanting, and his eyes seemed to be looking at
something a long way off.

There was a grotesque and ferocious sneer on Brother Geraint’s face.
Then his lips moved silently. He was speaking to his own heart.

“How bold the whelp is before God! A bladder of lard hung up in a shop
could not look more innocent. Innocent! Damnation! This bit of green
pork needs curing.”

He nodded his head significantly at the man in the choir, and crept back
out of the church. In going from the cloisters toward the prior’s house
he met a little old fellow carrying a leather bottle, and walking with
his head thrust forward as though he were in a hurry.

“God’s speed, brother.”

They stood close together under the wall, leering at each other in the
darkness.

“Is the prior abed yet?”

The little man held up the bottle.

“I have just been filling his jack for him.”

“Empty, is it?”

“Try, brother.”

Geraint took the bottle and drank.

“Burgundy.”

He licked his lips.

“Ale is all very well, Holt, but a stomachful of this red stuff is good
after a night of prayer.”

The little man sniggered, and nodded his head.

“Warms up the blood again. Ssst—listen to that young dog yelping.”

They could hear Brother Martin chanting in the choir. Geraint’s hand
shot out and gripped the cellarer’s shoulder.

“Assuredly you love him, friend Holt. Why, the young man is a saint; he
brings us glory and reputation.”

“Stuffed glory and geese!”

Holt mouthed and jiggered like an angry ape.

“It was a bad day for us when old Valliant renounced the devil and
dedicated his bastard to God. Why, the young hound is getting too big
for his kennel.”

“Even preaches against the leather jack, my friend!”

“Aye, more than that. Sniffing at older men’s heels, hunting them when
they go a-hunting.”

Geraint laughed.

“We’ll find a cure for that. He shall be one of us before Abbot Hilary
comes poking his holy nose into Paradise. Why, the young fool is green
as grass, but there must be some of old Valliant’s blood in him.”

“The blood of Simon Zelotes.”

“We shall see, Holt; we shall see.”

The prior’s parlor was a noble room carried upon arches, its three
windows looking out on the prior’s garden and the fruit trees of the
orchard. A roofed staircase, the roof carried by carved stone
balustrades, led up to the vestibule. Geraint, still carrying his shoes,
went up the stairway with the briskness of a man who did not vex his
soul with ceremonious deliberations. Nor did he trouble to rap on the
prior’s door, but thrust it open and walked in.

An old man was sitting in an oak chair before the fire, his paunch
making a very visible outline, his feet cocked up so that their soles
caught the blaze. His lower lip hung querulously. His bold, high
forehead glistened in the fire-light, and his rather protuberant blue
eyes had a bemused, dull look.

He turned, glanced at Brother Geraint, and grunted.

“So you are not abed.”

“No, I am here—as you see.”

“Shut the door, brother. What a man it is for draughts and windy
adventures!”

Geraint closed the door, and throwing back his cowl, pulled a stool up
to the fire. He was a lusty, lean, big-jawed creature, as unlike Prior
Globulus as an eagle is unlike a fat farmyard cock. His eyes were
restless and very shrewd. The backs of his hands were covered with black
hair, and one guessed that his chest was like the chest of an ape. He
had a trick of moistening his lower lip with his tongue, a big red lip
that jutted out like the spout of a jug.

“It is passing cold, sir, when a man has to walk without his shoes.”

He thrust his gray-stockinged feet close to the fire.

“You observe, sir, I am a careful man. Our young house-dog is awake.”

He watched Prior Globulus with shrewd, sidelong attention; but the old
man lay inert in his chair and blinked at the fire.

“Brother Martin is very careful for our reputation, sir. He has become
the thorn in our mortal flesh. It is notorious that he eschews wine,
fasts like a saint, and has no eyes or ears for anything that is
carnal—save, sir, when he discovers such frailties in others.”

The prior turned on Geraint with peevish impatience.

“A pest on the fellow; he is no more than a vexatious fool. Let him be,
brother.”

Geraint leaned forward and spread his hands before the fire.

“Brother Martin is no fool, sir; I am beginning to believe that the
fellow is very sly. He watches and says but little, yet there is a
something in those eyes of his. He lives like a fanatic, while we, sir,
are but mortal men.”

He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

“As you know, sir, it was mooted that Abbot Hilary has his eyes on
Paradise. Some one whispered shame of us, and Abbot Hilary is the
devil.”

Prior Globulus sat up straight in his chair, his face full of querulous
anger and dismay.

“Foul lies, brother.”

“Foul lies, sir.”

Geraint’s voice was ironical. His eyes met the older man’s, and Prior
Globulus could not meet the look.

“Well, well,” and he grinned peevishly. “What does your wisdom say, my
brother?”

Geraint edged his stool a little closer.

“Brother Martin must be taught to be mortal,” he said; “he must become
one of us.”

“And how shall that befall?”

“I will tell you, sir. Is not the fellow old Valliant’s son—old
Valliant whose blood was like Spanish wine? Brother Martin is a young
man, and the spring is here.”

They talked together for a long while before the fire, their heads
almost touching, their eyes watching the flames playing in the throat of
the chimney.




                              _Chapter II_


White mist filled the valley, for there was no wind moving, and the
night had been very still. The moon had sunk into the Forest, but though
the sun had not yet climbed over the edge of the day a faint yellow
radiance showed in the east. As for the birds, they had begun their
piping, and the whole valley was filled with a mysterious exultation.

Into this world of white mist and of song walked Brother Martin, old
Roger Valliant’s son—old Valliant, the soldier of fortune who had
fought for pay under all manner of kings and captains, and had come back
to take his peace in England with an iron box full of silver and gold.
Old Valliant was dead, with the flavor of sundry rude romances still
clinging to his memory, for even when his hair was gray he had caught
the eyes of the women. Then in his later years a sudden devoutness had
fallen upon him; there had been a toddling boy in his house and no
mother to care for the child. Old Valliant had made great efforts to
escape the devil; that was what his neighbors had said of him. At all
events, he had left the child and his money to the monks of Paradise,
and had made a most comely and tranquil end.

Brother Martin was three-and-twenty, and the tallest man in Orchard
Valley. The women whispered that it was a pity that such a man should be
a monk and take his state so seriously. There was a tinge of red in his
hair; his blue eyes looked at life with a bold mildness; men said that
he was built more finely than his father, and old Valliant had been a
mighty man-at-arms. Yet Brother Martin often had the look of a dreamer,
though his flesh was so rich and admirable in its youth. He loved the
forest, he loved the soft meadows and the orchards, the path beside the
river where the willows trailed their branches in the water, his stall
in the choir, the mill where the wheel thundered. The children could not
let him be when he walked through the village. As for the white pigeons
in the priory dovecot, they would perch on his hands and shoulders. And
yet there was a mild severity about the man, a clear-sighted and
unfoolish chastity that brooked no meanness. He was awake even though he
could dream. He had had his wrestling matches with the devil.

Brother Martin went down to the river that May morning, stripped
himself, piled his clothes on the trunk of a fallen pollard willow, and
took his swim. He let himself drift within ten yards of the weir, and
then struck back against the swiftly gliding water. There had been heavy
rains on the Forest ridge, and the Rondel was running fast—so fast that
Martin had to fight hard to make headway against the stream. The youth
in him had challenged the river; it was a favorite trick of his to let
himself be carried close to the weir and then to fight back against the
suck of the water.

And a woman was watching him. She had been standing all the while under
a willow, leaning her body against the trunk of the tree, her gray cloak
and hood part of the grayness of the dawn. Nothing could be seen of her
face save the white curve of her chin. She kept absolutely still, so
still that Martin did not notice her.

The Rondel river gave Martin a fair fight that morning. All his
litheness and his strength were needed in the tussle; he conquered the
river by inches, and drew away very slowly from the thundering weir. The
woman hidden behind the willow leaned forward and watched him.

The sun had risen, a great yellow circle, when Martin reached the spot
where he had left his clothes. The mist was rising, and long yellow
slants of light struck the water and lined the scalloped ripples with
gold. The water was very black under the near bank, and as Martin
climbed out, holding to the trailing branches of a willow, he saw the
dew-wet meadows shining like a sheet of silver. The birds were still
exulting. The sunlight struck his dripping body and made it gleam like
the body of a god.

Martin had frocked himself and was knotting his girdle when he heard the
woman speak.

“Oh, Mother Mary, but I thought death had you!” She threw herself on her
knees and seized one of his hands in both of hers. “The saints be
thanked, holy father; but we in Paradise would be wrath with you for
thinking so little of us.”

Martin stared at her, and in his astonishment he suffered her to keep a
hold upon his hand. Her hood had fallen back, and showed her ripe,
audacious face, and her black-brown eyes that were full of a seeming
innocence. Her hair was the color of polished bronze, and her teeth very
white behind her soft, red lips.

“What are you doing here, child?”

He was austere, yet gentle, and strangely unembarrassed. The girl was a
ward of Widow Greensleeve’s, of Cherry Acre.

She made a show of confusion.

“I was out to gather herbs, holy father—herbs that must have the dew on
them—and I saw you struggling in the river—and was afraid.”

He smiled at her, and withdrew his hand.

“I thank you for your fear, child.”

“Sir, you are so well loved in the valley.”

She stood up, smoothing her gown, and looking shyly at the grass.

“You are not angry with me, Father Martin?”

“How should I be angry?”

“In truth, but my fear for you ran away with me.”

She gave him a quick and eloquent flash of the eyes, and turned to go.

“I must gather my herbs, holy father.”

“Peace be with you,” he said simply.

Martin went on his way, as though nothing singular had happened. The
girl loitered under the willows, looking back at him with mischievous
curiosity. He was very innocent, but somehow she liked him none the less
for that.

“Maybe it is very pleasant to be so saintly,” she said; “yet he is a
fine figure of a man. I wonder how long it will be before Father Satan
comes stalking across the meadows.”

Kate Succory made a pretense of searching for herbs, so ordering her
steps that she found herself on the path that led to the house at Cherry
Acre. The path ran between high hawthorn hedges that sheltered the
orchards, and since the hedges were in green leaf, the way was like a
narrow winding alley between high walls. She did not hurry herself, and
presently she heard some one following her along the path.

“Good-morrow, Kate.”

She halted and turned a mock-demure face.

“Good-morrow, holy father.”

Geraint was grinning under his cowl.

“You are up betimes, sweeting.”

She walked on with a shrug of the shoulders.

“I have been gathering herbs, and I have the cow to milk.”

“Excellent maid. And nothing wonderful has happened to you?”

“Oh, I have fallen in love with some one,” she said tartly; “it is a
girl’s business to fall in love.”

Geraint sniggered.

“I commend such humanity.”

“It is not with you, holy father. Do not flatter yourself as to that.”

She tossed her head, and walked daintily, swinging her shoulders. And
Geraint looked at her brown neck, and opened and shut his hairy hands.

“Perhaps Dame Greensleeve will give me a cup of hot milk?” he said.

“Oh, to be sure.”

And she began to whistle like a boy.

Brother Martin was a mile away, brushing his feet through the dew of the
upland meadows. He had crossed the footbridge at the mill, and spoken a
few words with Gregory, the miller, who had thrust a shock of sandy hair
out of an upper window. Rising like a black mound on the edge of the
Forest purlieus stood a grove of yews, and it was toward these yews that
Martin’s footsteps tended.

The yews were very ancient, with huge red-black trunks and dense green
spires crowded together against the blue. No grass grew under them, for
the great trees starved all other growth and cheated it of sunlight. A
path cut its way through the solemn gloom, but the yew boughs met
overhead.

And yet there was life in the midst of this black wood, life that was
grotesque and piteous. The path broadened to a spacious glade, and in
the glade stood a little rude stone house thatched with heather. The
dwellers here labored with their hands, for a great part of the glade
was cultivated, and about the house itself were borders of herbs, roses,
and flowering plants. A couple of goats were browsing outside the wattle
fence that closed in the garden, and a blue pigeon strutted and cooed to
its mate on the roof ridge of the house.

Martin stopped at the swinging hurdle that served as a gate. A man was
hoeing between the rows of broad beans, an old man to judge by the stoop
of his shoulders and the slow and careful way he used the hoe. He wore a
coarse white smock with a hood to it; a kind of linen mask covered his
face.

“You are working early, Master Christopher.”

The man turned and straightened himself with curious deliberation. There
was something ghastly about that white mask of his with its two black
slits for eye-holes. He looked more like a piece of mummery than a man,
a grotesque figure in some rustic play.

He lifted up a cracked voice and shouted:

“Giles, Peter—Brother Martin is at the gate.”

Two be-cowled and masked creatures came out of the house. All three were
so alike and so much of a size that a stranger would not have told one
from the other. They formed themselves into a kind of procession, and
shuffling to the gate, knelt down on a patch of grass inside it.

Martin’s voice was very gentle.

“Shall I chant the Mass, brothers?”

The three lepers looked at him like lost souls gazing at Christ.

“The Lord be merciful to us and cast His blessing upon you,” said one of
them.

So Martin chanted the Mass.

The three bowed their heads before him, as though it gave them joy to
listen to the sound of his voice, for Martin chanted like a priest and a
soldier and a woman all in one. He had no fear of these poor creatures,
did not shrink from them and hold aloof. When he brought them the
Sacrament he did not pass God’s body through a hole in the wall. The
birds had ceased their singing, and the world was very still, and
Martin’s voice went up to heaven with a strong and valiant tenderness.

When he had ended the Mass the three lepers got up off their knees and
began to talk like children.

“Can you smell my gillyflowers, Brother Martin?”

“The speckled hen has hatched out twelve chicks.”

“You should see what Peter has been making; three maple cups all
polished like glass.”

“If the Lord keeps the frosts away there will be a power of fruit on the
trees.”

Martin opened the gate and walked into the garden, and the three
followed him as though he had come straight out of heaven. No other
living soul ever came nearer than the place where the path entered the
yew wood. Alms were left there, and such goods as the lepers could buy.
But Brother Martin had no fear of the horror that had fallen on them,
and had such a fear shown itself he would have crushed it out of his
heart. And so he had to see and smell Christopher’s gillyflowers, handle
the speckled hen’s chicks, and admire the maple cups that Peter had
made. Nature was beautiful and clean even though she had cast a foul
blight upon these three poor creatures. They hung upon Martin’s words,
watched him with a kind of timid devotion. God walked with them in that
lonely place when Brother Martin came from Paradise and through the wood
of yews.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Meanwhile, Brother Geraint had followed Kate Succory to Widow
Greensleeve’s house in Cherry Acre, where the maze of high hedges and
orchard trees hid his black frock completely. The girl had gone
a-milking, and Brother Geraint had certain things to say to the widow.
He sat on a settle in the kitchen, and she moved to and fro before him,
a big breeze of a woman, plump, voluble, very rosy, with roguish eyes
and an incipient double chin. She laughed a great deal, nodded her head
at him, and snapped her fingers, for she and Brother Geraint understood
each other.

“Kate will dance to that tune. Bless me, she’ll need no persuading.”

Geraint spoke very solemnly.

“If she can cure the young man of his self-righteousness she shall be
well remembered by us all. See to it, dame.”

The widow curtsied, making a capacious lap.

“Your servant, holy father.”

And then she fell a-laughing in a sly, shrewd way.

“God be merciful to us, my friend; yet I do believe that it is more
pleasant to live with sinners than with saints. The over-pious man rides
the poor ass to death. Now you—my friend——”

She laughed so that her bosom shook.

“We would all confess to Brother Geraint. I know the kind of penance
that you would set me, good sir.”

Geraint got up and kissed her, and her brown eyes challenged his.

“Leave it to me,” she said; “I will physic the young man for you.”




                             _Chapter III_


Martin had gone down the valley to watch the woodmen felling oaks in the
Prior’s Wood when old Holt rode out on a mule in search of him. He found
Martin stripped like the men and working with them, for he loved
laboring with his hands.

“Brother Martin—Brother Martin!”

Old Holt squeaked at him imperiously.

“Brother Martin, a word with you.”

Martin passed the felling ax that he had been swinging to one of the
men, and crossed over to Father Holt.

“The prior has been asking for you. Get you back at once. Brother Jude
has been taken sick, and is lying in the infirmary.”

Martin glanced up at old Holt’s wrinkled, crab-apple of a face.

“Who has gone to the Black Moor in Jude’s place?”

“I did not ride here to gossip, brother. See to it that you make haste
home.”

Martin let old Holt’s testiness fly over his shoulders, and went and put
on his black frock. The cellarer pushed his mule deeper into the wood
where the men were barking one of the fallen trees, and Martin left him
there and started alone for Paradise. The great oaks were just coming
into leaf, the golden buds opening against the blue of the sky. The
young bracken fronds were uncurling themselves from the brown tangle of
last year’s growth, and here and there masses of wild hyacinth made
pools of blue. The gorse had begun to burn with a lessened splendor, but
the broom had taken fire, and waved its yellow torches everywhere.

Martin found Prior Globulus in his parlor, sitting by a window with a
book in his lap. The prior had been dozing; his eyes looked misty and
dull.

“You have sent for me, sir.”

“Come you here, Brother Martin. Assuredly—I have been asleep. Yes—I
remember. Brother Jude has been taken sick. He rode in two hours ago,
with a sharp fever. I have chosen you to take his place, my son.”

His dull eyes watched Martin’s face.

“The chapel on the Black Moor must have a priest. There are people, my
son, who would not pardon us if we left that altar unserved even for a
day. Get you a mule and ride there. To-morrow I will send two pack mules
with food and wine and new altar cloths and vestments. No cell of ours
shall be served in niggardly fashion. And remember, my son, that it is
part of our trust to serve all wayfarers with bread and wine, should
they ask for bread and wine. Holy St. Florence so ordered it before she
died. And there is the little hostelry where wayfarers may lodge
themselves for the night. All these matters will be in your keeping.”

He groped in a gypsire that lay on the window seat.

“Here is the key of the chapel, Brother Martin. Now speed you, and bear
my blessing.”

Martin kissed the ring on the old man’s hand, and went forth to take up
his trust.

The Forest was the great lord of all those parts. From Gawdy Town, by
the sea, to Merlin Water it stretched ten leagues or more, a green,
rolling wilderness, very mysterious and very beautiful. There were
castles, little towns and villages hidden in it, and a stranger might
never have known of them but for the sound of their bells. In the north
the Great Ridge bounded the Forest like a huge vallum, and on one of the
chalk hills stood Troy Castle, its towers gray against the northern sky.
Gawdy Town, where the Rondel river reached the sea, held itself in no
small esteem. It was a free town, boasted its own mayor and jurats,
appointed its own port reeve, sent out its own ships, and hoarded much
rich merchandise in its storehouses and cellars.

The day had an April waywardness when Martin mounted his mule and set
out for the Black Moor. Masses of cloud moved across the sky, some of
them trailing rain showers from the edges, and letting in wet floods of
sunlight when they had passed. The Forest was just breaking into leaf;
the birch trees had clothed themselves; so had the hazels; the beeches
were greener than the oaks, whose domes varied from yellow to bronze;
the ash buds were still black, promising a good season. The wild
cherries were in flower. The hollies glistened after the rain, and the
warm, wet smell of the earth was the smell of spring.

Not till Martin reached Heron Hill did the Forest show itself to him in
all its mystery. The Black Moor hung like a thunder-cloud ahead of him,
splashed to the south with sunlight after the passing of a shower. He
could see the sea, covered with purple shadows and patches of gold.
Below him, and stretching for miles, the wet green of the woods lost
itself in a blue gray haze, with the Rondel river a silver streak in the
valleys. Here and there a wood of yews or firs made a blackness in the
thick of the lighter foliage. Martin saw deer moving along the edge of
Mogry Heath. Larks were in the air, and the green woodpecker laughed in
the woods.

The sun was low in the west when the mule plodded up the sandy track
that led over the Black Moor. The gorse had lost its freshness, but the
yellow broom and the white of the stunted thorns lightened the heavy
green of the heather. The chapelry stood on the top-most swell of the
moor, marked by a big oak wayside cross, its heather-thatched roofs
clustering close together like sheep in a pen. There were a chapel, a
priest’s cell, a little guest-house, a stable, a small lodge or barn,
and a stack of fagots standing together in a grassy space. Father Jude
was a homely soul, a man of the soil; he had fought with the sour soil,
made a small garden, and hedged it with thorns, though the apple trees
that he had planted were all blown one way and looked stunted and
grotesque. He had cut and stacked bracken for litter, and there was a
small haystack in the hollow over the hill.

Martin stabled the mule, carried his saddle-bags into the cell, and took
stock of his new home. He went first to the little chapel, unlocked the
door, and saw that the holy vessels were safe in the aumbry beside the
altar, and that no one had been tampering with the iron-bound alms-box
that was fastened to the wall close to the holy water stoup. The chapel
pleased him with its stone walls and the rough forest-hewn timber in its
roof. He knelt down in front of the altar and prayed that in his lonely
place he might not be found wanting.

There was the mule to be watered and fed, and Martin saw to the beast
before he thought of his own supper. Father Jude’s larder suggested to
him that hunger was an excellent necessity. He found a stale loaf of
bread, a big earthen jar full of salted meat, half a bowl of herrings, a
pot of honey, a paper of spices, and the remains of a rabbit pie.
Obviously Father Jude had been something of a cook, and Martin stared
reflectively at the brick oven in the corner of the cell. Cooking was an
art that he had not studied, but on the top of the Black Moor a man had
a chance of completing a thoroughly practical education. For instance,
there was the question of bread. How much yeast went to how much flour,
and how long had the loaves to be left in the oven? Martin saw that life
was full of housewifely problems. A man’s body might be more importunate
than his soul.

When he had made a meal and washed his hollywood cup and platter, he
found that dusk was falling over the Forest like a purple veil. The
wayside cross spread its black arms against a saffron afterglow. The
world was very peaceful and very still, and a heavy dew was falling.

Martin went and sat at the foot of the cross, leaning his broad back
against the massive post. His face grew dim in the dusk, and a kind of a
sadness descended on him. There were times when a strange unrest stirred
in him, when he yearned for something—he knew not what. The beauty of
the earth, the wet scent of the woods, the singing of birds filled him
with a vague emotion that was near to pain. It was like the spring
stirring in his blood while a wind still blew keenly out of the north.

But Martin Valliant’s faith was very simple as yet, and crowned with a
tender severity.

“The Devil goeth about cunningly to tempt men.”

His thoughts wandered back to Paradise, and set him frowning. He was not
so young as not to know that all was not well with the world down
yonder.

“Our Lord was tempted in the wilderness.”

He stared up at the stars, and then watched the yellow face of the moon
rise over Heron Hill.

“It is good for a man to be alone, to keep watch and to know his own
heart. God does nothing blindly. When we are alone we are both very weak
and very strong. There are voices that speak in the wilderness.”

He felt comforted, and a great calm descended on him. Those taunting
lights had died out of the western sky; the beauty of the earth no
longer looked slantwise at him like a young girl whose eyes are tender
and whose breasts are the breasts of a woman.

The pallet bed in the cell had a mattress of sacking filled with straw.
It served Martin well enough. He slept soundly and without dreams.

But at Paradise Geraint had gone a-prowling through the orchards. He
loitered outside Widow Greensleeve’s gate till some one came out with
smothered laughter and spoke to him under the apple boughs.

“The pan is on the fire, dame. Brother Martin has gone to the Black
Moor.”

“And the fat is ready for frying, my master.”

“A few pinches of spice—eh!”

“And a pretty dish fit for a king.”




                              _Chapter IV_


A tall ship, the Rose, came footing it toward Gawdy Town with a wash of
foam at her bluff bows, and the green seas lifting her poop. Gawdy Town
was very proud of the Rose, for she was fit to be a king’s ship, and to
carry an admiral’s flag if needs be. Her towering poop and forecastle
had their walls pierced for guns, and their little turrets loopholed for
archers, and all her top gear was painted to match her name. She carried
three masts and a fine spread of canvas, and Master Hamden, her captain,
loved to come into port with streamers flying and all the gilding of her
vanes and bulwarks shining like gold.

The Rose struck her canvas and dropped her tow ropes when she was under
the shelter of the high ground west of the harbor. A couple of galleys
came out to tow her in, and she was berthed at the Great Wharf under the
walls.

She carried merchandise and wine from Spain and Bordeaux, also a few
passengers; but the passengers were of small account. Two of them, a
girl and a young man, were leaning over the poop rail and watching the
people on the wharf below. The young man’s face was yellow as a guinea;
he was dressed like a strolling player, with bunches of ribbons at his
elbows and bells in his cap. The girl looked the taller of the two,
perhaps because the sea had not humbled her; she wore a light blue coat
edged with fur, and a gown of apple green; her green hood had white
strings tied under her chin.

“Holy saints, what an adventure!”

The man straightened himself, and managed to smile.

“I never knew what cowardice was like till I got aboard a ship. My
courage came out of my mouth. And now an impudent tongue and a laughing
eye are necessities——”

The girl’s dark eyes were on the alert.

“There’s old Adam Rick, or am I blind?”

“Master Port Reeve—so it is! The bridge is ashore. We had best be
putting our fortune to the test. Have I anything of the gay devil left
about me?”

He shook himself with the air of a bird that had been moping on a perch,
but the girl did not laugh; she held her head high, and seemed to take
life with fierce seriousness.

They climbed down to the waist of the ship where Master Hamden stood by
the gangway, talking to some of the fathers of Gawdy Town who were
gathered on the wharf.

“News, sirs, what would you with news? If Crookback is still king, I
have no news for you.”

“There have been rumors of landings.”

“Rumors of old wives’ petticoats!”

The man and the girl were close at his elbow, ready to leave the ship.
The man carried a leather-covered casket in one hand, and a viol under
his arm, while the girl carried a lute. She kept her eyes fixed on the
tower of the town church; they were very dark eyes, blue almost to
blackness, her skin was softly browned like the skin of a Frenchwoman,
but her lips were very red. The hair under her hood was the color of
charcoal. Her attitude toward her neighbors seemed one of aloofness; men
might have voted her a proud, fierce-tempered wench.

Master Hamden looked at the pair with his red-lidded, angry eyes. The
man nodded to him.

“Good-day, master.”

“Give you good-day, Jack Jester. Go and get some wine in you, and wash
the yellow out of your skin.”

He looked slantwise at the girl as she passed him, but he did not speak
to her. Had she been all that she pretended to be she would not have
left old Hamden’s ship without a coarse jest of some kind.

Her brother was pushing his way toward a handsome, ruddy man in a black
camlet cloak, and the man in the cloak was eying him intently.

“Sir Adam, a word with you.”

The Port Reeve appeared lost in thought. He drew a quill from his
girdle, and meditated while he picked his teeth. And very much at his
leisure, he chose to notice the young man with the viol.

“Where have you come from, my friend?”

“France, sir. My sister and I are poor players, makers of music.”

The Port Reeve scanned the pair with intelligent brown eyes.

“Queer that such a Jack and Jill should come out of France.”

“We were in the service of my Lord of Dunster.”

“And he sent you packing? How are you called?”

The young man answered in a low voice:

“Lambert Lovel.”

The Port Reeve’s eyelids flickered curiously.

“You would lodge in Gawdy Town?”

“If it pleases you, sir.”

“Our laws are strict against vagabonds and strollers. Well, get you in,
Lovel, my lad, and your sister with you. You make no tarrying, I
gather.”

“But to make a little money for the road, sir.”

“Well, try the ‘Painted Lady,’ my man. It is the merchants’ tavern.”

He gave them something very like a solemn wink, and then turned aside to
talk to a sea-captain who wanted to quarrel about the port dues.

The strolling singers entered Gawdy Town by the sea-gate, and chose a
winding street that went up toward the castle. Lambert carried himself
with a jaunty and half-insolent air, fluttering his ribbons and making
grimaces at the people in the doorways.

“Do you remember your name, sweeting?”

“Am I a fool, Gilbert!”

“God save us,” and he glanced at her impatiently, “but you have
forgotten mine! Lambert Lovel, brother to Kate Lovel. Be wary; the
Crookback has spies in every port.”

“Why stay in the town—at all?”

“Oh, you wild falcon! Are there not things to be done here? Are we not
hungry? Besides, the Forest is seven miles away.”

“I know—but it is home.”

Her brother laughed. He was built on lighter, gayer lines than the girl;
he had not her strength. A sort of adventurous vanity carried him along,
and life pleased him when it was not too grim.

“Robin, sweet Robin under the greenwood tree! A pile of stones and a few
burnt beams! Scramble, you brats—scramble!”

With a lordly air he pretended to throw money to a number of children
who seemed inclined to follow them.

“You will have to play your part, sweeting. Where the devil is that
gaudy inn? Ha! we have it!”

A broad square paved with cobbles opened in front of them, its timber
and plaster houses built out on brackets and pillars, many of them
carrying painted signs hung out on poles. A stone cross stood in the
center of the square, and above the lichened roof of the town hall the
great round tower of the castle showed like a crown resting on a
cushion. The “Inn of the Painted Lady” stood by the guild house of the
Armourers’ Guild, a noisy, buxom, deep-chested house, its plaster-work
painted green and red, its sign looking like a Roman mosaic. A white
mule and a couple of palfreys were waiting outside the entry, and from
an open window came the sound of some one singing:

    “Cuckolds, cuckolds, list to my tale——”

It was a big, brawling voice that sang, the voice of a man who was
hearty with liquor.

Lovel looked at the place a little doubtfully.

“Fat—and bountiful! I will go and beard my friend—the host.”

The girl turned aside.

“I shall be there—on the steps of the cross.”

“Be brave, sweeting.” And he went off humming a song.

He reappeared shortly with a certain whimsical look.

“You will be suffered to sleep with the sluts, Kate.”

“And you?”

“With the scullions! What men must stomach for the sake of—adventure!”

Her nostrils dilated.

“The Forest would be sweeter.”

“True, dear sister; but shall we be frightened by having to sleep on
musty straw with fellow Christians who wash under the pump but once a
week? I trust not. Besides, I have to see the Flemming to-night.”

Her pride was in revolt, the pride of a kestrel put to perch with
flea-ridden hens.

“Had I known this I would have chosen to cross the sea in some other
dress.”

Her brother shrugged his shoulders, and then sat down beside her on the
stone steps of the cross.

“I’m sorry, Kate, but what would you? We have begun this game in cap and
bells, and we must go through with it—or pay forfeit. And the forfeit
may be our lives. Crooked Dick shows no mercy.”

He was right, and she knew it. There could be no turning back.

“What must be—must be. I shall not fail you, brother.”

“That’s brave; but one word more, Kate.”

“Speak out.”

“Your pride may be sorely touched in yonder, for you are a singing-girl,
no more, no less. Take it not to heart, child, and do not let it anger
you. I would stab the man who offered to do you harm, even though the
dagger blow meant ruin for both of us. I, too, have my pride.”

“Those are a man’s words. You shall not be disappointed in me.”

Half an hour later Mellis Dale stood at an attic window overlooking the
inn yard. She had liked the part she was playing still less when she had
seen the attic, but for the moment it was empty; the wenches who were to
be her bed-fellows were at their work below. She could see her brother
Gilbert sitting on an overturned tub in the yard, twanging the strings
of his viol, and making the ostlers and loiterers laugh with his
whimsies. His color had come back to him; he was playing a man’s game,
even though it brought his feet very close to the gutter.

She caught some of her brother’s spirit, some of his cynical and gay
audacity. After all, they were not the sport of fools, but players who
made the fools dance to their piping. Her pride caught a note of
mockery. There were enemies to be outwitted; there was the thought of
revenge.

The inn simmered with life like a kettle about to boil. She could feel
the bubbling of its activities, the reverberations of its crude, animal
energy. There was much clattering of pots and pans, and much loud
talking in the kitchen. She could hear girls giggling, and a woman
scolding somewhere with a voice that suggested the rending of linen. The
gentleman with the big, brawling bass was still singing in the deeps of
the house, and other voices took up the chorus. A knife-grinder appeared
with his barrow and wheel and started to sharpen knives. Two dogs fell
to fighting over a sheep’s foot that had been flung out of the kitchen.
A man rolled out from the guest-room and was sick in the kennel.

Mellis saw her brother draw his bow from its case, and begin playing his
viol, and the music brought six bouncing girls from somewhere, all ready
to dance. They footed it up and down the yard, holding up their gowns,
and laughing to each other, while the men stood around and made jests.
The windows of the inn filled with faces; all sorts of unsuspected folk
poked out their heads to watch the fun. This living picture-show
included a little old lawyer, blue and wrinkled, with a dewdrop hanging
at the end of his nose; a red-faced widow with a headdress like a
steeple; a couple of priests; a vintner from London who munched
something as though he were chewing the cud; a country squire with the
eyes of an ox; a young bachelor who kept looking up at Mellis and
showing off his slashed doublet and the jewel in his ear.

The members of one of the Merchant Guilds were supping together in the
great guest-room, and servants began to go to and fro across the yard
with dishes from the kitchen. Mellis saw a big man with a face as round
and as sallow as a cream cheese come out and speak to her brother.
Gilbert glanced up at her, and then beckoned her to come down.

She appeared in the yard, with her lute hanging from her shoulders by a
cherry-colored ribbon. The man with the sallow face stared her over, and
nodded his approval.

“If her voice prove as good as her face, my guests will have no cause to
grumble. I will hire the two of you for the evening, for a silver groat
and your suppers.”

Mellis had to suffer the insolence of the fat fellow’s eye. Her brother
grimaced, and shook an empty gypsire.

“We shall not die of a surfeit of wealth.”

“Take it or leave it,” said the innkeeper roughly. “I have my choice of
all the wastrels and wenches in Gawdy Town.”

Mellis’s face showed white and cold. The beast’s churlishness roused
such scorn in her that she soared above such a thing as anger.

And so for two hours she stood in the guest-room of the “Painted Lady,”
making music for men who over-ate and over-drank themselves, and who
looked at her as none of them would have looked at their neighbors’
daughters or wives. Her scorn filled her with a kind of devilry. She
sang to see what manner of swine these men were; sang to them as though
each had the soul of a Dan Chaucer. And not a few of them grew very
silent, and sat and stared at her with a brutish wonder. An oldish man
sniveled and wept. Her brother Gilbert was kept busy scraping at the
strings of his viol, and all the passage-ways were crowded with servants
and scullions who crowded to listen.

“That was famous, Kate,” he said to her as he saw her safe to the
stairs, “I passed around the cap and drew five pence out of the
worthies.”

“I think I would sooner have sung to lost souls in Hell,” she answered
him.

In the attic she stripped off her spencer and gown, and lay down on one
of the straw pallets in her shift. Her bed-fellows came up anon, three
rollicking girls who smelt of the kitchen.

Said one of them:

“That brother of thine is a pretty fellow. I warrant I’d tramp to
Jerusalem with such a brother.”

They tittered, and squeaked like mice. Mellis sat up and looked at them
by the glimmer of the rushlight.

“My dears,” she said, “I am very weary. Let me sleep. One may have to
sing when one’s heart is heavy.”

And so she silenced them. They crept to bed as quietly as birds going to
roost.




                              _Chapter V_


Brother Martin said matins to the sparrows who had built their nests in
the thatch of the chapel, and having drunk a cup of spring water and
eaten a crust of bread, he set out early to try to lose himself in the
Forest.

For life on the Black Moor was not all that it had seemed, and a young
man, however devout and determined he may be, cannot satisfy his soul
with prayers and the planting of seeds in a garden. Martin had entered
upon the life with methodical enthusiasm, tolled the chapel bell at
matins and vespers, swept out his cell, set the little guest-house in
order, and done to death all the weeds in Father Jude’s garden. But a
man must be fed, and it was in a struggle with this prime necessity that
Martin suffered his first defeat. He started out cheerfully to bake
bread, but the Devil was in the business; the oven was either too hot or
too cold, and there were mysteries about such a simple thing as dough
that Martin had not fathomed. He tore a great hole in his cassock in
climbing up the woodstack to throw down fagots, and then discovered that
he had no needle and thread for the mending of the rent. These trivial
domestic humiliations were discouraging. He conceived a most human
hatred of salt meat, herrings, and the obstinate and adhesive pulp that
he produced in the place of bread. Milk and eggs, fresh meat and honey!
He was carnally minded with regard to such simple desires.

Moreover, he was most abominably lonely—the more so, perhaps, because
he had not realized his own loneliness. Paradise appeared to have melted
into the dim distance; there might have been a conspiracy against him;
Martin had not seen a human face since Prior Globulus had sent a servant
to fetch away the mule, on the plea that the beast was needed. And
Martin had taken the loss of the mule most unkindly. It was a
confession, but he had found the beast good company; it had been alive;
it had needed food and drink; had given signs of friendship; had been a
warm, live thing that he could touch. The birds were very well in their
way; but he was not necessary to them, and they were wild. He saw deer
moving in the distance, but they were no more than the figures of beasts
worked in thread upon a tapestry.

This morning restlessness of his was a kind of impulsive pilgrimage in
quest of something that he lacked—a flight from that part of himself
that remained unsatisfied. He went striding over the heather toward the
beech woods in the valley. They were very green, and soft, and beautiful
and had seemed mysteriously alive when seen from the brow of the Black
Moor, but even in the woods some essential thing was lacking. The great
trees stood spaced at a distance, their branches rising from the huge
gray trunks. The greenness and the listening gloom went on and on,
promising him something that was never seen, never discovered.

More than once he came on an open glade where rabbits were feeding, and
the little brown fellows went off at a scamper, showing the whites of
their tails. Martin felt aggrieved, even like a child who wanted
playmates. He leaned against a beech tree and consoled himself with
asking ridiculous questions.

“Why should the beasts fear man?”

And yet he would have welcomed fresh venison!

“If the Lord Christ were here in my place, would not all the wild things
come to Him?”

His simple faith could provide him with only one answer, and that was
not flattering to his self-knowledge. He had not climbed to that state
of complete purity; he was no St. Francis. Perhaps Original Sin was at
the bottom of everything. And yet he had always mastered his own body.

Martin Valliant passed some hours in the woods before turning back
across the heather of the Black Moor. A hawk, poised against the blue,
took no more notice of him than if he had been a sheep, and for a while
Martin stood watching the bird of prey. The hawk went boldly on with his
hunting; he would have had no pity for a poor fool of a priest who was
spending his powers in trying to contradict Nature.

A puzzled look came into Martin Valliant’s eyes as he neared the
chapelry. A little tuft of smoke was drifting from the chimney of his
cell, and he knew that he had lit no sticks under the oven that morning.

“They have sent a servant from Paradise.”

He quickened his steps, but saw no live thing moving about the place. He
looked into the stable, and found it empty; but the garden hedge offered
him his first surprise. Certainly the thing that he saw was nothing but
a shirt spread on the hedge to dry, and looking as white and clean as
one of the big clouds overhead.

His own cell offered further mysteries. The oven door stood open, and a
couple of nicely browned loaves were waiting to be taken out. A meat
pasty that smelled very fragrant had been left on the oven shelf. His
cassock, neatly mended, hung over the back of Father Jude’s oak chair.

Martin could make nothing of these mysteries. The loaves and the pasty
were real enough—so real that he remembered the cup of water and the
crust of bread with which he had broken his fast soon after dawn.

He went and looked into the chapel and the guest-room, but there was no
one there, nor could he see anything moving over the moor. The business
puzzled him completely. It was possible that a servant had been sent
from Paradise; but Paradise was three leagues away, and Martin would
have expected to find a horse or a mule in the stable. Moreover it
occurred to him that some one must have looked into the oven not so very
long ago, lifted out the pasty, and put it on the shelf. The good
creature might be hiding somewhere, but what need was there for such a
game of hide-and-seek?

Martin returned to the cell, set the pasty on the table, took the loaves
out of the oven, and his platter and cup from the shelf. Common sense
suggested that the food was meant to be eaten. He pulled the stool up to
the table, said grace, took the knife from the sheath at his girdle, and
thrust the point of it through the pie-crust.

Then he sat rigid, listening, the blade of his knife still in the pie
and his hand gripping the haft. Some one was singing on the moor among
the yellow gorse and broom. The voice was a girl’s voice, gay and
birdlike and challenging.

Martin sat there with a face like a ghost’s, his heart beating fast, his
eyes staring through the open doorway. For the voice seemed to speak to
him of all that he had sought in the Forest and had not found. It was
youth calling to youth in the spring of the year.

The voice grew fainter and fainter; it seemed to be dying away over the
moor. Martin Valliant’s eyes dilated, his knees shook together. He
started up, knocking over the stool, and rushed out of the cell like a
madman, his eyes full of a fanatical fire.

The voice had ceased singing. He climbed to the place where the wooden
cross stood, and looked fiercely about him. But he saw nothing, nothing
but the gorse and broom and heather. He went down among the green gorse
banks, searched, and found nothing.

Sweat stood on his forehead, and his heart was hammering under his ribs.

Then he crossed himself, fell on his knees, and prayed. The first thing
he did on reaching his cell was to take the loaves and the cooked meat
and throw them into the fire under the oven.




                              _Chapter VI_


When a man has done what he believes to be a good deed he is flushed for
a while with a happy self-righteousness, and may forget the struggle he
had with his own soul. So it was with Martin Valliant. He had no quarrel
with himself or with his loneliness for the rest of that day. He had won
a victory; he had been tempted of the Devil and had refused the meats
that the Devil had cooked for him.

Strange—this fear of the white body or the lips of a woman, this naïve
cowardice that dares not look into Nature’s eyes. In it one beholds the
despair of saints who see no hope for man save in the crushing of the
body to save the soul. The few struggle toward a cold triumph, maimed,
but half human. With holy ferocity they run about to persuade humanity
that God is without sex. Men may listen to them; the deserts become
filled with monks; Nature is flouted for a while. Then the thing becomes
no more than a rotten shell; men obey their impulses but still wear
their vows; cynicism and a lewd hypocrisy are born; the great realities
are glozed over. Then comes the day when a more youthful and noble
generation wakes to the horror of such a superstition. Gates are torn
off their hinges; walls battered down; the slime and the refuse exposed
to the sunlight. The new generation runs to the woods and the fields
like a flock of children released from some abominable pedantry. They
are no longer afraid. The world grows young and beautiful again. There
is no sin in the sunset, no shame in the singing of birds.

Martin Valliant felt himself uplifted all that day; but the old Pagan
people had gathered out of the woods and were lying hidden in the gorse
and heather. There was Pan with his pipes; there were girls and young
men who had danced in the Bacchic dances; Orpheus with his lute. Even
the pale Christ looked down with compassionate eyes, the Great Lover who
was human till the fanatics covered His face with a veil of lies.

Evening came, and the birds began their singing down in the beech woods
under the hill. They sang their way into Martin Valliant’s heart, made
him hear again the voice of the girl singing on the moor. A great
restlessness assailed him. He went forth and wandered under the stars,
but there was no healing for him in their cold brightness. And that
night he slept like a man in fear of the dawn.

Again, it was the birds which troubled him. He woke in the gray of the
morning, to hear their faint orisons filling the valley. He arose, went
to the chapel, and was long at his prayers. Moreover, he chose to fast
that morning, contenting himself with a cup of cold water before he
wandered out over the moor.

Yet in spite of all his carefulness Martin Valliant was not wholly his
own master that morning. He made himself go forward, but a part of his
soul kept looking back. There was a voice, too, that challenged him. “Of
what are you afraid? Why are you trying to escape? A monk is a soldier.
He should fight, and not hide himself.”

This voice would not be silenced. It was like a scourge striking him
continually.

“Go back,” it said; “blind men are afraid of falling.”

At last he obeyed it, vaguely conscious of the nearness of some new
ordeal. He did not guess that the all-wise Mater Mundi had him by the
hand, that he was one of her chosen children. She would try him with
fire, teach him to be great through the power of his own compassion, so
that his soul might burn more gloriously when the purer flame touched
it.

Martin Valliant found the door of his cell standing open, and from
within came the sound of the snapping of dry wood. A girl was kneeling
by the oven, with a fagot lying on the floor at her side, and she was
busy laying the fire for the baking of bread. She was dressed in a gown
of apple green, and from the collar thereof her firm white neck curved
to meet the bronze of her hair. So intent was she on breaking up the
fagot wood and building her fire that she had not discovered the man
standing in the doorway.

Life had never yet posed Martin with such a problem as this. He stood
and stared at the girl, wondering how to begin the attack. Her back was
turned toward him, and the initiative was his.

Then he became inspired. He would assume blindness, deafness, refuse to
recognize her existence. He would not so much as speak to her, and
behold! the problem would solve itself.

Kate Succory turned sharply at the sound of a man’s footsteps. Her
lashes half hid her roguish brown eyes; she held a hazel bough between
her two hands; her green gown, cut low at the throat, showed the upper
curves of her bosom.

She saw Martin Valliant take his Mass-book from the shelf, sit down in
the chair, and begin to read. He was within two yards of her, but for
all the notice he took of her she might have been less than a shadow.

She watched him for some moments and then went calmly on with her work,
breaking the sticks to pieces and feeding the fire. Absolute silence
reigned in the cell, save for the sound of the snapping of wood and the
crackling of the flames in the oven.

Martin’s eyes remained fixed on his book, but he was most acutely
conscious of what was happening so close to him. The situation had taken
on a sudden, unforeseen complexity. He felt himself growing hot about
the face.

Presently the fire appeared to be burning to the girl’s satisfaction.
She rose, went to the larder, brought out the things that she required,
and set them on the table. Then she turned up the sleeves of her gown,
and her arms showed white and shapely.

Martin’s face was growing the color of fire. He tried not to see the
girl, to anchor his whole consciousness to the square of parchment in
front of him. The dilemma shocked him. Was it possible that this
creature in the green gown took his silence to be consenting?

Meanwhile she went on calmly with her work, hardly looking in his
direction, her red lips parting now and again in a smile. Martin raised
his eyes very cautiously and looked at her. The solid and comely reality
of her shape, her purposeful composure, appalled him. This problem would
have to be attacked somehow, desperately, and without delay.

The girl’s intuition forestalled his gathering effort toward revolt.

“It was foolish of you to burn those loaves yesterday.”

He stared at her with sudden, frank astonishment, but said nothing.

“Good food should not be wasted like that. Besides, I had come all that
way to see what a pair of hands might do for you, Father Martin. No
bread could have been cleaner; I always wash before baking.”

Here was an amazing development! The girl was actually scolding him,
reproving him for being wasteful, assuming control of the stores in his
cupboard. He opened his mouth to speak, but again she forestalled him.

“Father Jude was a very careful soul. Rose Lorrimer had no trouble with
him; she wept her eyes out when he had to go back to Paradise. She had
just made him two new shirts. And she did not mind the loneliness up
here, for Father Jude is an old man, and Rose has seen forty——”

Martin Valliant laid his Mass-book on the table. Kate Succory was
talking so calmly and so naturally that he knew she was to be believed;
yet here was a new and astonishing phase of monastic life thrust upon
him without a moment’s warning. Martin was no innocent, though he had
led a sheltered life; he knew that there were monks at Paradise who had
broken their vows. But here was this girl coming all the way from
Paradise village and turning up her sleeves to keep house for him as
though she were doing the most natural thing in the world.

He floundered in the depths of his own simplicity.

“Who sent you here, child?” he asked her bluntly.

Kate’s brown eyes met his.

“I just mounted the gray donkey and came. No one could have bidden me
sweep your hearth for you. Rose Lorrimer was hearth-ward to Father Jude,
and before Father Jude Father Nicholas was here, and old Marjory cared
for him; but she was not old Marjory then.”

She laughed, and began to mold the dough into shape, her arms all white
with flour.

“Rose took Father Jude’s sheets away with her, but if we can come by
some good linen I will soon have things as they should be. Of course, if
I do not please you——”

She gave him a quick, sidelong glance, her teeth showing between her red
lips.

Martin Valliant had gone as white as the dough she was kneading. His
knees were trembling. He could not escape from the knowledge of her
green gown, her shining hair, and the sleekness of her skin. And her
voice was very pleasant, with a sly lilt of playfulness and of youth in
its tones.

He gripped the arms of his chair and stood up.

“My child—” he began.

She gave him the full, challenging frankness of her brown eyes, and
Martin knew that he could not pretend that she was a child.

“It is very lonely here,” she said, looking at her hands, “and a man
cannot do a woman’s work. Rose told me that travelers passed no more
than once a month. And—and I——”

He pushed his chair back, and groped with one hand for the cross that
hung at his girdle.

“It is not good that you should be here.”

He saw her head droop a little. Her hands rested on the table. He strove
with himself, and went on.

“But I thank you, my sister. What I bear must be borne for the sake of
the vows I have taken. When I kneel in the chapel, you shall be in my
prayers.”

All the sly, provoking roguery had gone from her face. She did not speak
for a moment, did not move. Then she lifted her head and looked at him,
and her brown eyes were like the eyes of an animal in pain.

“I am not a bad woman, Father Martin, not evil at heart. But——”

She caught her breath, and pressed her hands to her breasts.

“Yes, I will go.”

She turned suddenly and walked straight out of the cell into the glare
of the sunlight. And Martin Valliant stood biting the sleeve of his
frock, and thinking of the look her brown eyes had given him.




                             _Chapter VII_


Kate Succory went no farther than the nearest cluster of gorse on the
slope of the moor. She threw herself face downwards on a patch of short,
sweet turf, where rabbits had been feeding, and plucked at the grass
with her fingers, twisting her body to and fro with the lithe and supple
movements of a restless animal. Her hair came loose, and she shook it
down upon her shoulders.

There was rebellion in her eyes.

“He is a good man. Why should he not have what other men crave for? And
I love him. There is not a man so tall and fine in all the Forest.”

She rested her elbows on the ground and her chin in her two hands, and
stared at the gorse bushes.

“Geraint would not have hesitated. Pah! that black rat! How the girls
would laugh at me! I don’t care. Why did God make him a priest?”

She frowned fiercely and bit at her lower lip, the elemental passion in
her refusing to be dominated by the rules of the Church.

“He is a good man. No; I will not go away. Priestcraft is all wrong. The
Lollards say so; I could argue it out with him. As if living down there
in a priory made men good! Bah! what nonsense! Father Geraint is a black
villain, and the rest of them are not much better. I wonder if he
knows?”

A note of tenderness sounded in the turmoil of her brooding. She smiled
and caressed the grass, stroking it with her open hand.

“Perhaps it would hurt him if he knew. And he was as frightened of me as
though I had walked naked into the cell! Oh, my heart!”

Martin Valliant had been praying, little guessing that the days would
come when he would trust to his own heart, and not be forever falling on
his knees and asking strength from God. He had thrown Kate’s unbaked
loaves into the fire, and made a meal from the scraps he had found in
the cupboard. But he was in no mood to sit still and think. Father
Jude’s spade offered itself as an honest companion, and Martin went
forth into the garden to dig.

He had not turned two spadefuls of soil when Kate Succory began singing.
She was sitting hidden by the gorse, her arms hugging her knees, and her
voice had no note of wayward exultation. It was as though she sang to
herself plaintively, like a bird bewailing its lost mate.

Martin frowned, and stood listening, but her singing did not die away
into the distance as he had expected. She was hidden somewhere, and her
voice remained to trouble him.

He began to dig with fierce determination, jaw set, eyes staring at the
brown soil. And presently he stopped, and lifted up his head like a
rabbit that has crouched hidden in a tuft of grass. What a chance for a
jester to have thrown a clod at him! The girl’s singing had ceased.

Martin breathed hard, and lifted up his spade for a stroke, but the
silence had fooled him.

    “The moon shone full on my window
      When Jock came down through the wood,
    And I felt the wind in the trees blow
      The springtime into my blood.”

She gave the words with a kind of passionate recklessness, and all her
youth seemed to thrill in her throat. Martin bowed his head and went on
digging as though by sheer physical effort he could save himself from
being a man.

Presently he found himself up against the hedge, with no more ground
that he could attack with the spade. The hedge was in leaf, and hid the
open moor from him. He fancied he heard some one moving on the other
side of the green wall.

“Martin—Martin Valliant.”

He started to walk toward the chapel, but the voice followed him along
the hedge.

“Do not be angry with me, Martin Valliant; I want to speak with you. You
are a good man and to be trusted; I am a grown woman and no fool.”

Martin hesitated.

“What would you say to me?”

“Many things. I have the wit to know that all is not well with the
world. We are heretics, Father Martin, heretics in our hearts. We—in
Paradise—no longer believe what the monks teach us, for they are bad
men, who laugh in their sleeves at God.”

Martin’s eyes hardened.

“Such words should not come from your lips, child.”

She laughed recklessly.

“I speak of what I see. Is Father Geraint a holy man? Do the brothers
keep their vows? And why should they—when they are but men? It is all a
great mockery. And why did they send you away to this solitary place?”

He did not answer her at once, and his face was sad.

“No, it is no mockery,” he said at last, “nor is life easy for those who
strive toward holiness. Get you gone, Kate. I will keep my faith with
God.”

He could hear her plucking at the hedge with her fingers.

“I do not please you,” she said sullenly.

“God forgive you,” he answered her. “You are to me but a brown bird or a
child. Shall I offend against God, and you, and my own soul because
other men are base? No; and I will prove my faith.”

She heard him go to the cell, and a sudden awe of him awoke in her
heart. She went and hid in the gorse and waited, expecting some strange
and violent thing to happen. Presently she saw him come forth carrying
an oak stool, a length of rope, and a knife. He went straight toward the
great wooden cross on its mound, and for a moment panic seized her.
Martin Valliant was going to hang himself!

She crouched, watching him, ready to rush out and strive with him for
his life. She saw Martin set the oak stool at the foot of the cross,
stand on it, cut the rope into two pieces, and fasten them to the two
arms of the cross. He made a loop of each, and turning his back to the
beam, thrust his hands through the loops. Then she understood.

Martin Valliant had only to thrust the stool away or take his feet from
it, and he would hang by the arms—crucified. And that was what he did.
He raised himself by drawing on the ropes, lifted his feet from the oak
stool, and let himself drop so that he hung by the arms.

Kate knelt there, her arms folded across her bosom. Her brown eyes had
grown big and solemn, more like the eyes of a child. She looked at
Martin Valliant, and her awe of him was mingled with a strange, choking
tenderness.

How long would he hang there? How long would he endure? He had only to
place his feet upon the oak stool in order to rest himself to show some
mercy to his body. But the soul of the man welcomed pain. His eyes
looked steadily toward the sea with an obstinate tranquillity that made
her marvel at his patience.

The day was far spent and the sun low in the west, and as the sun sank
lower it fell behind the cross and showed like a halo about Martin
Valliant’s head. The glare was in Kate’s eyes, so that the cross and the
man hanging upon it were no more than a black outline.

How long would he endure? How would it end?

And then, of a sudden, the eyes of her soul were opened. She was no
longer the laughing wench in love with the shape of a man. She saw
something noble hanging there against the sunset, a figure that was like
the figure of the Christ.

She flung herself on her face, and wept for Martin and her own heart.
There was no escape from the truth. It was she who had crucified him,
put him to this torment.

The sun had touched the hills and there was a wonderful golden radiance
covering the earth as she rose up with wet eyes, and hastened toward the
cross. She went on her knees, kissed the man’s feet, and wiped away the
mark of her kisses with her hair.

“I will go,” she said, bowing her head. “If I have sinned against your
holiness, Martin Valliant, forgive me—because I love you.”

He looked down at her and smiled, though his arms felt as though they
were being torn from their sockets.

“Who am I that I should forgive you, sister? Sometimes it is good to
suffer. Go back to Paradise.”

She rose up and left him, running wildly down the long slope of the
moor, not daring to let herself look back.

“He shall suffer no more for my sake,” she kept saying to herself, and
all the while she was weeping and wishing herself dead.




                             _Chapter VIII_


Roger Bland, my Lord of Troy, rode back from hunting in the Forest. Dan
Love, his huntsman, had sent word that morning that he had found the
slot of a hart down by Darvel’s Holt, and that the beast lay close in
one of the thickets. My Lord of Troy had gone out with his hounds and
gentlemen, hunted the hart, and slain him. He was riding home in the
cool of the evening, the sunlight shining on his doublet of green cloth
of gold, its slashed sleeves puffed with crimson, as though striped with
blood.

Troy Castle loomed up above at the top of a steep and grassy hill,
throwing a huge shadow across the valley. It was the crown of Roger
Bland’s pride, the sign and symbol of his greatness, for the Lord of
Troy was a new man, a shrewd hound who had lapped up the blood of the
old nobles butchered in the wars of Lancaster and York. Richard
Crookback had been well served by Roger Bland. The fellow was a brain,
an ear, a creature of the closet, bold in betraying, cautious in risking
his own soul.

Yet the Lord of Troy had a presence, a certain lean dignity. His face
narrowed to a long, outjutting chin. His mouth was very small, his pale
eyes set somewhat close together. The man’s nostrils were cruel, his
forehead high and serene. When he spoke it was with a dry and playful
shrewdness; he could be very debonair; his tongue wore silk; there was
nothing of the butcher about him.

Roger Bland was a man of the new age, half merchant, half scholar, with
some of the pride of a prince. He had caught the spirit of the Italians.
Subtlety pleased him; he despised the stupid English bull. And up in
Troy Castle he lived magnificently, and kept a quiet eye on the country
for leagues around, a hawk ready to pounce on any stir or trouble in the
land. And the Forest hated him with an exceeding bitter hatred, for it
had suffered grimly at his hands, seeing that it had chosen to wear the
Red Rose when the White had proved more fortunate. The Lord of Troy had
ridden into it, and left great silences behind him. There were houses
empty and ruinous, and no man dared go near them. There were people who
had fled across the sea. There were graves in the Forest, shallow holes
in the earth into which bodies had been tumbled and left hidden in the
green glooms.

As Roger Bland’s black horse lifted him out of the valley a man came
down to meet him along the steep road that climbed the hill. It was
Noble Vance, the Forest Warden, a thick, coarse stub of a man who
dressed to his own red color. The Forest folk feared him, and mocked at
his parents who had christened him so sententiously. “Noble, forsooth!”
He wore a doublet of scarlet and hose of green. His red hat looked as
big as the wheel of a cart, and the face under it was the color of raw
meat, and all black about the jowl.

He swept his hat to the Lord of Troy.

“My lord has had good sport,” and he nodded toward the hart lying across
the back of a horse.

“Excellent, Master Vance.”

“There is other game, my lord, beyond the purlieus. I have ridden over
to speak to you.”

Roger Bland glanced back over either shoulder.

“A good gossip, my friend——”

“As you say, sir, a good gossip——”

“Is best kept for the closet, and a cup of wine. Ride here beside me.
Yes, we have made an excellent day of it; we turned that beast out by
Darvel’s Holt and ran him three miles. I love a beast with a good heart,
Vance, and a man who fights to the death.”

The Forest Warden grinned.

“Such men are growing scarce, my lord, in these parts. A few green
youngsters perhaps, and an old badger or two deep down in their earths.”

“Like old Jack Falconer, I shall draw that badger some day.”

Trumpets sounded as they crossed the bridge over the dry moat, for my
Lord of Troy had a love of ceremony and spacious, opulent magnificence.
The guards at the gate-house presented their pikes. In the main court
grooms and servants came hurrying in my lord’s livery of silver and
green. A page stood uncovered beside Roger Bland’s horse, with a cup of
wine ready on a silver salver.

My lord waved him aside.

“Bring two cups, child, to my closet, and let it be known that I am not
to be troubled. Now, Master Vance.”

They entered by a little door in an angle of the courtyard, and a
staircase led them to the great solar above and at the end of the hall.
From the solar a passage cut in the thickness of the wall linked up my
lord’s state chamber with his closet in one of the towers. It was a
richly garnished room, its hangings of cloth of gold, its floor covered
with skins and velvets. There were books on the table. The open door of
a great oak armoire showed ivory chessmen set ready on a board.

My lord chose one of the window-seats. He liked a stately perch, a noble
view, and his back to the light. The subtler shades did not matter to
Noble Vance; he let fate hang him where it pleased, like a joint of meat
in a butcher’s shop.

“It is wondrous hot for May, sir.”

“The blood is hot in the spring, Vance. Here comes the wine.”

The page served them, and had his orders.

“Stay in the gallery, Walter, and see that we are not disturbed.”

The Forest Warden waited for my lord to raise his cup.

“Your good esteem, sir.”

“I think you hold it, Vance. Do things ever happen in the Forest?”

“But little, sir. You have left no man fit to quarrel with you. But I
have come upon a little business in Gawdy Town.”

“Such places breed fleas—and adventures. What is it, Vance?”

“Young Gilbert Dale and the girl are there.”

“What—those cubs?”

“They came in the ship Rose. The lad is a grown man, and the girl a
fine, black-browed wench. Pimp Odgers spied them out, though they played
the part of strollers.”

“You are sure?”

“I have Odgers here, and another fellow who knew the Dales, and could
swear to the son.”

Roger Bland turned in his seat and looked out over the Forest. It was as
noble a view as a man could desire, a world of green valleys and distant
hills blue on the horizon. The lord of Troy Castle smiled as he sat
there high up in the tower, a sly, cynical smile of self-congratulation.
The Forest lay at his feet; he was its master. Even the thought of the
cruel strength he had shown in taming it pleased him, for, like many men
who lack brute physical courage, he was cleverly and shrewdly cruel.

“How many years, Vance, is it since that day when we smoked the Dales
out of Woodmere?”

“Seven, this June, sir.”

“Old Dale had sent his cubs away. What is the young gadfly doing in
Gawdy Town?”

“Playing the viol and singing songs, with bells in his cap. He goes out
of nights, I hear, but my men say that it is to Petticoat Lane.”

“Many things are hatched in a brothel, Vance. And the girl?”

“Plays the lute and sings. A haughty young madam, they say, with eyes
quick to stab a man.”

“There is no whisper of secret work, no playing for Harry Richmond?”

Vance shook his big head solemnly.

“I keep my nose for that fox,” he said, “but have struck no scent as
yet. What is your pleasure, sir?”

The Lord of Troy continued to gaze out over the Forest.

“Saw you ever anything more peaceful, Master Vance, than yon green
country? It is I who have taught it to be peaceful, and much labor it
gave me. I have cleared it of wolves; I have cowed its broken men. I
choose that it shall remain at peace.”

The warden’s eyes glittered.

“The Dales were ever turbulent, hot-blooded folk. That young man might
give us trouble.”

“Prevent it, Master Warden. You have a way of contriving these things. A
quarrel in some low house, daggers, and a scuffle in the street.”

“My lord, it is as simple as eating pie. My men will manage it. And the
girl?”

“Bring her here, Master Vance. We will question her. It is possible to
learn things from a woman. Moreover, our good king loves a wildfire
jade.”

The Forest Warden finished his wine, and wiped his mouth with his
sleeve.

“By the rope that hanged Judas, sir,” he said, “it is a pleasure to
serve a great man who knows his own mind!”




                              _Chapter IX_


Mellis and her brother had left Gawdy Town lying behind them on the blue
edge of the sea. The day was very young, and a north wind came over the
marshes about the mouth of the Rondel river, bending the reeds in the
dykes and rousing ripples in the lengthening grass. Mellis was mounted
on a modest nag whose brown coat and sleepy ears were more suited to the
russet cloak she wore than to the brighter colors underneath it. Gilbert
marched at her side. His eyes looked gray in the morning; the north wind
had pinched his courage a little; and he and Mellis were to part for a
while.

“Keep your heart up, sweet sister.”

She looked down at him and smiled. Her eyes were steadier than his, and
more determined, and she was less touched by the north wind. His nature
was more mercurial, more restless, not so patient when life’s adventure
dragged.

“I feel near home, Gilbert. I think I could live in the Forest—like a
wild thing.”

“Woodmere must be all green, and the lilies white on the water. The
house is but a shell, they say.”

Her eyes filled with a great tenderness.

“My heart is there,” she said, sighing.

A flock of sheep passed them, being driven to the river pastures. A
great wood-wain came rumbling along, loaded high with brown fagots.
Mellis’s nostrils dilated, and her eyes shone.

“What a good ship, and what merchandise! I can smell the Forest.”

He laughed, with a note of recklessness.

“Oh the merry, merry life, with the horn and the hound, and the bed
under the greenwood tree. Why did our people wear the wrong color,
sister? Our hearts were red, and the color beggared us.”

“My heart is the color of fire,” she answered him, “and I let it burn
with the thought of vengeance. When will you begin to tell me your
secrets?”

“Very soon, sister. I want no listeners within a mile of us. You see how
discreet I am! Gawdy Town is a pest of a place; even the dogs do their
spying; and there is always the chance of your getting a knife in your
back. That is why I thought it better that you should go.”

“Have you ever found me a coward?”

“Dear heart, you are too brave, and such courage may be dangerous.”

They were leaving the marshes behind them, and the Rondel had taken to
itself glimmering green lines of pollard willows. Little farmsteads
dotted the long northward slope of the hills. Here and there the Forest
showed itself, thrusting a green headland into the cornlands and the
meadows.

Gilbert was on the alert. Presently he pointed to an open beech wood
that spread down close to the road.

“There is our council chamber, Mellis.”

“It should serve.”

“We can tie up the nag and see how my friend the cook has filled your
saddle-bags.”

They turned aside into the beech wood, tethered the horse, and sat down
under a tree. They were hidden from the road; the gray trunks hemmed
them in.

Gilbert was examining the saddle-bags.

“That cook is a brave creature! Good slices of bread with meat in
between. And a bottle of wine. There is enough stuff here to last you
for days. Dear Lord, what trouble I was at to explain my buying of that
sorry old nag!”

He set one of the bags between them.

“Now for dinner and a gossip. There are two words that you must never
utter, Mellis, save when some one challenges you with the question,
‘What of Wales?’”

“And those words?”

“Are ‘Owen Tudor.’ They will win you friends where friends are to be
had, but also they might hang you.”

“Of course.”

“Our plans have not gone so badly. Our king across the water is a shrewd
gentleman. Our business is to stir up a hornets’ nest in these parts;
others will play the same game elsewhere, so that Crooked Dick shall be
stung in a hundred places while Lord Harry is crossing the sea. Roger
Bland is our arch enemy.”

She drew in a deep breath.

“Do I forget it?”

“Tsst!—not too much fire! He is the very devil for cunning. We have got
to hold him in these parts, so worry him that he cannot march and join
the Hunchback when spears will be precious to that king. They will find
a dozen fires alight in every corner of the kingdom, and if our Harry
wins the day, Woodmere will be ours again.”

She uttered a fiercer cry.

“And blood shall pay for blood. Oh, I am no sweet saint, Gilbert. That
man dragged our father at his horse’s heels, and then——”

She broke off as though the words were too bitter to be spoken.

Gilbert’s eyes had hardened.

“God forgive me for feeling merry at times. Well, sister, I stay on in
Gawdy Town, as you know, to wait for news, and to watch for the men who
will come over the sea. Old John Falconer is our watchdog in the Forest.
The Blounts and the Ropers are with us; also a dozen more. We ought to
muster three hundred men when the day comes. The Flemming is a jewel.
His pack mules have smuggled war gear and stores into the Forest. There
are three suits of armor, besides bills and salets and jacks hidden in
our cellar under the south tower. There is a big beam, too, in the
sluice ditch to throw across the gap in the trestle bridge.”

He lay back against the tree, thinking deeply.

“This Father Jude on the Black Moor is a close-mouthed old worthy. He is
a man who asks no questions, and there is money to be made by such
people; a fellow who can mind his own business is worth his wage. There
is not a wilder place in the Forest. You will lodge there in the
pilgrim’s house; the Benedictines of Paradise are bound to feed and
lodge any traveler who passes that way. Besides, Father Jude is one of
us; the man has some bitter grudge against the Lord of Troy.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“And I am a pilgrim.”

“Under a vow.”

“And how shall I serve you, on the top of a moor? It seems foolishness.”

“If a man goes to shrive himself or to pray at a holy place, can folk
quarrel with him? That butcher villain of a Vance has his spies
everywhere. A bird does not fly straight to its nest when a cat is
about.”

“True.”

“And, sister, it would be well if you could steal your way to Woodmere,
and see with your own eyes that things are as old Falconer and the
Flemming say they are. The cellar trap is hidden under a pile of loose
stones; a stout stake through the ring will raise it.”

“I could find my way to Woodmere in the dark.”

“What a wench you are for wandering! You have that money safely? I might
have my purse cut in Gawdy. You must play Jew.”

She put her hand to her bosom.

“It is here.”

They talked awhile of all that was in their hearts and of the great
adventure that lay before them. Mellis was as serious as he was gay; his
flippancy increased as the time slipped by.

“I shall have a tale to spin, oh false woman who passed as my sister! I
am a Jack without a Jill.”

Yet his eyes were sad. A gradual melancholy took hold of him.

“Kiss me, child; we must be parting. Keep a brave heart.”

She kissed him with sudden tenderness.

“God guard you, my brother.”

“Oh, I have a cat’s lives!”

He jumped up and went to unfasten her nag.

“Remember, this good priest will ask no questions. He is a kind soul,
and will swear to any lie, so they tell me. Up with you, sweetheart.”

He strapped on the saddle-bags, helped her to mount, and led her horse
out of the wood. There was not a soul to be seen on the road, and still
he seemed loth to leave her.

“I will go with you a little way.”

She looked at him dearly.

“No, I am brave. And there is no one here to see us part, and to gape
and wonder concerning us.”

“True, oh queen! And so, farewell.”

He tossed his cap at her, laughed, and went off whistling.

And a sudden strange sadness assailed her. She held her horse in and sat
there watching him. He was so gallant, so debonair, this brother of
hers.

And she would never set eyes on him again. No prophetic instinct could
tell her that.




                              _Chapter X_


Brother Geraint made his way through the dusk to Widow Greensleeve’s
house at Cherry Acre. It was a warm, still night, and the scent of the
white thorn blossom in the hedges hung heavy on the air.

He came to the gate and stood listening. There was no sound to be heard
save the rush of the river through the sluices of the mill.

Geraint pushed the gate open and peered about under the apple trees.

“Good evening to you, holy sir.”

Some one was laughing close to him in the dusk.

“Who’s there?”

“What, not know my voice?”

“It is you?”

“Come and see. Have you forgotten the seat by the hedge?”

He thrust the apple boughs aside, and saw the white kerchief that
covered her shoulders.

“Where is the girl?”

“Saying her prayers somewhere. I have not seen her since noon. She is
touched in the head, and goes wandering for hours together.”

Geraint sat down on the bench beside the dame. He was in a sullen mood,
and very bitter.

“The fool! Send her back to the moor.”

“She swears she will not go.”

“This Martin Valliant is the devil. She could make nothing of him?”

“Why, my good man, it was he who made a Magdalene of her. She came back
crying, ‘He is a saint. There is no man in Paradise fit to lace his
shoes!’”

Geraint cursed under his breath.

“A pest take both of them!”

She rapped his shoulder sharply with her knuckles.

“A word of warning, Dom Geraint. If the man is dangerous, the girl may
prove more so. I tell you he has worked a miracle with her, and women
are strange creatures. She says openly, ‘Some day Martin Valliant will
come down from the moor, and make an end of the wickedness in
Paradise.’”

“She says that!”

“Aye, and dreams of it. I tell you women are strange creatures when love
has its way. She is all for turning anchoress, and praying all day to
St. Martin. For half a cup of milk she would go running through the
valley, screaming the truth. Be very careful, Dom Geraint.”

He leaned forward, glowering and biting his nails.

“We have made a poor throw, dame. And here is that pestilent pedant of
an abbot threatening us with a visitation. We have heard of the storm he
raised at Birchhanger; he trampled on the whole priory there, had one of
the brothers hanged by the judge on circuit. Privilege of clergy,
forsooth! The Church is to be regenerated!”

He rocked to and fro.

“And this Martin Valliant, the very man to play the holy sneak! A pretty
pass indeed! A cub we took in and nurtured!”

The woman touched his sleeve.

“Some men are too good for this world. They are so much in love with the
next world——”

He laughed discordantly.

“That they should be kicked into it! By my bones, there’s truth in that!
It had entered my head, dame. And after all it is but doing a saint a
service to help him to a halo.”

“Tsst—you are too noisy! Have a care.”

They drew closer together on the bench till their heads were nearly
touching.

“Kate is not about?”

“She’ll come back singing a litany. We shall hear her.”

Yet the girl was nearer than either of them dreamed. She had come
wandering silently along the path soon after Geraint had entered the
garden, and their voices had warned her. She was standing on the other
side of the hedge within two yards of the bench, her hands clenched, her
face white and sharp.

She could hear all that they said to each other, and it was sufficient
to make her wise as to what was in Geraint’s heart. She realized how his
brethren at Paradise hated Martin, and how they wished him out of the
way.

Kate heard Geraint stirring at last. There were sounds from the other
side of the hedge, sounds that made her wince. She crept away, step by
step, till a turn of the path hid her from view.

The gate shut with a clatter. She heard the monk give a great yawn, and
then his heavy steps dying away beyond the orchard.

Kate stood very close to the hedge and shivered. Life had so changed for
her; she was horrified at things that she had hardly understood before;
men seemed contemptible creatures. She was thinking of what she had
overheard, and of the treachery that threatened Martin Valliant.

Kate had kept her promise, and the very keeping of it had strengthened
her heart; but that night she was persuaded to break it, nor could her
conscience find fault with her.

There would be a moon in an hour. She crept around to the stable that
stood some way from the house, put a halter on the old gray donkey, and
got the beast out with scarcely a sound. He was as stubborn as any ass
could be in most people’s hands, but he had a liking for humoring Kate.
She led him down the orchard, through the slip gate into the dame’s
meadow, and so away over the open country to the bridge at the mill. No
one saw her cross the river, though the miller nudged his wife when he
heard the donkey’s hoofs on the timber of the bridge.

“Now who would you guess that to be?”

The good wife ran to the window, but saw nothing, since the moon was not
up.

“An ass, by the sound.”

“Two of them, more likely. And supposing it were Kate Succory, where
would she be going?”

“It is best to mind one’s business, John, when we live at the prior’s
mill.”

“Remember it, dame, by all means,” he said, somewhat sullenly, “there is
not an honest man among them now that Martin Valliant is away on the
moor.”

His wife clapped her hands.

“Maybe that ass travels as far as the moor.”

“Get you to bed. A woman’s tongue stirs up too much mire.”

Kate did not trouble her head as to whether anyone had seen her from the
mill. She set the donkey’s nose for the Forest, and helped him with her
heels. Luckily, she knew the way, and soon the moon came over the hill
to help her.

“A blessing on you, Master Moon,” she said quite solemnly, looking over
the donkey’s tail.

The clock at Paradise was striking midnight when Kate saw the Black Moor
lying dim and mysterious under the moon. More than once she had been
shrewdly frightened in the deeps of the woods; but old Jock was the most
stolid of mokes, and the beast’s steadiness had comforted her. She had
stretched herself on his back, her arms about his neck, her face close
to his flopping ears, and had talked to him.

“Who’s afraid, Jock? I can say a Mater Maria and a Pater. Besides, we
are on a good errand, and the saints will watch over us.”

Jock, by his silence, most heartily agreed with her.

“Dom Geraint is a treacherous villain. The lean, black rat! Some day
Abbot Hilary will send for Martin Valliant and will make him prior.”

She sat up straight on Jock’s back as the donkey climbed the moor. The
place had a magic for her. She could imagine all sorts of miraculous
things happening where Martin Valliant lived.

“Assuredly he will be a very great saint,” she said to herself, “and
people will come to him to be healed.”

Presently she saw the cross standing out against the sky, and it stirred
her almost to passionate tears. She slipped off Jock’s back, fastened
him to a stunted thorn, and went on alone.

Everything was very still. In the far south the sea glimmered under the
moon. Kate went forward with a strange, exultant awe in her heart.
Martin would pardon her for breaking her promise when he knew why she
had come.

The buildings were black and solemn, though a faint ray of light shone
from the window of the chapel. It was the vigil of St. Florence, and
Martin had left two candles burning on the altar while he slept for an
hour.

Kate looked into the chapel and found it empty. She knelt on the
threshold, put her hands together, and said a prayer.

Martin Valliant was sound asleep in his cell, but he awoke to the sound
of some one knocking. He sat up on his pallet, and listened.

“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant!”

He knew her voice, and for a moment he would not answer her.

“Martin Valliant, be not angry with me. I am not breaking my vow to you;
no, not in the spirit. I have come to warn you.”

“Child, what mean you?”

“Beware of Brother Geraint, beware of the monks of Paradise. They go
about to do you a great wrong.”

He rose to his knees.

“How should you know?”

“Listen. I speak what is true.”

She told him of the things she had heard Geraint whisper in the garden.

“They are evil men, and mean treachery toward you. I could not rest,
Martin Valliant, because you are a good man, and taught me to see the
Christ.”

There was silence.

Then she said, “Pray for me, Martin Valliant,” and was gone.

Martin rose up and opened the door of the cell, but she was out of sight
over the edge of the moor.

He stood there a long while, rigid, wide-eyed, a young man amazed that
older men should be so base.




                              _Chapter XI_


Mellis Dale had passed the night sleeping under a thorn tree in
Bracknell Wood, with a pile of last year’s bracken for a bed. The thorn
tree had stood as a green and white pavilion, and there was a forest
pool among the birch trees of Bracknell that had served her both as a
labrum and a mirror. She broke her fast to the sound of the singing of
the woodlarks, and with the sunlight playing through the delicate
tracery of the birches. Her brown nag was cropping the wet grass in a
little clearing where she had tethered him.

Mellis’s eyes were full of a quiet tenderness that morning. She was a
Forest child, and its sounds and scents and colors were very familiar
and very dear. She was as forest-wise as any ranger or woodman, and was
as much part of its life as the birds or the deer or the mysterious
woodland streams and the brown pools where the dead leaves lay buried. A
great content possessed her. She had no fear of the wild life or of a
bed under the stars.

The sun had been up some hours before she saddled her nag and rode
forward through Bracknell Deep. She knew all the ways, though Woodmere
lay three leagues to the north-west, and the Black Moor two leagues to
the east of it. She felt no need of hurrying. The deep woods delighted
her; her dark eyes seemed to fill with their mystery; their silence
soothed her heart. Life was a great adventure, a game of hide-and-seek
in a garden where every path and nook and thicket were unknown. She was
strong and comely and full of the pride of her youth; her breath was
sweet, her black hair fell to her knees, her lips were as red as the
berries on a briar.

Martin Valliant was hoeing weeds in Father Jude’s garden when Mellis
rode her brown nag up the southern slope of the Black Moor. There was no
life in Martin’s labor; his eyes had a dull look as though some pain
gnawed at his vitals. His heart had discovered a new bitterness in life,
for the words that Kate Succory had spoken to him in the night kept up a
tumult in his brain. He had begun to understand many things that had
seemed obscure and meaningless. He even realized why he was hoeing weeds
on the top of a lonely moor. The very men whose life he had shared were
filled with malice against him, and, like Joseph’s brethren, were trying
to sell him into bondage.

He heard the tramp of Mellis’s horse, and his new-born mistrust stood on
the alert.

“Why should I fear anything that walks the earth,” he thought, “man,
woman, or beast? They are but creatures of flesh.”

And then he discovered himself standing straight as a young ash tree,
resting his hands on the top of the handle of the hoe, and staring over
the hedge into a woman’s eyes. He could see her head, shoulders and
bosom; the green hedge hid the rest of her. But if Martin had dared to
scoff at Dame Nature, that good lady was quick and vigorous with her
retort. She showed him this girl, black-haired, red-lipped, flushed with
riding, sitting her horse with a certain haughtiness, her head held
high, her white throat showing proudly.

“You are Father Jude?”

Martin could have stammered with a sudden, wondering awe of her. Her
eyes were fixed on him questioningly, and with an intentness that
heralded an incipient frown.

“Father Jude is no longer here.”

“Not here!”

“He lies sick at Paradise.”

The frown showed now on her forehead. Her eyes lifted and gazed beyond
him, and Martin Valliant had never seen such eyes before. His mistrust
of her had vanished, he knew not why. Paradise had no knowledge of such
a creature as this. She had ridden out of the heart of a mystery, and
her face was the face of June.

“Fools!”

She was angry, perplexed. And then she smiled down at Martin with quick
subtlety.

“Your pardon, father.”

She smiled whole-heartedly as she took stock of his youth.

“What am I saying! I have a vow of silence upon me, save that I may
speak to such as you. I am a pilgrim. I had a fellow-pilgrim with me,
but she fell sick at Burchester, and I rode on alone. Father Jude’s name
was put in my mouth by the prioress of Burchester. Is there not a
pilgrim’s rest-house here?”

Martin Valliant was still full of his wonder at her beauty.

“Assuredly. This is the chapelry of St. Florence. The good saint so
willed it that all who passed this way should have food and lodging.”

Her face had changed its expression. She showed a sudden reticence, a
cold pride.

“St. Florence has my thanks. Will you send your servant to take my
horse?”

He gaped at her, as though overcome by the thought that this creature of
mystery was to move and breathe in the guest-house next his cell.

He tried to save his dignity by taking refuge in sententiousness.

“I am the servant of St. Florence and of all those who tarry here.”

She glanced at him guardedly, and seemed to realize his unworldliness.

“I shall be no great burden. A stall for the horse and a roof for my own
head. I can look to my own horse, if you will show me the stable.”

Martin let the hoe drop out of his hands. He went striding along the
hedge as though some enchantment had fallen upon him. But she was out of
the saddle by the time he reached the gate, and, by the way she carried
herself, more than fit to deal with her own affairs.

“That is the stable, there by the woodstack?”

“Yes.”

“Is the door locked? No? I thank you, good father.”

He loitered about there like a great boy, feeling that he ought to help
her, but that she did not desire his help. She seemed to have a way of
taking possession of things. He could see her removing the saddle and
bridle from her horse, and presently she was at the haystack gathering
up some of the loose hay in her arms. She had left her brown cloak in
the stable, and her blue spencer and green gown made Martin think of
some rich blue flower on a green stalk.

Next he saw her handling a bucket, and this time the spirit moved him.
He went across to her with boyish gravity.

“The spring is down the hill. I will fetch the water.”

She gave him the bucket with an air of unconcern. Her hand touched his,
and thrilled him to the shoulder, but she did not so much as notice that
she had touched him.

“Thank you, Father——”

“Martin.”

“Martin.”

“It would be too heavy for you to carry,” he said bluntly.

But she turned back into the stable as though she had not heard him.

Martin Valliant went down to the spring with a most strange sense of
self-dissatisfaction. He filled the bucket, balanced it on the rough
stones that formed a wall around the spring, and stared at his own
reflection in the water. The thought struck him that he had never looked
at himself in that same way before, critically, with a personal
inquisitiveness. A new self-consciousness was being born in him. He
stood there brooding, wondering if other men——

Then he rebuked himself with fierce severity, and carried the bucket
back up the hill. Mellis was not in the stable, so he watered the horse
and stared at the saddle and bridle hanging on the wall as though they
could tell him who she was and whence she came. It occurred to him that
she might be hungry, and at the same time he remembered that the food in
his larder was hardly fit for a sturdy beggar.

This struck him as an absolute disaster. He went guiltily to his cell,
and took out what by courtesy he called bread. It was of his own baking,
a detestable piece of alchemy.

He weighed it in his hand, and found himself thinking of the lithe way
in which she moved.

“They bake good bread at Paradise,” he said to himself.

A quite ridiculous anger attacked him.

“Mean hounds! This chapelry should be better served. A couple of mules
with panniers——”

He went forth, stroking his chin dubiously, and looking at the bread he
carried.

“Poor stuff for such a pilgrim.”

The door of the little rest-house stood open, showing its oak table and
benches, and the rude wooden pallets that served as beds. Mellis was
standing behind the table, unpacking one of her saddle-bags.

“This bread——”

He felt his face growing hot. Her eyes regarded him with momentary
amusement.

“Is that—bread?”

“It is as God made me make it.”

She was smiling. His quaint humility touched her.

“I will take your bread, Father Martin, and in exchange you shall eat
some of mine.”

She took out a manchet wrapped in white butter cloth and held it out to
him.

“Put your bread upon the table. I dare vow it cost you much
honest—labor.”

She had nearly said “cursing,” but his solemn face chastened her.

Martin Valliant took her manchet, handling it as though it were
something that would break. His eyes wandered around the room and
noticed the wooden pallets.

“There should be some sweet hay spread there,” he said to himself.

Mellis was watching him, but with no great interest. For the moment life
called to her as a fierce and impetuous adventure. She had no use for a
man who wore the dress of a priest.

“I will keep this bread for the altar,” he said suddenly, feeling that
he had no excuse for loitering any longer in the room.

For an hour or more Martin Valliant went about his work with grim
thoroughness. He fetched more water from the spring, cut up wood for
kindling, swept out the chapel and his cell, and looked into the press
where he kept his vestments to see that the moths had not been at work.
Yet all the while he had his mind’s eye on the door of the rest-house;
his thoughts wandered, no matter how busy he kept his hands.

He was standing at the doorway of the chapel, polishing one of the
silver candlesticks that stood on the altar, when Mellis came out of the
rest-house and turned her steps toward the great wooden cross. She
passed close to the chapel in wandering toward the highest point of the
moor, and her eyes rested for a moment on Martin Valliant and his silver
candlestick.

It may have been that she asked herself what this tall fellow meant by
living the life of an old woman when he was built for the trade of the
sword. At all events, Martin Valliant saw a look in her eyes that was
very like pity touched with scorn.

He watched her go to the cross and sit down on the mound. Her chin was
raised, and she turned her head slowly from side to side, as though to
bring all the Forest under her ken. There was something finely
adventurous about her pose. She made Martin think of a wild-eyed bird
surveying the world before spreading her wings for a flight.

He conceived a sudden distaste for polishing such a thing as a
candlestick. He studied his own hands; they were big and brown, and he
knew how strong they were. He remembered how he had straightened an iron
crowbar across his knee, to the delight of the prior’s woodcutters. And
when the big wain had got bogged by Lady’s Brook, Martin Valliant had
crawled under the axle beam and lifted it out.

The candlestick was returned to the altar, and Martin went down to the
haystack to fetch hay for Mellis’s bed. The hay knife was in the stack,
and he cut out a good truss of fresh stuff and carried it to the
rest-house. He had spread it on one of the wooden beds and was crossing
the threshold, when he met Mellis face to face.

“I have brought some hay for a bed.”

He colored like fire, but her voice was casual when she answered him.

“You vex yourself too much on my account, father. Last night I slept out
under a tree.”

Martin spent an hour walking up and down behind the chapel, raging with
sudden self-humiliation. Why did she treat him as though he were an old
man or a child?




                             _Chapter XII_


The next day came and went, a pageant of white clouds in a deep blue
sky, and the earth all green to the purple of the distant hills.

Martin Valliant began the morning with a queer flush of excitement, even
of trepidation. The woman with the dark hair and the wild woodland eyes
would mount her horse and ride away out of his life. And somehow he did
not want her to go, nor was he ashamed of the desire. He found himself
in awe of her, but he did not fear her as he had feared poor Kate
Succory. She was a mystery, a vision, a strange new world that made him
stand wide-eyed with wonder. Her lips made him think of the holy wine,
pure drink, red as blood, and undefiled.

His restlessness began with the dawn. He rang the chapel bell, went
through the services, with his thoughts wandering out and waiting
expectantly outside the rest-house door. For the very first time the
spirit of dissimulation entered Brother Martin’s life, prompting him to
walk up and down the grassy space outside his cell, hands folded, head
bent, as though in meditation.

He saw her door open. She came out, her black hair hanging loose, wished
him a calm “good morning,” and went down toward the spring. She had gone
to wash herself there, to dabble her hands in the water. Martin paced up
and down.

She returned, disappeared into the rest-house, and there was
silence—suspense. Martin Valliant kept passing the open doorway, but he
had not the courage to look in.

“Father Martin——”

He faced around with a guileless air, as though she had been very
distant from his thoughts.

“Did you speak to me, Mistress——”

“And I have not told you my name! I am called Catharine Lovel. I wish to
tarry here for some days, if St. Florence does not forbid it.”

Martin looked grave.

“I never heard that St. Florence had set a boundary to his charity,” he
said.

“Then I am the more his debtor in the spirit. This is so sweet and calm
a place. I come from a forest country, Father Martin.”

“It is a very wonderful country,” he agreed.

“And should be pleasant to one who has been vowed to a month’s silence?”

Again Martin agreed with her. She stood at gaze, her hands clasped in
front of her.

“One cannot lose oneself with this moor as a guide post. I shall ride
out, Father Martin, and go down into the woods.”

“In the valley there the beech trees are very noble,” he said; “I love
them.”

“Sometimes, Father Martin, trees are nobler than men.”

He pondered those words of hers all day.

Dusk was falling before she returned. The brown horse’s ears hung limp,
as though she had ridden him many miles, and his coat was stained with
sweat. Martin Valliant had been standing in the doorway of his cell. He
went forward to hold her horse.

“I so managed it that I lost myself,” she said.

Her face looked white in the dusk, and her eyes tired.

“I reached a river, a fine stream.”

“The Rondel. It runs a league away, and the woods are great and very
thick.”

“That lured me on—perhaps. I found a ford, and pushed my horse over,
there are wild grasslands beyond all full of flowers.”

“I have never been so far,” he confessed.

“It is a great country, even wilder than my own. I saw as splendid a
hart as ever swam a stream come down and cross the river. And now I am
as hungry as though I had followed the hounds.”

He saw that she was weary.

“I will look to the horse.”

She glided down from the saddle.

“The poor beast has had to suffer for my whims, father. He will bless
you, no doubt. And so good-night to you; I shall be asleep almost before
I have supped.”

Martin Valliant led the horse to the stable, took off the saddle and
bridle, and rubbed the beast down with a handful of hay. He found the
animal muddied above the knees, and there were other matters to set
Martin thinking. The fords of the Roding were floored with sand, for the
Roding was a clean river and ran at a good pace. Of course, the mud
might have come from some piece of bog or a forest stream. He was the
more astonished that she should have reached the river, and having
reached it, found her way back again through one of the wildest and most
savage parts of the Forest. The ways were few and treacherous, and known
only to the forest folk, and yet what reason was there for her to lie?

The second day resembled the first in its happenings, save that Martin
Valliant betrayed a more flagrant interest in this mysterious woman’s
pilgrimage. She rode out early, and he hid himself behind a thorn bush
on the moor and watched her progress. She chose neither the path that
led to the beech woods, nor the road going west, but turned aside along
the track that made for Oakshot Bottom. Martin watched her till she was
out of sight, hidden by the belt of birches that bounded the northern
rim of the moor.

She returned earlier that day, and in a strange and sullen temper. She
let Martin take the horse, but her eyes avoided his, and she had little
to say to him.

“I struck a fool’s country—all sand.”

“That would be the White Plain.”

“‘White’ they call it! A good jest!”

“Because of the birch trees.”

“Ah, the birch trees! I remember.”

He looked at her curiously, but she went straight to the rest-house and
shut herself in. Something seemed to have gone very amiss with her that
day, and Martin was honestly perplexed. Were women made of such wayward
stuff that some dust, a wood of birch trees, and perhaps a few flies,
could stir such spirited discontent?

He took her horse to the stable, fed and groomed him as though he were
my lady’s servant. And again he examined the beast’s feet, only to
discover something that was singular. One of the hind hoofs had red clay
balled in it, and Martin Valliant knew that red clay was not to be found
in that part of the Forest.

He picked the stuff out and stared at it, holding it in one palm.

    “Oakshot is yellow, Bracknell is black,
    Troy is as white as a miller’s sack,
    The Paradise fields are as brown as wood,
    But red is the color of Bloody Rood.”

He called to mind the old Forest jingle, and the reddish-yellow lump in
his hand rhymed with it.

“Bloody Rood? That is the Blount’s lordship. Young Nigel holds the fee.”

He frowned and tossed the clay into the stall.

Martin saw no more of Mellis that evening; she remained shut up in the
rest-house, nor did he leave the limits of his cell. A new emotion had
been born in Martin Valliant’s heart—an emotion that was so utterly
human that the saint was fast losing himself in the man. Mellis was
growing more mysterious, more elusive, and Martin Valliant’s imagination
had carried him away at a gallop in pursuit of her.

Why had she ridden all the way to Bloody Rood? Chance could not have
carried her there, and what reason had she for hiding the truth? The
adventure had not gone smoothly, to judge by the temper of her return.
And what sort of adventure could befall a woman in the Forest?

From the moment of that thought an utterly new look came into Martin
Valliant’s eyes. His nostrils dilated, he stared fixedly at some
imaginary scene, his hands clenched themselves. Dame Nature had flicked
him with her scourge of jealousy, set him thinking about a certain young
Nigel Blount of Bloody Rood.

Martin Valliant discovered his own manhood that night. He had ceased to
be an onlooker, a creature in petticoats, an impersonal, passionless
saint. He was going to take a part in the adventure: to see for himself
how life stood.




                             _Chapter XIII_


Mellis had little to say to him next morning when he carried her a
bucket of water from the spring. She was standing in the doorway of the
rest-house, a far-away look in her eyes, her black hair caught up by a
piece of red ribbon and tied behind her shoulders.

Martin did not dare to question her as to what she purposed for the day.
His own secret was too big for him, and he felt guilty toward her in his
thoughts. He went back to his cell, filled a wallet with food, and laid
it ready behind the door with a stout hollywood staff that had belonged
to Father Jude. If the girl rode out that morning he had made up his
mind to follow her and leave the chapelry to take care of itself.

Going out to reconnoiter, he saw Mellis in the stable saddling her
horse. The hint was sufficient. He kept out of the way and bided his
time.

She did not call to him that morning or offer him any explanation, but
rode straight from the stable past the great cross and over the edge of
the moor. Martin saw her go. He slung the wallet over his shoulder, took
his staff, and followed, stopping at the rest-house door to see whether
she had left her saddle-bags behind. They were lying on one of the
wooden beds, so that he knew that she purposed to return.

As a boy, Martin Valliant had tracked the deer, and his following of
Mellis was just as subtle a piece of hunting. The old brown horse was
jaded and stale, but she pushed him to a trot down the slope of the
moor, and Martin had to run to keep her well in view. Luckily she was
too busy keeping a watch for rabbit holes to trouble about looking back.
When she reached the place where the track branched she reined in, and
Martin dropped down behind a furze bush. Her indecision lasted only for
a few seconds, for when he raised his head cautiously to get sight of
her she was already moving along the track that made for the Green
Deeps. Martin’s nostrils quivered, and his eyes lost some of their
hardness. She had not chosen the track to Oakshot Bottom; Bloody Rood
and the Blounts were out of court.

The brown horse appeared to be setting his own pace, and she had to
humor him because of his age. A fair stride enabled Martin to keep his
distance. He had to follow very cautiously over the moor, watching her
like a hound, and ready to drop to earth should she waver or look back.
There was a moment when he thought that he had betrayed himself, for she
reined in her horse and sat looking steadily back at the swell of the
moor. Martin lay flat in the heather, and presently she rode on.

The Green Deeps opened before them, wild valleys choked with woodland,
almost pathless, a region where outlaws sometimes hid themselves. A
narrow ride almost choked with scrub and brambles followed the valleys,
lifting itself now and again over the shoulder of a low hill. The woods
towered against the blue, solemn and silent. Sometimes a stream broke
the stillness with a thin, trickling murmur.

They were heading for the Rondel; Martin knew that much, though this
wild country was all virgin to him. He had to keep in closer touch with
her, for the track disappeared at times, and Mellis threaded her way
among the oaks and beeches. He was astonished at the steady,
unhesitating way she rode, choosing her path when the track branched,
without any sign of faltering. The Deeps were a great green fog to
Martin Valliant; he was utterly lost in them, save for the guesswork
that they were traveling north. All his wits were centered on the girl,
on keeping her in view, and pushing ahead quickly when he lost her
behind some leafy screen, on saving himself from rushing into a
betrayal.

The track climbed a hill, and then the ground fell steeply, almost like
a green cliff. Martin saw the gleam of water shining below the crowded
domes of the trees. It was the Rondel flashing in the sunlight between
the green walls of the Forest.

Mellis was urging the brown horse into the water when Martin reached the
underwood at the top of the bank. She had struck the ford, and he saw
that the water was quite shallow, reaching just above the horse’s knees.
He dared not break cover until she was across, and there was every
chance of his losing her if he fell too far behind, but she rode her
horse straight out of the water and on into the Forest without glancing
back. Martin tucked up his frock and splashed his way across like Atlas
plowing through the ocean, scrambled up the far bank, and caught sight
of her at the end of a colonnade of beeches, a green tunnel floored with
brown leaves and bluebells. He started running, keeping close to the
trunks of the trees, ready to dodge behind one of them if she so much as
turned her head.

Martin’s chase of her lasted another hour, and the farther she led him
the more mysterious she became. He was utterly perplexed by the whole
business, and astonished by her miraculous knowledge of the Forest ways.
He became aware of a change in the green wilderness; the woods were more
open, the glades more frequent, and stretches of grassland flowed here
and there, all yellow with buttercups and shining like cloth of gold. It
was a more spacious country, more beautiful, less savage, lush, deep,
and mysterious, sheltered from the winds. There were yews and hollies
here more ancient than he had ever seen. Great sweeps of young bracken
covered the open slopes of the hills.

They climbed a long rise where old beech trees grew. Its solemn aisles
opened westwards on a little secret valley. Water glimmered in the green
lap of the valley, and for a moment Martin thought that he had struck
one of the reaches of the river. But something that happened ahead of
him brought Martin Valliant to earth, with his chin resting on the mossy
root of a beech tree. Mellis had dismounted, and was tying her horse to
a drooping bough. They had come to the end of their journey.

He saw her go forward under the shade of the great trees. There was
caution in her movements. She kept well in the shadows, gliding from
trunk to trunk, not hurrying, as though she wished to make sure that no
human thing moved in the valley below her. Presently she seemed
satisfied. Martin saw her walk out boldly into the open and pass out of
sight below the slope of the hill.

Not till he had crawled to the edge of the beech wood did Martin
Valliant realize what the valley held. A broad mere lay in a grassy
hollow, shaded toward the north by willows, and ringed about with yellow
flags and water herbs. An island seemed to float upon the water, all
white with old fruit trees in bloom. A gray turret and the bare stone
gable-ends of a house showed above the apple blossom. There was a little
gate-house close to the water, but its roof was gone, and the bridge
that had led to it ruinous. The charred rafters of a barn showed beyond
the sweep of an ivy-covered wall. Martin could trace the suggestions of
a garden, with old yew trees, hornbeam hedges all gone to top, and a
broad terrace walk that looked as though it were paved with stone. The
place had a still, sweet, tragic look, lying there in the deeps of the
Forest, its fruit trees white with blossom, although no one had pruned
them, and the fruit they bore would rot in the grass or be eaten by the
birds.

Martin Valliant was so astonished by what he saw, so bewitched by the
desolate beauty of the place, that he had almost forgotten Mellis. She
had reached the edge of the water and was standing by a willow, looking
across at the ruined house. A sudden awe seemed to steal into Martin’s
eyes. Mystery! And she was the human part of it, wandering by Forest
ways to this island of beautiful desolation. No chance quest had brought
her to the place, and Martin, lying there with his chin on his hands,
felt a strange stirring in his heart. Perhaps she had lied to him—but
what then? The very thought of it quickened his compassion. In following
her he had stumbled upon the real woman—a woman whose eyes were deep
with unforgettable things.

The truth came to him like the opening of a book. Tags of gossip tossed
to and fro across the refectory table at Paradise pieced themselves
together. Woodmere, the Dales’ house, sacked and burned by Roger Bland
of Troy Castle; old Dale with a spear through his body lying dead under
an oak tree. Blood shed for the love of a red rose. Two children saved
by a swineherd and shipped off in a fishing-boat from Gawdy Town.
Woodmere rotting in the Forest, to please the Lord of Troy’s sneering
and whimsical pride!

Mellis had wandered along to what had been the bridge. Two spans of it
still stood, but the center arch had been thrown down, leaving a gap of
twelve feet or more. Young trees had taken possession of the broken
walls, and the bridge-head was choked with brambles. There was no way of
crossing the gap save by thrusting a big beam or the trunk of a tree
across it, and such a piece of bridge mending was wholly beyond a
woman’s strength. Moreover, there was a second chasm to be crossed where
the drawbridge had been worked from the gate-house, but the drawbridge
was a thing of the past. Roger Bland had had it unchained and unbolted
and dragged to Troy Castle as a trophy.

Martin Valliant saw her walk along the broken bridge and stand there
baffled, and though there was the one obvious and most natural way of
crossing the water, it never entered Martin’s head that she would choose
it. She came back to the landward side, and he lost sight of her in a
little hollow beside the bridge-head that was hidden by bushes and young
trees. He was still wondering what she would do, and whether he had the
courage to go down and confess himself and help her, when he saw her
rise out of the green foam of the foliage like Venus rising out of the
sea.

She had thrown off her clothes, and went as Mother Nature had made her,
a beautiful white creature crowned by her dark hair. In looking at her
Martin forgot that he was a man, forgot his vows, forgot that there was
such a thing as sin. For there seemed no shame in her beauty, and in
that white shape of hers kissed by the sun.

Beyond the bridge a little grassy headland jutted into the mere where
the water was clear of weeds. Mellis made her way toward it, like Eve
walking the earth before sin was born. She stepped down into the water,
waded a pace or two, and then glided forward on her bosom, the water
rippling over her shoulders. Thirty breast strokes earned her across.
She climbed out at what had been an old mooring stage for the big
flat-bottomed boat that had been used for fishing. For a moment Martin
saw her stand white and straight in the sunlight; then her hands went up
and her black hair came clouding down. It enveloped her like a cloak,
hanging to the level of her knees, like night shrouding the day. She
seemed to have no thought of being watched or spied upon; the place was
a wilderness; she went as Nature made her.

Then she was lost among the orchard trees, whose bloom was as white as
her body, and a great change came over Martin Valliant. He let his head
drop on the root of a beech tree; he shut his eyes, spread his arms like
a suppliant. In losing sight of her he had rediscovered himself, that
striving, perplexed, mistrustful self nurtured on self-starvation and
physical nothingness. A passion of wonder, shame, and doubt shook him.
He lay prone at the feet of Nature, trying to see the face of his God
through the smoke of a new sacrifice. Had he sinned, had he shamed
himself? And yet a deep and passionate voice cried out in him, fiercely
denying that he had erred. What wickedness was there in chancing to gaze
upon a creature whom God had created, upon a beauty that was unsoiled?
He strove with himself, with clenched hands and closed eyes.

And presently a great stillness seemed to fall upon his heart. It was
like the silence of the dawn, born to be broken only by the singing of
birds. He opened his eyes, looked about him at the green spaces, the
blue sky, the water shining in the valley. What had happened to him? Why
all this wrestling and anguish? Where was the thing that men called sin
when earth and the heavens were so beautiful?

And what shame was there in the vision that he had seen?

He sat up, drew aside, and leaned against the trunk of the tree. The
stillness still held in his heart, but somewhere a long way off he
seemed to hear a voice singing. A great tenderness thrilled him. The
earth was transfigured, bathed in a glory of a light. Never had he known
such deep and mysterious exultation. He felt strong, stronger than
death; he feared nothing; his heart was full of a sweet sound of
singing.

Mellis never knew of the great thing that happened to Martin Valliant in
that beech wood. She crossed the water, dressed herself, mounted her
horse, and rode back through the Forest, followed by a man whose eyes
shone and whose face had a kind of awed radiance. She never guessed that
a great love haunted her through the green glooms, and that a man had
discovered his own soul.

And when she reached the cross on the Black Moor, Martin Valliant was
there, waiting. He had run three miles like a madman across country that
he knew. She looked at him and his face astonished her—it was so
strangely luminous, so strong, so human.




                             _Chapter XIV_


Toward dusk the same day a beggar came trudging over the moor. He was a
most unclean and grotesquely ragged creature, almost too ragged to be
genuine, nor had he the characteristic and unstudied gestures of the
true vagrant who cannot let ten minutes pass without scratching some
part of him. The fellow wore a dirty old hood that once had been lined
with scarlet cloth. A white bandage covered his mouth and chin as though
he had some foul disease that had to be hidden. His brown smock hung in
tatters around his knees, and his wallet was such a thing of patches
that no one could have told what color it had been in the beginning.

This ragamuffin scouted his way toward the chapelry with stolid
circumspection. He seemed to have a liking for the gorse and a hatred of
the heather; his love of cover led him a somewhat devious but successful
course, in that he reached the top of the moor without Martin Valliant
seeing him. Once there he crawled into a patch of furze, and so fitted
himself under the ragged stems that he could see the chapel, cell, and
rest-house and anyone who came and went. Mellis was sitting on the bench
outside the rest-house, looking at nothing with sad and vacant eyes.
Martin Valliant stood reading in the doorway of his cell.

The beggar had a particular interest in Martin’s movements, in that he
wanted him out of the way. The afterglow had faded, and night was
settling over the moor.

“The devil take that priest! They should have learned before that old
Jude was sick. And this damnable business——”

The furze was pricking the back of his neck.

“A pest on the stuff! And I have to tell the poor wench——”

He saw Martin Valliant put down his book and come out of the cell with a
bucket in his hand. He was going down to the spring for water. The man
in the furze perked up like a bird.

“God bless him, he has a thirst, or believes in being clean.”

He crawled out as soon as Martin had disappeared over the edge of the
hill, and went quickly toward the rest-house, making signs with his
hand.

Now Martin Valliant, being in a mood when a man walks with his head
among the stars, had loitered just over the edge of the hill, staring at
a broom bush as though it were the miraculous bush of Moses. But
Martin’s eyes did not see the yellow flowers. He was looking inwards at
himself, and at some wonderful vision that had painted itself upon his
memory.

Therefore he was near enough to hear Mellis cry out as though some one
had stabbed at her in the dark.

His dreams were gone in a moment. He turned, dropped the bucket, head in
the air, nostrils quivering, and began to run with great strides across
the heather.

Then the sound of voices reached him, one of them speaking in short,
agonized jerks. The other voice was answering in a cautious and
half-soothing murmur; the other voice was a man’s.

Martin’s stride shortened; he faltered, paused, stopped dead, and then
went on again, skirting the thorn hedge of the garden. It led him close
to the back of the rest-house, and he went no farther.

He heard Mellis cry out:

“My God! Oh! my God!”

The man tried to calm her.

“Softly, Mistress Mellis, or that priest fellow may hear you. A man
would rather cut his tongue out than bring you such news.”

“And you were with him?”

“Why, we had just turned out of the ‘Cock’ Tavern. The fellow dodged out
of a dark alley behind us, and the knife was in before you could think
of an oath. The bloody rogue went off at a run. I stayed with your
brother.”

There was silence for a moment—a tense silence.

“Did he die there—in the gutter?”

The words were like the limping movements of a wounded dog.

“He was dead,” said the man softly, “before the watch came along. There
will be a crowner’s quest, but we can keep a secret—for your sake.”

“My sake! What does it matter? Oh, if I but knew!”

“And that?”

“Who struck that blow.”

“Some hired beast.”

“I can guess that. But who ordered it—paid the blood money?”

The man seemed to hesitate.

“It has scared me, I grant you; one is afraid of a blank wall or a
bush.”

“Roger Bland of Troy?”

“It may be that you have said it.”

He was in a hurry to go; his voice betrayed his restlessness.

“The Flemming is at work. Bide here for a day or two, Mistress Dale. It
is time I disappeared.”

“Yes, go. Let me try and think.”

“Gawdy Town is too dangerous now.”

“Man, I am not afraid, but I think my heart is broken.”

He gabbled a few words of comfort, and by the silence that followed
Martin guessed that he had fled.

The light in the west had faded to a steely grayness, and the stars were
out. Martin Valliant stood there for a while, picking loose mortar from
between the stones, his whole heart yearning to do something, he knew
not what. He could hear no sound of weeping or of movement. The silence
was utter, poignant, unbroken.

Suddenly he heard her speaking, and he knew that it was half to herself
and half to God.

“So he is dead! Dear God—you have heard. Why did you suffer it? Oh,
what a fool I am! Picked up in the gutter!”

Martin’s hands were clenched.

“Did I see the old place to-day? The sun was shining. Oh, dear God, why
am I all alone? The boy is dead; you let him die. And I cannot bear
it—I cannot bear it.”

Nor could Martin Valliant bear that lonely, wounded agony of hers. It
was as though she were drowning in the waters of despair, and there was
no one to leap in and save her.

Mellis stood leaning against the wall, her face turned toward it, her
arms outspread against the rough stones. She did not hear Martin
Valliant coming, but she felt a hand touch one of hers.

She twisted around with startled fierceness.

“Who touched me?”

She saw him recoil. It was so dark now that his face showed as a pale
surface; she could not see his eyes.

“Martin Valliant.”

His voice was awed, humble.

“Do not be angry with me. I will go away if you wish it. I heard you cry
out—and——”

She guessed in an instant that he had overheard everything; that touch
of his hand upon hers had been like the mute, tentative touch of a dog’s
cold muzzle. Her flash of anger melted away.

“It is you? How long——?”

“I was there—behind the rest-house. I had run up, hearing you cry out.
I think it was God Who made me listen.”

“Ah, God is a great listener!”

She was quivering with bitter emotion.

“He listens, but He does not help. He has no pity. Yes, it is quite
true; you know all that should have been kept secret. You know that I
lied to you——”

Martin made the sign of the cross.

“I do not remember it,” he said.

“That I called myself Catharine Lovel—that I was vowed to silence, and
on a pilgrimage!”

“I forgot all those things,” he answered, “when I heard the truth and
your anguish.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Now you will begin preaching a sermon.”

“God forbid,” he said; “I think that this night is teaching me that I
was not born to be a priest.”

There was silence between them for a while. Martin Valliant did not
move; he seemed set there like a statue. She could hear his deep
breathing, a strangely human sound in the soft darkness.

She began to speak again.

“Perhaps you know that they murdered my father years ago, and now they
have slain my brother. We were the Dales of Woodmere, and the Lord of
Troy was our enemy. Why am I here? Why was my brother in Gawdy Town?
Perhaps you can guess, if you are a man as well as a priest. We wanted
our home and the lands that had been ours; we wanted revenge, we wanted
a new king.”

She looked at him challengingly in the darkness.

“Now you know all. We were traitors to Richard Hunchback. We serve Henry
Tudor. Now you can go to Troy Castle—if it pleases you—and tell the
truth.”

His voice began to sound a deeper note.

“God’s curse be upon me if I do any such thing.”

He walked up and down, and then came back to her.

“Will you not sit down, Mistress Dale?”

“I have not the heart to feel weary.”

“It is very still and calm by the great cross up yonder. I will spread a
cloak for you. We must speak of certain things, you and I.”

A new manhood spoke in him. She seemed to question it, and to wonder at
the change in him.

“I am suspect, and have made you share my outlawry—is that it?”

He answered with sudden passion.

“No.”

She surrendered to him of a sudden.

“The cross? Oh, very well. What have you to say to me?”

“What a man with the heart of a man might say. Am I so poor a thing that
I cannot take part in a quarrel?”

“Ah!”

He turned abruptly, went to the cell, and came back with a heavy winter
cloak.

“The dew is heavy on such a night.”

“Yes.”

They walked side by side to the great cross, with a sudden and subtle
sense of comradeship drawing them together.

Martin spread the cloak on the grass at the foot of the cross. She sat
down with her back to the beam, and looked up at him in the darkness.

“You told me your man’s name—not the priest’s.”

“Valliant.”

“You are not the son of old Roger Valliant?”

“He was my father.”

Her eyes gave a gleam.

“Son of that old fire-eater! Strange!”

“He was a man of blood, my father.”

She looked at him with a new interest, a new curiosity. His bigness took
on a different meaning.

“A great fighter and a fine man-at-arms, though he fought for pay. And
he made a priest of you!”

Martin felt her veiled scorn of all men-women, and his flesh tingled.

“I have never questioned his wisdom.”

“Never yet! Have you ever heard the trumpets calling? But what am I
saying? Yet men must fight, Father Martin, sometimes, or be dishonored.”

“It is possible,” he confessed.

“Bishops and abbots have ridden into battle before now.”

“True. The cause may sanctify the deed.”

Her bitterness returned of a sudden. She seemed to clasp her grief, and
press her lips to it with fanatical passion.

“Son of old Valliant—listen. Your father would have understood these
words of mine. Why do I not lie down and weep? Why do I thirst to go on
living? Because my heart cries out against a great wrong—my wrong. Yes,
I am a wild wolf—an eagle. This is a world of teeth and talons; your
father knew it, and lived by his sword. And I tell you, Martin Valliant,
that I shall fight to the death—hate to the death. My holy wine is the
blood of my brother—and I am not ashamed.”

He stood swaying slightly, with a tumult, like the clashing of swords,
in his brain.

“Does the soul of the father dwell in the son?” he asked himself.

He clenched his hands and answered her.

“You will tarry here, Mistress Dale, so long as you may please. No man
shall lay a hand upon you. The Church can protect—with the sword of the
spirit.”

By her silence he knew that his words rang hollow.

“I would rather have old Valliant’s sword,” she said grimly; “but I
thank you, Father Martin. My need may be fierce, God knows!”




                              _Chapter XV_


Noble Vance, the Forest Warden, came riding into Paradise on his black
horse, with two archers in russet and green following at his heels. He
crossed the Rondel at the mill, and his scarlet coat went burning
through the orchards and over the fields. Such common folk as saw him
louted very low to the man, for, though he rode over Church lands, he
was a fellow to be feared, being merciless and very cunning. Poachers
and laborers whom he caught chasing the deer had but one thing to hope
for from Noble Vance. He loved tying a man to a tree and thrashing him
with his own whip, and the fellows he caught red-handed would rather
have it so than be sent to Roger Bland of Troy Castle.

About a furlong from the priory gate the Forest Warden overtook Dom
Geraint.

“The best of a May morning to you, man of God.”

“And God’s grace be upon you, defender of the deer!”

They were gossips, these two, men of animal energy who understood each
other, and looked at life with the same shrewd cynicism. Their eyes met
whimsically. Neither had any solid respect for the dignity of the other.
Their appetites and prejudices were alike; they met on common ground and
made life a gloating, full-blooded jest.

“You ride early, Master Warden.”

“All for the joy of being shrived by you, Dom Geraint.”

“Tut-tut—I am busy to-day. It would be a long affair.”

“Not so long, either; for you have only to name me any sin, good sir,
and I will say that I have committed it.”

“What a mass of guilt is here—riding in scarlet!”

“The black coat has its red in the lining!”

They laughed in each other’s faces.

“You will come in and drink some of our ale?”

“Such brown Paradise is not to be despised. I have an hour to spare.”

“I will give you a penance: not to look at a woman for two months.”

“Fudge, good sir, I am out to tie one behind me on the saddle this very
day.”

The archers were sent to the buttery hatch, while the prior’s parlor
served Vance and Dom Geraint. Prior Globulus had ridden out on a white
mule to visit one of his farms, and Geraint had no prejudices against
sitting in the old man’s chair.

Vance drank to him.

“May you have the filling of it, dear gossip. Then Paradise will lack
nothing.”

Geraint gave blow for blow.

“And no man will stay me when I go a-hunting, whether it be the red
deer——”

“Or others. You have a park of your own, man.”

“And you—the whole Forest.”

“Thin, sir—very thin. Game is scarce, though I am trapping a fine young
doe this very day. And here is the jest, gossip Geraint; she has taken
cover in one of your thickets.”

Geraint looked hard at Vance over the top of his mug.

“Here—in Paradise! Rabbits, man! I know everything that happens in
Paradise.”

“Who doubts it? But this is a great gibe, with that woolly-noddled saint
of yours serving as father confessor!”

“I miss the scent, my friend.”

“You and I can keep each other’s secrets. There is some trouble brewing
about here, though I have not got to the bottom of it as yet. Old Dale’s
cubs had sneaked back out of France; we sighted them in Gawdy Town. We
have the young man’s brush, and now I am after the girl. She is going to
ride to Troy with me.”

Geraint’s black eyes were on the alert.

“I know nothing of all this, gossip. Where are you going to find the
lady?”

“On the Black Moor.”

“What!”

“Under the protection of St. Florence and Brother Martin, and taking her
sleep in your rest-house.”

Geraint gaped like a great bird.

“Blood and wounds, but this is—miraculous!”

He began to laugh—deep, gloating laughter.

“Dear gossip, I have not heard such monstrous good news for many months.
Brother Martin playing the nurse to a woman! Why, sir, we sent him one,
and he would have none of her, the pious fool!”

“I dare say Brother Martin could not help himself.”

“How so?”

“The young woman arrived, claimed St. Florence’s charity, and friend
Martin had to give it. I could swear he has kept the door of his cell
shut all the while, and only gone out after dark.”

Geraint’s mouth showed its typical snarl.

“It’s probable, most probable, but such a tale does not suit us, good
sir.”

“What has the fool done that you hate him so heartily?”

“He is too good for this world, Vance; I would that you could help us to
be rid of him.”

The red man grinned.

“Why, anything in reason! One bruises one’s toe against these
incorruptible lumps. And your toe may be swollen, holy friend.”

“Have done. This is serious to us.”

“Speak out, then; confess to me, Dom Geraint; I am no suckling.”

Geraint poured out more ale.

“But for Abbot Hilary we should not care a snap of the fingers.”

“Every man has a man over him, gossip, even if it be only a
grave-digger. My Lord of Troy—well, I would not lose Roger Bland’s
good-will. I should be a broken man in a month, and I know it. You are
afraid of this pup’s yelping?”

Geraint nodded, and sat biting the nail of his thumb.

“Teach him to gnaw bones.”

“We have tried it.”

“But here is a pretty tale that could be told. Why, souse me in vinegar,
one only has to lie hard enough in this world—see things crooked!
Supposing I and my two fellows dream that we found——”

He painted the picture with a few coarse flourishes, and Geraint
wriggled in his chair.

“Great, sweet gossip—great! But supposing he calls for a court?”

“Let him have it. He can call no witnesses. Madame Mellis will not be
forthcoming, and we shall be ready to swear—for the jest of it. Of
course a gold piece or two for my fellows! These little mazes please me,
gossip; brains—brains! I’m tickled by a rebus! Now—what of it?”

Geraint stretched out one of his hairy paws.

“A bargain, Vance.”

“I’ll hold the debt over you, and call it some day. Prayers put up for
me in Paradise—hey! No, a priest may be useful on occasions.”

Half an hour later he called his men, mounted his horse, and set out for
the Black Moor.




                             _Chapter XVI_


It was Martin Valliant who prayed for the soul of Gilbert Dale, and not
Mellis his sister.

She was bitter and fierce, and wounded.

“I will not ask God or the saints for anything—no, nor Mother Mary. My
brother had no sin upon him. Let them look to their own.”

So Martin tolled the bell, lit candles, and chanted a death Mass, yet
all the while he was thinking of the rebel woman out yonder and of the
despair in her eyes. Nature was striking shrewd blows at Martin’s
simplicity, using the lecherous treachery of Geraint and the bloody
heartlessness of the Lord of Troy to prove to him that there are great
violences on earth, lusts and cruelties and loves that no mere saint can
conquer. Even Mellis’s wild words of revolt sounded more real and human
than the patter of his prayers. He knelt a long while in silence,
wondering, asking himself grim questions. How would his father, old
Valliant, have acted? Would he have put up a prayer, or donned harness
and taken the sword?

Mellis would not enter the chapel or kneel before the altar. She went
wandering over the moor, recklessly, with that fever of anguish and
hatred burning in her blood. She wanted to hurt those men who had killed
her brother. She wanted to take the Lord of Troy and give him to some
strong man to be throttled. All the love and tenderness that were in her
were like perfumes thrown upon the flames.

Wearied at last, she came back to the great cross, passed under its
shadow, and entering the rest-house, lay down upon her bed. The room was
cool and silent, with its massive walls of stone and thickly thatched
roof, and not a sound disturbed her; but she could neither sleep nor
rest because of the knowledge of the peril that threatened her. Mellis
felt herself betrayed, hunted, and her instincts warned her that she
would be shown no mercy. She did not believe that her brother’s death
had come about casually, or that he had been stabbed wantonly or in
error. The shadow of Troy Castle loomed over her. She was fey that
morning; the Forest whispered a warning.

About noon Martin Valliant took his spade and went out to dig in the
garden. He was shy of Mellis, shy of her despair, and the new manhood
that had been born in him chafed and raged at the vows that held it. The
blood of old Roger Valliant was alive in him; he was more the son of his
father than he knew.

The garden hedge shut Martin in upon himself, and he could see nothing
of the moor, so that one of Noble Vance’s archers was able to come
scouting right to the foot of the great cross and creep away again
unnoticed. The fellow went back to a heathy hollow where the Forest
Warden waited, sitting on his black horse in the sun.

“The woman is there, lording. I saw her in the doorway of the
rest-house.”

“And the monk?”

“I heard the sound of a spade in the garden.”

“Good. Now listen to me, you men. There is no cause to be too gentle
with the jade; they say she is a fierce wench, and may carry a knife,
and a knife in an angry woman’s hands is not to be despised.”

“Will you take her, or shall we, lording?”

“We’ll see what we shall see.”

Martin Valliant was just turning a new spit when he heard a sound that
made him raise his head and listen. A horse was moving somewhere; he
heard the thudding of hoofs and the jingle of a bridle. The horse came
on at a canter, and a man’s voice shouted an order.

“A view—a view! Run, Jack; head her off, or she’ll have the door shut
in our faces.”

Then Martin heard Mellis cry out.

“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant!”

Something seemed to twist itself in his head and snap like a broken
bowstring. He plucked his spade out of the ground and went running, his
nostrils agape, his eyes hard as blue glass.

And this was what Martin saw when he pushed through the gate and rounded
the corner of the thorn hedge. Mellis had her back to the wall of the
rest-house, and a light dagger in her hand. A man in red was sucking a
bloody wrist, and two archers were crouching behind him like dogs
waiting to be let loose.

Martin saw the man in red raise the butt of his riding whip and strike
at Mellis, shouting savagely:

“Break the jade—break her!”

Then Martin Valliant went mad. He was no more than the male thing
answering the wild call of its mate. He saw Noble Vance’s whip strike
Mellis’s arm.

It was all over in twenty seconds, for that spade was a grim weapon
whirled like a battle-ax by old Valliant’s son. The two archers had
stood and gaped, too astonished to think of bending a bow. One of them,
indeed, had plucked out a knife, but he was dead before he could use it.

Vance the Forest Warden lay all huddled up, grinning horribly, gashed to
the brain pulp. The other archer had taken to his heels, mounted his
master’s horse, and galloped off with the fear of God in him. And Martin
Valliant was standing leaning on his spade, his face deathly white, his
eyes staring at the dead men on the grass.




                             _Chapter XVII_


For a long while Martin Valliant neither moved nor spoke, and Mellis
watched him in silence. His rage had passed, and a kind of wondering
horror dulled his eyes. He was afraid of his own handiwork, this death
that he had brought into the world, these bloody things at his feet. And
yet they fascinated him, for there were two men struggling in Martin
Valliant—the poor monk and the soldier.

The monk in him, being the elder, stood shocked to the heart, and most
tragically dismayed. Such a bloody deed as this seemed the end of
everything, even though it had been done in generous wrath. Martin’s
monastic soul shrank away, horrified, covering its face with its hands.
He had spilled blood, he was a murderer, he had sinned against the God
Who had given him life.

For a while the monk in him possessed his whole consciousness, but there
was a man stronger and fiercer than the monk waiting to be heard. The
soul of old Valliant lived more nobly in his son, old Valliant who had
looked on dead men with the pity of a soldier, but who would have had no
pity for such a fellow as Noble Vance.

“Martin—Martin Valliant!”

He heard her voice, at first very soft and faint, like a voice from a
distance. He had not looked at her since he had struck Vance down.

Slowly he seemed to drag himself from staring at his own handiwork. He
turned his head, and her eyes met his.

Once more the soul of that tragic day astonished him, for there was a
strange, shining light in Mellis’s eyes. Her lips seemed to tremble; her
throat showed proud and triumphant. Here was no shame, no horror, but a
something that gloried, an exultation that was near to tears.

He stared at her as though he had been dead and she had called him back
to life.

Mellis stretched out her hands as though to crown him.

“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant.”

Again the note of exultation sounded. He beheld a new and human glory in
her eyes.

“God forgive me.”

He dropped on his knees, and covered his face with his right arm.

The woman in her rushed instantly to comfort him.

“Martin—Martin Valliant, take it not to heart. God slays men sometimes;
it is right and good that they should be slain.”

She bent over him with infinite compassion.

“How can I lift this burden from you, you who have striven to love men?”

He dropped his arm and stared at the grass.

“What has happened to me? I do not understand. Yet that man there was an
evil beast, and I struck him in clean wrath. What does God wish? I have
lost the light in my soul.”

He got up and began to walk to and fro with great strides, his forehead
all knotted, his mouth awry. And Mellis watched him, keeping silent, but
with a great pity in her eyes. He was like a blind man, groping his way,
lost in the confusion of his own soul.

“Martin——”

He turned to her with dull anguish in his eyes.

“God will not speak to me. I hear no voice but yours. I will go and
surrender myself.”

“To whom?”

“What does it matter? There is blood on my hands. Let them do with me as
they please.”

A new light flashed in her eyes. She seemed to feel the struggle that
was coming, the fight for the soul of this strong man. Either he would
dash himself to ruin, or she would save him as he had saved her.

“Is there no other voice but mine?”

“None.”

“Perhaps God is in my voice, speaking to you, Martin Valliant.”

He looked at her strangely.

“Those men died by my hand.”

“Good—very good—I grant it. There’s death, lying at our feet. Let us
look at it boldly, without shrinking, without shame. What were those
men? One was an evil beast, you say, and I know it to be true. He was
one of those who slew my father; I would charge him, too, with my
brother’s death, and by your hand I am avenged. There were three, and
you were alone. There was God’s good wrath in your heart. And I call you
proudly Martin Valliant. Yes, the song of the sword is yours.”

The blood rose to his face.

“Is my sin the less?”

“What if there be no sin in the killing of such enemies? Think, why did
you strike the man down?”

He avoided her eyes.

“To save me. Because your heart told you that these men brought me
death—perhaps things that are worse than death. You killed them, but I
live and am free.”

She smiled bravely.

“Free—to be grateful—free to swear to you from my heart that the deed
was done nobly. And now—what of the morrow?”

He could not rise to her rebel mood as yet; the old life still hung to
him, though he realized that it was a thing of rags and tatters.

“To-morrow? I cannot think of a to-morrow. Life seems to end for me in a
great cliff.”

She made herself look at the dead man, pointed at him with her finger.

“You know whom you have killed?”

“Vance, the Forest Warden.”

“Roger Bland’s watchdog. And you will hang for it, Martin Valliant, in
spite of twenty St. Benedicts. The Lord of Troy is not gentle with those
who flout him.”

He answered sullenly, “If I hang—I hang.”

Mellis went closer, and looked steadily into his face.

“And I, Martin Valliant, I shall hang on the same gibbet.”

He threw his head back, with a tightening of the mouth and a hardening
of the eyes.

“God forbid!”

“Roger Bland of Troy will not forbid it. We shall hang, Martin Valliant,
unless——”

He opened and shut his hands as though blindly striving to grip the
truth.

“I am a broken man—but you——”

“Broken, say you? And before God—why? What are we but rebels, outlaws,
so long as Crookback rules and such hounds as Bland hunt at his bidding?
My troth is pledged to another king. Broken?—never! What, shall I not
fight for my life against my enemies—aye, and with a good heart? And
you, Martin Valliant?”

“I—fight—to save myself?”

“Would you let them lead you off like an ox to be pole-axed?”

“I have vowed——”

“God have pity on you, Martin Valliant. Where are your vows now? Blown
to the winds. No, I’ll not suffer you to go with meek madness to your
death. Answer me—will you not fight for your own life?”

He thought awhile, and then answered stubbornly, “No.”

Mellis drew a deep breath.

“Before God, then, will you fight for mine?”

He faltered, looked at her, and his face flamed to her challenge.

“For you? To save you?”

He bowed his head.

“Yes—to the death, so that you may live.”

She held out her hands to him, her eyes shining.

“Martin Valliant, let us be comrades, let us swear troth to each other.”

But he looked at her hands as though he dared not touch them.

“I am a priest no more,” he said, “but an outlaw. So be it, though God
has dealt strangely with me.”

He turned his head and looked at the great cross.

“The shape of a sword!”

“There is a noble spirit in it, Martin Valliant.”

“It shall be a cross—and a sword,” he answered her.




                            _Chapter XVIII_


So Martin Valliant became an outlaw, Nature being stronger than the
ingenious folly of dead saints.

It was Mellis who captained the adventure, for she was quicker in
thought than Martin, and the day’s happenings had stunned him not a
little.

She had her eyes on Woodmere, and both heart and head justified the
choice. It was nearer to Troy Castle than the Black Moor, but this
disadvantage was overbalanced by many virtues. The place lay in the
thick of the woods; its broad mere made it very safe; and with but
little labor the house itself could be put into a good state for
defense. Arms and stores were hidden there. Moreover, it lay in the Red
Rose country, where the Forest folk were most bitter against the Lord of
Troy. John Falconer held Badger Hill; the Blounts were at Bloody Rood,
just south of the Rondel toward the west. Mellis counted on the Forest
rallying to her when the secret word went forth that Richmond was
crossing the seas.

“To horse, good comrade; or rather you and I will have to march and load
the baggage on my horse. Have you much store of food?”

“Half a sack of flour, and some yeast.”

“Empty your cupboard into a couple of sacks. I will go and harness the
horse.”

Martin Valliant was looking at the dead men. He loitered a moment, as
though he could not decide what should be done with them.

“No, I’ll not touch them,” he said to himself. “I am a man of blood; let
others do what is right and good.”

He locked up the chapel and left the key hanging on a nail in his cell,
nor did he touch anything in the cell itself save the food in the
cupboard and larder. A couple of sacks served for the stowing away of
the flour, the yeast, a bottle or two of wine, a paper of dried herbs,
and some salted meat. He tied up the mouths of the sacks and carried
them down to the stable.

Mellis showed herself a very practical young woman.

“Fasten those two sacks together, and we can sling them like panniers.
Now, what else would make useful plunder? A coil of rope, if you have
such a thing.”

Martin remembered seeing a coil hanging in Father Jude’s tool-house.

“Wait—and a felling ax and a crowbar. I’ll come with you.”

They ransacked the tool-house, and Mellis blessed Father Jude.

“The rope, yes, and that felling ax. This is a treasury, good comrade.
Take that saw, and the mattock and spade.”

“Here’s a crowbar.”

“Oh, brave man! We shall bless these tools to-morrow. That big maul,
too, and the billhook, and that auger hanging there.”

“I can use the rope to lash them into a bundle.”

“Of course. Give me the saw, the auger, and the billhook.”

Martin laid the rest of the tools on the ground, and lashed them
together by the handles. He tried the weight of the bundle.

“Your horse will not bless us. I could shoulder these things.”

“Seven miles?”

“It is not the weight, but an awkward bale to tie on a horse’s back.”

“Here’s a sack and some cord; wrap it around the handles; we can sling
the food one side and the tools the other. The horse must make the best
of it.”

Her word was law for the moment, both to Martin Valliant and the beast.
She stood by while he loaded the things on to the horse’s back, watching
him critically and the way he used his big brown hands.

“Can you ride a horse?” she asked him.

He smiled around at her gravely.

“I have broken in colts at Paradise.”

“Was that monk’s work?”

“I was young, and even a monk is none the worse for learning to handle
an untamed thing and to keep his temper.”

She nodded approvingly.

“That may help us. Can you use a bow?”

“Passably. As a boy I used to carry a prodd and shoot at the crows.”

“The long bow for a forester; the arbalist is only for townsmen.”

“I could hit a sheaf of corn at fifty paces when I was younger.”

“You will have to grow young again. And traps—can you set a snare as a
bird-trap?”

“No.”

“I am thinking of our larder,” she explained. “Outlaws are not fed by
ravens.”

The sun had swung well into the west when they were ready to start upon
their journey. Mellis went to the great cross, and from its knoll she
scanned the moor, but could see no live thing moving anywhere. Martin
stood by the horse, leaning on his hollywood staff and staring at the
ground, trying to convince himself that he was not dreaming. He saw
Mellis come back and turn her head so as not to see those dead things
lying by the rest-house. Yes, the business was real enough. He had but
to look at Mellis, and the knowledge leaped in him that the Martin
Valliant of yesterday was dead.

“I can see no one moving. The sooner we are lost to view in the woods,
the better it will be for us.”

His tragic face touched her, but she let him alone, and taking the
horse’s bridle, started over the moor.

Martin followed her like a dog. He moved mechanically, watching her with
a kind of sorrowful bewilderment, marching toward the new world with a
heart that was very heavy. A man’s whole life cannot be overturned and
broken in a day without the shock of it leaving him dazed and full of a
dull distrust. To have become a murderer, to find himself tramping at
the heels of a young woman whose eyes bewitched him, to know that there
was a likelihood of both of them being hanged—these amazing realities
hung heavy about Martin Valliant’s neck.

Once or twice Mellis glanced back over her shoulder. She had divined
what was passing in Martin Valliant’s heart; she half expected to find
herself alone, or to see him stalking away over the moor. Had she
suffered less herself, she might have reasoned with him, tried to spur
him against the world; but her own heart was full of sadness, and sorrow
is a great teacher. She had fought to save him from his own fanaticism,
and she had won a victory; but she was too full of pity for the man to
torture him with more grim home-truths. Fate seemed to have tossed them
together into the unknown. She chose to let Fate settle the matter. The
man should be free to repent and go.

They crossed the moor and reached the beech woods without adventure, and
Mellis’s heart beat with a lessened feeling of suspense when the green
trees hid them. It was one of those soft, cloudy, windless days when the
Forest seemed to gather an added mystery, and the great aisles looked
more solemn, hiding strange secrets.

“It is good to be here.”

She breathed the words like a prayer.

“There is no cleaner thing than the Forest. The trees have no sins to
remember.”

Martin did not answer her. He was gazing along the green aisles and up
into the tops of the great trees where a vague shimmer of light played
above the black branches. The stillness was miraculous; not a leaf was
moving; the huge gray trunks looked strong enough to carry the world.

Then he fell to watching the figure of the girl in front of him, with
its gown of green that seemed part of the woodland. She walked lightly,
bravely, the horse plodding placidly at her heels as though he
recognized in her a wise power that was to be trusted and obeyed. And in
watching her Martin Valliant was led toward a new humility, and an
unforeseen conquest of his own perplexities.

It was her loneliness, and her courage in bearing it, that routed the
scandalized selfishness of the monk and stirred the deeper compassion of
the man. He remembered yesterday’s despair in her eyes and the words of
anguish he had heard her utter. She seemed to stand alone in this great
wilderness, a wounded thing at the mercy of some brutal chance, a white
martyr to be torn and ravished by such ruffians as Noble Vance. What
were his own sorrows compared with hers? How much more grim and real the
dangers that threatened her!

A sudden shame seized him; his eyes lost their sullen, doubting look;
his face became transfigured. He had been worshiping self all the while,
and, like a Pharisee, he had broken into pious wailings because blood
had spotted his precious robe. Yes, he had made an idol of his own
sinlessness, bowed down to it, thought of it as the one great thing in
the world.

The soft green light under the trees seemed like the light of a
sanctuary, and an awed look stole into Martin’s eyes. He followed Mellis
in silence, nor did she speak to him, and all the while that great
change was working in his soul. Here was something to serve, a thing of
flesh and blood, nobler than any altar of stone. He felt that he could
lay down his life for her, and that God Himself would not turn from such
a sacrifice.

From that moment Martin Valliant’s soul felt strong and calm in him. His
eyes no longer looked back at the old life; he set his face steadily
toward the future.

Now Mellis knew nothing of all this, of the man’s uprising from the
wounded horror of his blood-stained self. They had come to the high
ground, above the Rondel, and could see the river glimmering in the
green deeps below. It was time to eat and rest, and she called a halt.

“Are you footsore, comrade?”

“No; nor sore at heart.”

She gave him a quick, searching look, and his face surprised her. It was
serene, steadfast, and its eyes were very gentle. All that tangle of
doubt and self-horror had been wiped away.

She said nothing. He made a movement to take the horse’s bridle from
her.

“I will unload the horse and let him feed. There is a patch of grass
there. Sit down and rest.”

They looked into each other’s eyes.

“Pain wearies the heart,” she said.

“You shall ride the horse and I will carry the baggage.”

“No, but you shall not.”

“We will see,” he answered her.

It was Martin who served. He unbuckled the horse’s bridle and made a
tether of it, so that the beast could feed. Then he unloaded the
baggage, opened one of the sacks, and took out bread, meat, and some
wine. Mellis had thrown herself down under a beech tree where the moss
was like a green carpet, and Martin served her with wine and bread.

Her eyes met his with a new softness. Something had happened to Martin
Valliant; he was a changed man. He offered her a new calm strength upon
which she could lean, and in her loneliness her heart thanked him. She
wanted to rest, to close her eyes for a moment, to let the burden of her
fate lie for a moment on a man’s shoulders.

He watched her eat, and forgot that he was hungry. She had to chide him.

“No man is strong enough to go hungry. And there is much work to be
done.”

They sat and looked at the river flowing in the valley at their feet.
Martin’s memories of yesterday were growing sacred; he hoarded them in
his heart.

“Yonder is the ford.”

She pointed with her poniard.

“It was wise of us to halt here. That might be a dangerous passage for
us if enemies were near.”

But no hostile thing showed itself; the river was like a silver dream in
the green slumber of the woods.

When they had finished their meal and rested awhile, Martin roped up the
baggage and untethered the horse.

“You will ride for an hour.”

Mellis rebelled.

“No; you cannot shoulder all that gear.”

“Let us see.”

He slung the sacks over one shoulder, one in front and one behind, and
hoisted the tools on to the other.

“I am younger than the horse.”

Something in his eyes persuaded her to humor him.

“It is good to be strong,” she said.

And Martin felt strangely happy.

She mounted, and they went down to the ford. Mellis rode in to show the
way, and Martin splashed after her, planting his feet carefully, for the
bottom was full of pebbles.

She looked back.

“Remember the flour.”

For the first time he saw a gleam of laughter in her eyes, a glimmer of
sweet youthfulness.

“It shall come to no harm,” he answered, smiling back, and thinking her
the most beautiful thing in the world.




                             _Chapter XIX_


The day was far spent when they came to the valley in the heart of the
woods where the ruined house of the Dales stood on that white blossoming
island in the midst of the water. Mellis had dismounted half a league
from the ford, and had refused to go forward until Martin had loaded the
baggage again on the horse’s back.

“I am rested,” she had said, “and your strength is precious. Let the
beast bear the burden for which he was born.”

Martin Valliant had to hide the vivid memories of yesterday, but as he
stood at Mellis’s side on the edge of the beech wood and looked down
upon Woodmere, he could but marvel at the strangeness of life. Here was
he beside her, her comrade in arms, an outlaw, a man who had thrown the
future into the melting-pot of fate. And as he watched a world of
tenderness and yearning swim into her eyes, his soul stood stoutly to
its outlawry. His muscles were made to serve her, and he thanked God for
his strength.

“That was our home.”

She looked long at it, her lips trembling, her bosom rising and falling
with emotion.

“Gilbert will never see it again. We used to draw pictures in France,
and in his fancy the apple trees were always pink and white, just as
they are now.”

Martin could find no words to utter. He wanted to touch her, to make her
feel that he understood.

But she broke loose from these sad thoughts, rallied herself to face the
fiercer issue.

“The valley looks empty.”

They scanned it keenly.

“Not a soul.”

“They will not leave us in peace for very long, and the hours will be
precious. Come.”

Martin shut his eyes for a moment. He could not forget that vision of
her with her dark hair clouding about her body. But the vision was
sacred.

“You see, the bridge is broken.”

He had to pretend his innocence.

“And there is no boat?”

“It is rotting in the mud.”

They went down to the water’s edge, and Martin tied the horse to one of
the willows. He paid homage to her forethought in the bringing of those
tools.

“We shall have to build a bridge.”

Already she was pushing her way through the scrub, and Martin followed
her. There were two gaps to be dealt with, one where the arch had
fallen, and a second where the drawbridge should have served.

“The trunks of a few young trees thrown across.”

“Yes—but the horse.”

“We could leave him on this side for the night.”

She stared at the gate-house.

“Perhaps. But we shall want a bridge that can be drawn in, to keep out
chance visitors. The gate, too, is off its hinges, and broken. I know
where a beam is hidden, but I doubt whether we can lift it.”

“There is the rope—and I am strong.”

Her eyes looked him over with critical praise.

“Yes, you are bigger than your father. If we could throw a couple of
young ash trees across the first gulf. There is a thicket of ashes down
yonder.”

Martin needed no second word from her. He had the tools off the horse’s
back, and the ax on his shoulder.

“Which way?”

“Over there. I’ll take the billhook and lop off the boughs while you do
the felling.”

They started away like a couple of children, full of the adventure, and
Martin was soon at work in a thicket of ash trees that had been planted
some twenty years before. He chose a tree and had it down with six
clean, slanting blows of the ax, so that the cuts clove wedgewise into
the trunk.

“Oh, brave man! That was woodman’s skill.”

She fell to clearing the trunk of its top and side branches while Martin
threw a second tree. He felled four, and shouldered them one by one up
to the bridge end, and here his great strength served. These ash spars
were no broomsticks, and he had to spear them forward over the gap, and
keep their ends from dropping into the water.

“Brave comrade! Well done!”

She cheered his triumph.

“And now a few willow withies.”

He took the bill, lopped off some willow boughs, and then, straddling
his way along the ash trunks, lashed them together with the withies. The
thing made a very passable bridge. Martin tested it, and was happy.

“A few more trees, and some earth rammed on the top, and the horse will
be safe across.”

“Yes—to-morrow. It is growing late. Now for the beam I told you of.”

It was lying in the sluice ditch under a smother of brambles and young
thorns, a great balk of timber all sodden with damp, fifteen feet long,
six inches thick, and a foot in breadth. Two men might have shirked
carrying it twenty yards; but Martin, in that springtime of his love,
dragged it out upon the grass.

“Good saints, but you are strong!”

She tossed him the rope.

“Throw a noose around it. I can help at pulling.”

They got the beam to the bridge, across the platform of ash trees, and
so to the place where the drawbridge should have been, and here the
business baffled them. The thing was far too ponderous to be thrust
across like a plank.

Martin solved the riddle. He had to fell two more small trees, lay them
across, and straddle his way over. Then he climbed the stair to the
broken gate-house and bade Mellis throw him the rope. The first two
casts failed, but the third succeeded. They swung the great beam across
between them, Martin keeping his end raised by straining the rope over
the wall.

He saw Mellis run lightly across, and scrambling back along the wall and
down the stone stairway built in the angle of the gate-house, he joined
her in the courtyard. The sun hung low over the tops of the trees, and
its level rays threw the blackened beams of the burned roof of the hall
into grim relief. The whole place had been gutted, with the exception of
the little octagonal tower to the south of the hall, and one or two
outhouses lying beyond the garden. The gate-house was just a stone
shell, the charred gate lying rotting in a bed of nettles.

The evening light played in Mellis’s eyes, and Martin Valliant held his
peace for the moment. Her lips moved as though she were repeating some
promise she had made. It crossed his mind that she might wish to be
alone, so he went back across the bridge and carried the two sacks and
the tools over.

She called to him.

“Martin—Martin!”

She had opened a door that led from the courtyard into the garden, and
stood waiting for him.

“Let us look everywhere. I want to be sure that no one has been here
before us.”

She wandered out into the garden, a sweet and tangled place, sloping
toward the sunset. The walks had gone back to grass, and the rose bushes
were smothered with brambles. The four clipped yews by the sundial had
grown into shaggy trees, and the herbs in the borders lived the life of
the woods. Wild flowers had taken possession, buttercups, ragged robin,
purple vetches, and great white daisies. There was a nut walk that had
grown into a green tunnel; and a stone seat on the terrace under the
wall of the house was almost hidden by bushes that had sprung up between
the stones.

“This was a garden, and that was my mother’s seat. Men are very cruel.”

“And yet the place is very beautiful,” he said.

“With the beauty of sadness and of pain.”

In one of the borders she found an old rose bush that was budding into
bloom, and one red flower had opened its petals. Her eyes glimmered.

“Why—this is a miracle!”

She plucked the rose, kissed it, smelled its perfume.

“Red is our color.”

And then a thought struck her.

“Comrade in arms, you are for Lancaster; here is your badge.”

She gave him the rose, and Martin touched it with his lips as she passed
on down the garden.

They had explored the whole island before the sun dropped below the
trees. The only habitable place was the tower; it had escaped the fire,
probably because the wind had been blowing from the south when Roger
Bland’s men had thrown their torches into the hall. A newel staircase
led to an upper room, and though there was nothing but the boarded
floor, the place was dry and habitable.

Martin did not enter the room, but stood on the threshold, as though
some finer instinct held him back.

“There is plenty of old bracken in the beech wood,” he said; “it would
serve—for a night.”

She was leaning her hands on the window ledge and looking down on the
sea of white apple blossom below. Martin left her there, and, crossing
himself, went out to the woods to gather bracken.

When he returned he found her watering the horse at the edge of the
mere.

“We can let him lodge in one of the thickets for the night,” she said,
smiling at the great bundle of brown bracken on Martin’s back.

A blackbird was singing in the orchard, and bats were beginning to flit
against the yellow sky. Martin carried the bracken to the tower, and
threw the bundle down on the floor of her room. The door still hung on
its hinges, and he nodded his head approvingly when he saw that it could
be bolted on the inside. It was fitting and right that she should feel
secure in her chamber, since she was the queen of the place and more
sacred to him than any lady in the land.

Martin went for more bracken, and when he returned with it he left the
bundle on the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. Mellis had found a
sheltered woodland stall for the horse, and had tethered him there with
several lapfuls of grass for his supper. Dusk was falling over the
Forest, and a great stillness prevailed. The surface of the mere was
black and smooth as a magician’s mirror.

Martin heard Mellis calling.

“Bread and wine—and then to bed.”

She had found a rickety, worm-eaten oak bench, and carried it out to the
terrace above the garden. They sat one at each end of the bench, using
the space between them as a table.

“To-morrow there will be much work for you, Martin Valliant,” she said,
smiling.

“Work is the sap of life.”

“Oh, sententious man! You will build me an oven, and I will bake bread.
There are plenty of fish in the mere, and some venison would help to
stock our larder. You will be a slave to-morrow, Martin Valliant; we
have to victual our stronghold and stop the gaps in its defenses. Every
day may be precious.”

He could see that she was weary, and ready to yawn behind her hand.

“Go and sleep,” he said, when they had ended the meal; “I shall lie on
guard, ready for an alarm.”

“Martin Valliant, man-at-arms!”

So Martin made his bed at the foot of the stairs, and slept across them,
so that no one could pass save over his body.




                              _Chapter XX_


Mellis woke on her bed of bracken soon after the birds had broken into
song. She went to the window of the tower room and found the valley full
of white mist and the whole world all wet with dew. The day promised
gloriously, heralded by such a dawn.

As she had said to Martin Valliant, every hour was precious, for the
Lord of Troy’s riders would be scouring the Forest, and Woodmere would
not be forgotten. If she and Martin were to hold it as a strong rallying
place for their friends of the Red Rose, then it behooved them to be up
and doing before their ruinous stronghold was attacked.

She opened her door, and going softly down the stairs, found Martin
Valliant still sleeping across them on his bed of fern. And for the
moment she felt loth to rouse him, for he lay breathing as quietly as a
child, one arm under his head.

“Martin Valliant——”

She touched him with her foot, and the result was miraculous. He sat up,
clutching the billhook that lay on the step beside him, a most fierce
and unpeaceful figure in the gray light of the dawn.

“Stand! Who’s there?”

Mellis retreated a step or two, laughing, for he was a dangerous
gentleman with that bill of his.

“A friend, Martin Valliant.”

He got up, looking not a little angry with himself for having let her
catch him asleep.

“What, daylight already!”

“I was loth to wake you, but there is much to be done.”

“It is I who should have been awake, not you.”

He looked in a temper that wanted to catch the day’s work by the throat
and throttle it. Mellis stepped over the pile of bracken and stood in
the doorway that opened on the courtyard.

“One does not work well hungry,” she said, “and we must talk over the
day’s needs.”

Her hair hung loose, and she shook it down so that it fell like a black
cloak about her green-sheathed body. The color and the richness of it
thrilled Martin to the heart. Her throat looked as white as May blossom,
and her eyes had all the mystery of the dawn. And of a sudden a swift
exultation leaped in him at the thought that he was her man-at-arms,
chosen to shield her with his body, her comrade in this great adventure.

“The day is ours,” he said; “I feel stronger than ten men.”

She turned her head, and her eyes held his.

“I think I am fortunate in you, comrade-in-arms.”

He could have taken the hem of her gown and kissed it.

Mellis served the meal, and they broke their fast in the garden, sitting
on the oak bench and watching the white mist lift and melt from the
valley. The woods grew green, the sky became blue above them, the mere
flashed gold, the flowers glowed like wet gems in the grass. And Martin
Valliant’s soul was full of the dawn, the mystery and freshness thereof;
the smell of the sweet, wet world intoxicated him; the red rose that
Mellis had given him lay over his heart. He looked at her with secret,
tentative awe, and life seemed a strange and miraculous dream.

She began to speak of the day’s needs.

“That bridge does not please me, comrade. We want a thing that can be
dropped and kept raised at our pleasure. And then there is the gate.”

“The hinges and nails are all that are left of it.”

“I have it. There is some good timber in those outhouses; we could build
a new gate. The curtain walls are still strong and good. Then there is
the gate leading into the kitchen court; we could wall that up with
stones. We must hope to keep the Lord of Troy’s men from crossing the
water, if they come before we have raised a garrison.”

She grew more mysterious.

“I shall have other things to show you, but they can keep till the
evening. And now—as to the horse.”

The beast raised quite a debate between them, since he complicated the
matter of the bridge. Martin was for leaving him tethered in one of the
glades, and trusting to luck and to Roger Bland’s men not discovering
him if they rode to Woodmere within the next few days. And in the end
Mellis agreed with him, since he was to be responsible for the
contriving of a drawbridge.

“Your plan has it,” she confessed. “I will go and tether Dobbin in one
of the glades, and then come and serve as housewife. The man’s part
shall be yours.”

Martin went to work with fierce enthusiasm. He had a scheme in his head
as to how the thing might be done, and he set about it when Mellis had
crossed the water. He bored a hole through one end of the big beam, ran
the rope through the hole and knotted it. At the other end he contrived
a rough hinge by driving four stout stakes criss-cross into the ground,
with a crossbar under them which could be pegged to the butt-end of the
beam. The pulley wheels for the chains of the old bridge were still in
the two chain holes of the gate-house, about ten feet from the ground.
Martin piled some stones against the wall, climbed on them, and ran the
rope through one of the chain holes. The trick worked very prettily. He
found that he could raise and lower the beam from inside the gate-house,
and all that was needed was a stake to which he could fasten the rope
when the bridge was up.

Mellis came back from the woods as he was driving the stake into the
ground under the gateway. He had rolled his cassock over his girdle, and
turned the sleeves up nearly to his shoulders, so that the muscles
showed. And he looked hot and masterful and triumphant as he turned to
show her how his bridge worked.

“Well done, Martin Valliant. Let the beam down and I will come over and
see if I am strong enough to raise it.”

He lowered the beam, and she walked over to him.

“Now I understand why you did not want to build a bridge that would
carry a horse. Let me see what I can do. I might have to play bridgeward
some day.”

She found that she was strong enough to raise the beam, for she was tall
and lithe, with a beautiful breadth across the bosom.

Martin’s eyes shone.

“Now I must build you a gate,” he said, “a gate that nothing but a
cannon shot can shiver.”

It took him the rest of the morning to pull down one of the outhouses,
sort out his timber, and get it cut to size and shape. He had dragged
the charred mass of the old gate from its bed of nettles, and had
stripped it of its great iron hinges when Mellis came to call him to
dinner.

“I have done famously: hot meat, and new bread, and a dish of herbs. I
found two old iron pots in the cellar, and I am quite kitchen proud.”

Martin was loth to leave the work. He was hunting for the smith’s nails
that had fallen out of the burned wood of the old gate; they were more
precious than pieces of gold. She pretended to be hurt by his lack of
gratitude.

“I have cooked for my comrade in arms, and he will not eat what I have
cooked.”

Martin straightened up, and left his hunting for nails among the
trampled nettles.

“It was not churlishness on my part.”

“I know. You must do things fiercely, Martin Valliant, with your whole
heart, or not at all.”

“My hunger is fierce,” he confessed, smiling gravely. “No food could be
sweeter than what your hands have prepared.”

He was shy of her, and voiceless, all through that meal, and there was
an answering silence in Mellis’s heart, for though so short a time had
passed since their lives had been linked together, she was forgetting
Martin the monk in regarding Martin Valliant the man. She began to look
at him with a vivid and self-surprised curiosity; his shyness infected
her; she became conscious of the deep wonder light in his eyes. Hitherto
she had been a creature of impulses, a wild thing blown along by the
wind of necessity; but of a sudden she saw the man as a man, and her
heart seemed to cease beating for a moment, and her thoughts to stand
still.

He was the very contrast of herself, with his tawny hair tinged with
red, and his frank, steadfast, trusting eyes. Regarded as a woman,
Mellis was a fine, lithe, white-skinned creature, and Martin Valliant
matched her in the matter of bodily beauty. There was no gnarled
uncouthness about his strength. He carried himself like a king’s son,
and without any arrogance of conscious pride. The soul of the man seemed
to show in his movements, a steady, gentle, unflurried soul, capable of
great tendernesses, of great wraths, and of strange renunciations.

Her eyes grew wayward, more shadowy; they avoided his. A new subtlety of
feeling stole into the hearts of both of them. The sun shone, the woods
were green, the wild flowers were bright in the lush grass. When a
blackbird sang Martin Valliant felt that the bird’s song and his heart
were one.

He broke away, for the grosser hunger was soon satisfied.

“I shall not sleep till that gate is up.”

She brushed the crumbs from her lap.

“You will need me. I will come when you call.”

He was walking away when she uttered his name.

“Martin.”

Her voice had never sounded so strange and human in his ears.

“I have a secret to show you—presently—when the gate is up.”

He went off, wondering, his eyes full of his new exultation.

Martin worked like a giant, with a fever of love in his blood. In three
hours he had the gate finished and ready to be hung, but the hanging of
it was the devil. The thing was monstrously massive and cumbersome to
lift, and too broad for him to get a grip of it with spread arms.

He went in search of Mellis.

“I can build my gate—but as to hanging it——”

She smiled at his grim, baffled face.

“Women are cunning!”

She went to help him, and spoke of wedges and the crowbar.

“I can steady the thing while you heave it up, little by little, till
the hinge straps are over the bolts.”

He gave her a look from his blue eyes.

“A man rushes like a bull. While you——”

“Ah, as I told you, women are cunning.”

Between them they got the gate on its hinges, and though it groaned and
moved reluctantly, it was as strong as a man could wish.

“No spear truncheon will prise that up in a hurry.”

She was flushed and breathing fast, and her quick beauty swept into
Martin’s heart like the wind. He stood still, gazing at her, till she
looked at him, and then his eyes fell.

“See how strong that is,” he said.

And his heart would have cried, “Strong as my love.”

The main gate of Woodmere was safe now from a surprise, and no enemies
could attack the place save by swimming the mere. Martin had made a
round of the walls; they stood twelve feet high and were strongly built.
The only other openings in them were the gate leading from the kitchen
court and the wicket opening on the garden. The garden wicket still hung
on its hinges, a stout oak door studded and banded with iron, and easily
barred in case of an attack. The kitchen gateway they had decided to
wall up, and Martin set to work upon the wall, using the big stones that
had fallen from the battlements of the hall. They were so heavy that
they wedged and weighted each other in place, and stood as solidly as
though they had been laid by a mason.

Martin had nearly closed the gap when Mellis called him.

“The sun is near the hills. You have done enough.”

In spite of his youth and his strength Martin Valliant was very weary.
He looked at the wall that he had built, and saw that it was strong
enough to stand against a surprise.

Her voice came nearer.

“Are you ever hungry?”

He went whither her voice lured him. She had made a table in the garden
out of some stones and pieces of wood, set flowers on it, and laid
supper thereon.

Her dark eyes seemed to him to be deep with a new mystery. They broke
bread together and drank their wine, and the meal had the flavor of a
sacrament.

“There is yet work to be done,” she had said to him, “before the
daylight goes. And I shall show you a thing, Martin Valliant, that shall
pledge me your honor.”

When they had ended the meal she rose and looked at him with great
steadfastness.

“Martin Valliant, is your heart still set on this life of the sword?
Tell me the truth, and keep nothing hidden. God knows that a man must
make his choice.”

His eyes met hers without flinching.

“I have chosen,” he said; “there shall be no turning back.”

She went toward the tower, beckoning him to follow.

“I have not been idle, and here is my secret.”

It was her brother’s treasury that Mellis showed him, the vault at the
base of the tower, filled with war gear and a store of food. She had
raised the stone by thrusting a long pole through the iron ring. A stout
leather sack lay on the ground beside the entry.

“There are bows and bills and war harness below there,” she told him.
“We have fooled the Lord of Troy, who swore that there should not be so
much as a boar-spear left in the Forest. Take that sack, Martin
Valliant, and carry it for me into the garden.”

He shouldered the thing, and knew that he carried iron, both by the
weight of it and by the way a sharp edge bit into his shoulder.

“Lay it on the grass—there.”

He obeyed her, wondering what was in her mind.

Mellis knelt and cut the leather thong that fastened the throat of the
sack. The leather had kept out the damp, and her white hands drew out
armor that was bright as the blade of her poniard. It was a suit of
white mail beautifully wrought, yet noble in its clean simplicity.
Salade, breast-plate, shoulder pieces, back-plate, tassets, loin-guard,
vam-braces, rear-braces, elbow pieces, gauntlets, thigh plates, greaves,
solerets and spurs, she laid them all upon the grass. And last of all
she drew out a belt and sword, and a plain shield colored green.

She spread her hands, palms downwards, over them.

“This was to have been my brother’s harness.”

Martin Valliant was kneeling at her side.

“And now, God helping me, I have chosen the man who shall wear it—even
you, Martin Valliant, my comrade in arms.”

Martin’s eyes seemed to catch the sunlight. He knelt for a while in
silence, as though he were praying.

“May no shame come to it through me,” he said at last; “and though it
may sit strange on me, my heart shall serve you to the death.”

She took the sword and rose from her knees.

“My hands shall gird you.”

He reached out, drew the pommel of the sword toward him, and kissed it.

“I swear troth to you, Mellis.”

He looked up, and her eyes held his.

“Martin Valliant you are called, and valiant shall you be. Stand, good
comrade.”

She buckled the sword on him, knowing in her heart that he was her man.




                             _Chapter XXI_


Martin Valliant slept at the foot of the tower stairway with Mellis’s
sword beside him. He fell asleep with one hand gripping the hilt, like a
child clutching a toy.

Mellis did not have to wake him that morning, for he was up before the
birds had begun their orisons, his heart full of the great adventure
that life had thrust upon him. He had taken it solemnly, like a young
man before his knighthood, or a soldier setting forth on a Crusade, and
all that he did that morning in the gray of the dawn betrayed the
symbolical passion of the lover. He was to enter upon a new state before
he touched that white harness, and so he went to the mere, stripped off
his clothes, and bathed in the water. Then he knelt awhile, grave-eyed
and strong, watching the sun rise on the new day, while the birds were a
choir invisible.

When Mellis came down from her chamber she found him in the garden with
the harness spread out upon the leather sack, so that the wet grass
should not tarnish it. He had cut his cassock short above the knees, and
was holding the salade in his hands and staring at it like a crystal
gazer.

He flushed, and glanced at her with an air of bafflement.

“These iron clothes are new to me.”

Mellis did not smile at his predicament, though she guessed that he had
no knowledge of how to arm himself.

“You must try the feel of it,” she said, “for a man should test himself
with the weight of his harness. Four hands are needed for such a toilet.
When we have eaten I will play the page to you.”

She was as good as her word, and the arming of Martin Valliant was an
event in the life of the garden. Mellis made him seat himself upon the
bench, while she picked up the pieces one by one and taught him his
lesson by buckling them on with her own hands. First came the breast-
and back-plates, the pauldrons and gorget, the vam-braces and
rear-braces. Then she made him stand up.

“You may call that half-harness; a man can move lightly and fight on
foot, but when bowmen are about, a man-at-arms should be sheathed from
top to toe.”

Next she buckled on tassets, loin-guard, cuishes, greaves and solerets,
set the salade on his head, and slung the green shield by its strap
about his neck.

“Now, man of the sword!”

She stood back and surveyed him.

“Yes, it is better than I had hoped. You are a bigger man than my poor
brother, but the harness covers you. Of course you should be wearing a
wadded coat to save all chafing, and hose of good wool.”

Her eyes lit up as she looked him over, and she held her head proudly.

“I have no spear to give you, though I doubt not that you will make a
better beginning with the sword—if needs be. Try the joints, Martin.”

He walked up and down before her, raised his arms, spread them wide,
folded them over his chest. He seemed made for such heavy harness; the
strong, sweeping movements of his limbs were not crabbed or clogged by
it.

“The thing is like an iron skin.”

“Ah! it was made by a fine armorer. The joints are perfect. And the
weight of it?”

“I’ll swear I could run or leap.”

“You are fresh as yet. A man must wear such harness for a day to learn
where it irks him. And so I am thinking that I will leave you to master
it. There is work for me in the Forest.”

He unhelmed himself, and his blue eyes looked at her questioningly.

“What! You are venturing abroad?”

“Yes; I shall take the horse, and your wallet full of food.”

“Why must you go?”

“Why, brother-in-arms, because we are not the only people on God’s earth
who thirst to humble the Lord of Troy. We have friends in the Forest,
and I must see them—take counsel, and plan what can be done. They were
waiting for friends from France, and for poor Gilbert to give the word.”

He answered her with sudden fire.

“I carry your brother’s sword and wear his harness. It is my right to
go.”

She smiled at him with quiet eyes.

“Dear man, that would not help us; you could not prove, as yet, that you
are in the secret. Besides, all the wheels of it are in my head. I shall
ride to Badger Hill and see John Falconer; he holds the reins in the
Forest.”

“But what of the Lord of Troy? Those dead men——”

“What does he know as yet? He may send out riders, but I know the Forest
better than any man that Roger Bland can count on. I shall not be caught
in a snare. Moreover, Martin Valliant, I leave you to guard our
stronghold and the precious gear in that cellar.”

He was very loth to let her go alone, and bitterly against it, though he
saw the wisdom of her argument.

“My heart mislikes this venture.”

“You run to meet a ghost,” she said. “I shall come to no harm, believe
me.”

She had her way, and he went to open the gate and lower the bridge while
she put on a cloak and hood, and filled the wallet with food. She joined
him on the causeway, where he stood scanning the woods mistrustfully.

“I would to God I might go with you.”

Her eyes looked into his.

“Your heart goes with me. Bear with that harness, for your bones will
ache not a little. And keep good guard.”

He watched her cross the grassland toward the thicket where they had
hidden the horse. Woodmere seemed to lack sunlight of a sudden, and his
heart felt heavy when the trees hid her.

Nor were Martin’s fears for her safety the mere idle qualms of a man in
love. There was a saddling of horses at Troy Castle, and Fulk de Lisle,
Roger Bland’s bravo, was shut up with him in my lord’s closet.

Vance’s archer man, who had escaped Martin Valliant’s spade, had come in
the night before, after losing his way in the Forest. His tale lost
nothing in the telling. Mellis Dale had stabbed the Forest Warden with
her poniard, and her paramour, the priest, had then beaten him, and John
Bunce, to death. If my lord doubted it, let him send men to the Black
Moor, and they would find the bodies.

So Fulk de Lisle had his orders. He was a gay, swashbuckling devil, very
handsome, very debonair, a great man with his weapons. He stood before
the Lord of Troy, leaning on his sword, his black hair curled under his
flat red hat, his sword belt bossed with gold. He wore no armor save a
cuirass, and light greaves; the blue sleeves of his doublet were puffed
with crimson; his hose were striped red and blue.

“Take thirty men; let them ride in three troops. Go yourself with one
troop to the Black Moor; send Peter Rich with ten men to Badger Hill,
and Swartz with the rest to Woodmere. I have sent messengers to Gawdy
Town. I want the wench and the priest, both of them. And Vance’s body
had better be brought in.”

Fulk de Lisle turned to go. This was work that pleased him. The Forest
had been dull and law-abiding for many months.

“Wait!”

Fulk faced about.

“My lord?”

“How do you think to know the girl when you see her?”

“They say she is dark and vixenish, with eyes that bid a man stand back,
a well-favored wench.”

“Tush! Any pretty jade would do for you, man!”

“Oldham, the archer, can recognize them both.”

“He cannot be in three places at once, Sir Fulk de Lisle.”

“He shall go with me. Swartz and Rich shall have orders to take and
bring in any likely looking damsel.”

“Yes, leave it at that. Waste no time. I am not patient when such tricks
are played me.”

So Fulk de Lisle and his men rode out from Troy Castle. They were
lightly armed for fast riding, and ten of them shouldered cross-bows
instead of spears. They kept together till they reached Red Heath, where
Peter Rich and Swartz broke off with their two troops with guides for
Woodmere and Badger Hill.

Meanwhile Mellis was on her way to John Falconer’s house at Badger Hill.
She sighted it about nine o’clock, a great, low, black-beamed,
white-plastered place, walled around with gray stone, on the side of a
sandy hill. Fir woods, dark as midnight, climbed skywards behind it; the
farm lands lay in the valley to the south, but elsewhere the soil was
poor, and grew nothing but gorse and heather.

Mellis rode over the heath and up the hill to the house. A gawk of a
boy, who was cleaning harness outside the stable doorway, stared at her
with a face like sodden dough. She reined up in the courtyard and called
to him.

“Is Master Falconer here?”

“Sure!”

The boy never budged.

“Tell Master Falconer that I am waiting.”

“Who be—I?”

“Run, you dolt, or I will get you a whipping.”

He vanished down a slope that led under one wing of the house, and in
half a minute John Falconer came out to her. He was like the hill he
lived on—a gray badger of a man, grim, reticent, yet kindly. His short
neck made the breadth of his shoulders more apparent. His legs were
bowed and immensely strong. John Falconer was a piece of the Forest. His
hair and beard were the color of beech mast, sanded with gray.

“Do you know me?”

His eyes brightened like a dog’s.

“God’s death! Is it you?”

“My own and very self. And poor Gilbert—you have heard?”

He looked grim.

“God hearten you, child! But what has happened?”

The boy reappeared, and proceeded to stare at them, while he picked his
teeth with a straw. Nor was John Falconer aware of the youngster’s
presence until he saw Mellis’s eyes prompting him to turn his head.

The man of Badger Hill gave a kind of growl, and the child disappeared
with a flutter of brown legs.

“I had to find you, John, but I am loth to be seen here by any stray
fool.”

“The men are in the fields.”

“But that boy?”

“He has no tongue when it pleases me.”

She glanced at the pine woods.

“If your dinner can wait I will talk to you up there.”

He nodded.

“Wise wench!”

Mellis fastened her horse to a tree, and she and John Falconer walked to
and fro along one of the black aisles. She had much to tell him, and he
seemed to grow grimmer the longer he listened. His comments were short,
gruff growls and an occasional terse judgment.

“Vance dead! May he burn like pitch! The priest turned outlaw! What
next? You have made him your man? Nay—I mislike that. A black
Benedictine! Lord, but we are in for a storm!”

John Falconer frightened most people, but he did not frighten Mellis.
She had known him since she was a toddler of three, to be picked up and
carried on his shoulder.

“Whether you like it or not, John, these things cannot be helped. Vance
has made us run when we would have walked. As to Martin Valliant, I
would stake my right hand on his keeping faith with us. And now—will
you rally to us? We can hold Woodmere till the whole Forest flaunts the
Red Rose.”

“I would we had word from France.”

“It cannot be helped. If our people are loth to move—well, I will
disappear, go and live in one of those old quarry holes by the Rondel.”

He answered her doggedly.

“No. I am with you, if I lose my old head for it. I am not so young as I
was, and I would get my blow in at Roger Bland before I am stiff in the
back. I will ride out to-night and warn our friends, and by to-morrow we
shall be able to throw a garrison into Woodmere.”

“Stubborn, trusty oak!”

Falconer smiled grimly.

“There are many men who lust to feel their poniards in Roger Bland’s
throat. I pray that mine may have that honor.”

Mellis did not tarry there much longer. Her work was done for the day;
she could leave the Forest folk to John Falconer. She chose a different
track for her homeward ride—a way that plunged through the pine woods
and turned south again by Witch’s Cross. And she was saved by her
caution, for half an hour after she had left Badger Hill Peter Rich and
his men came riding along the track she had used in the morning.

They found John Falconer at his dinner, and well warned as to their
business. He was bluff and easy with Peter Rich, had ale drawn for the
men and water for their horses.

Rich did not beat about his business.

“This is a hanging job for any fool who meddles. We are after old Dale’s
daughter.”

“Tut, man! She has been in France these seven years.”

“That is a good bit of brag, John Falconer. Come, now; I have no wish to
ride the high horse; the girl has been here; let us have the truth.”

Falconer told his lie with square-faced hardihood.

“I have not seen Mellis Dale for seven years. You can search the house.”

Rich had it searched to salve his conscience. His men found nothing—not
even the stable boy, who was shut up in the venison hutch in a dark
corner of the larder, and far too much in terror of John Falconer to
betray himself.

Peter Rich drank ale while his men were at work. He took his failure
philosophically, and got back into the saddle.

“It has saved me pulling you by the beard, John Falconer.”

“My beard may be at your service—some day.”

They grinned at each other like fierce dogs, and Peter Rich rode off.
But he left two men in the woods to watch the place, which was a trick
of no great moment, for John Falconer guessed that he would be watched.

“Thank God the girl left betimes, and by the other road. And God grant
she may not find a trap at Woodmere House.”




                             _Chapter XXII_


Martin Valliant was as restless as a dog whose master had gone out and
left him chained to his kennel.

His activities were various and many that morning. He took off his
arm-plates, covered his breast-plate with a sack, and completed the
walling up of the kitchen gateway. The defense of the causeway and the
bridge exercised him still further, and he built a rough ladder and
stage to one of the loopholes of the gate-house, so that a man with a
bow could command the bridge. The matter of archery piqued him to try
what skill he had left. He raised the roof stone of the cellar, searched
out a bow and some arrows, and going up on the leads of the tower, tried
shooting at a bush on the far side of the mere. Five arrows missed the
mark, but the sixth got home. And this testing of his skill taught him
something of value, in that he discovered the tower to be the right and
proper place for a watchman. He could scan the woods, the whole of the
valley, and the island, and see into nearly every corner of the ruined
house itself. The battlements were breast high, and gave good cover for
a man with a bow.

His armor was beginning to sit heavy on him, for he was raw to it; but
as to humoring his body, that was a surrender that he refused to make.
He returned to the courtyard, took his sword, and practiced striking and
thrusting at an imaginary mark. It was a “hand and a half” sword, heavy,
and long in the blade, but very finely balanced. To Martin it felt no
heavier than a willow wand; he played with it half the morning, cutting
off the heads of nettles, learning to judge his distances and the sweep
of a full-armed blow. From time to time he climbed the tower and took a
view of the woods and the valley.

The sun stood at noon when Martin Valliant caught his first glimpse of
the Lord of Troy’s gentry. He was on the leads of the tower and looking
toward the great beech wood when he saw a man skulking under the trees.
The fellow wore the Troy livery of green and silver, and carried a
cross-bow on his shoulder.

Martin kept very still, and the steel of his helmet may have toned with
the gray stone of the battlements, for the man with the cross-bow did
not appear to see him. He came out from the wood shade into the open,
and stood awhile looking at the island and the house. Then he put a horn
to his lips and blew a short blast.

Martin was still asking himself whether the man was an enemy or a
friend, when Swartz and his troop came riding out of the beech wood. The
sun flashed on their breast-plates and helmets, and on the points of
their spears. Swartz, mounted on a roan horse, and wearing a tabard of
green and silver, rode a little ahead of his men.

Martin crouched low, watching them. He had no doubt now as to whence
these gentry had come and as to what their business was. They were from
Troy Castle, adventurous rogues, the scum of the Yorkist armies, for
Roger Bland had good cause to keep a crowd of bullies around him. He was
no born lord; men had not served his father before him; the fealty sworn
to him was lip service; he paid with gold for such faith as men would
sell.

This bunch of spears came trotting across the grassland, their horses’
hoofs beating the golden pollen from the flowers. They reined in about a
hundred paces from the mere, and sat in a half circle, scanning the
newly built gate and the bridge, things that betrayed that Woodmere was
not deserted.

Swartz gave an order, and two men pricked away and posted themselves at
either end of the mere. The rest dismounted; two who carried cross-bows
wound up the winches and stood with the bolts ready on the cord. One of
them marked down Martin on the tower, and calling to Swartz, pointed out
what he saw.

Swartz rode nearer, staring upwards under his hand. Nor did Martin play
at hide-and-seek. The men had seen him; the game had begun.

“Hullo, there! Open, in the name of the King!”

Martin kept silent.

“Hullo! You on the tower, let the bridge down and open the gate, or we
shall have to break it for you.”

Martin was not to be drawn. His eyes kept watch while his thought went
racing through the woods toward Mellis. Had she been taken? And even if
they had not taken her, her peril was still very desperate. She might
come riding out of the beech wood and betray herself to these men. They
were well mounted, and her old brown horse would stand no chance in such
a chase. He sweated at the very thought of her being dragged down by
this rough pack.

Swartz was still shouting, but his voice seemed a long way off. Martin
caught the words, but they had no more significance than the scolding of
a fish-wife. If he could only get to Mellis, warn her! But the futility
of such a plan was self-apparent directly he considered it. If he swam
the mere he would have to swim it naked; he would be seen, and either be
killed or captured. No; salvation did not lie that way. He remembered
her charge to him, “Keep good guard,” and the charge helped him to a
decision. It was his affair to keep these men out of Woodmere, and to
hold the place, if one man could hold it against ten.

Swartz had given over shouting. He shook his fist at the tower, and rode
down boldly to examine the bridge. There was no passage that way without
much labor; Swartz saw that plainly, and rode back again to his men.

But he was an old “free-lance,” and very determined. He meant to enter
Woodmere before sunset, or know the reason why.

“Pounds and Littlejohn, you two men can swim. Off with your harness and
clothing; take poniards with you, and see what is to be found over
yonder.”

The men looked glum.

“Thunder, get to it, you dogs! Are you afraid of a girl and a monk? You
can run fast enough naked, if the monk puts the fear of God into you.”

The two fellows began to strip, and Martin saw how the first assault
threatened him. He had his bow and half a dozen arrows with him, and
there was no hesitation in his eyes.

He saw the two men come haltingly toward the mere, while their fellows
roared jests at them.

“Lord, but Jack Pounds has last year’s shirt on him.”

“Yoicks, see Littlejohn mincing like a girl! More spunk, Thomas!”

“Don’t frighten the lady, Jack! Be gentle.”

The men waded into the shallows, and took the water together, swimming
side by side with their poniards between their teeth. Martin had his
chance and took it, though he shot rather to discourage than to kill.
The arrow struck the water a yard from Littlejohn’s head.

Shouts went up from the gentry who were watching. One of the
cross-bowmen let fly, and the bolt struck the stone coping behind which
Martin was sheltering himself.

He heard Swartz cursing, and shaking his fist, for the two swimmers had
lost all stomach for so bald and naked an adventure. They had turned
back, and were splashing toward the shallows.

Swartz met them on the bank, and threatened them with the flat of his
sword.

“You craven swine!”

He was not loved because of his stern temper.

“Swim the foul pond yourself!” said one of them. “We are not paid to be
speared like fish.”

Swartz’s blood was up and his ambition kindled. Roger Bland did not
grudge gold to those who served him well, and Swartz saw that the luck
was with him, and that he might capture the prize before De Lisle or
Rich could come to share it. So he sat down before Woodmere, had the
horses taken back into the shade, and posted his two cross-bowmen to
mark the house. Swartz was an old campaigner, and always carried a
hatchet slung to his saddle; it would serve in this crisis. He sent six
of his men into the woods to fell trees, while he himself rode his horse
at a walk around and around the mere, preferring to trust his own eyes
when a trap had to be watched.

Martin could have shot at him, but he respected Swartz’s courage. These
gentlemen were not to be scared away by a few arrows; they were taking
the business in hand with methodical seriousness, and the outlook was
not hopeful. Yet Martin was conscious of a feeling of grim elation; his
wits were taut as a bow string; he had thrown himself with a cool head
and steady eyes into the great game of war.

Swartz’s purpose soon explained itself. The men came down from the
woods, carrying the trunks of young trees, till they had a dozen or
more, stacked ready at the end of the causeway. They were going to throw
a bridge across the gap, batter the gate down, and take the place by
assault.

Martin knelt on the leads of the tower, rubbing his chin, and watching
the menace taking shape. He was thinking hard, how he could best meet
the attack; whether he should try to hold the gate against them, or make
his stand in the tower.

Happening to glance at the great beech wood, he saw something that drove
every other thought out of his head. Mellis was there, looking down on
the place from behind the trunk of a beech tree. For a moment or two her
white face and green gown remained in view, and then vanished into the
wood’s gloom.

Martin felt his heart beating hard under his ribs. He looked at Swartz
and the men. They were intent on the work they had in hand; they had not
seen Mellis.




                            _Chapter XXIII_


Martin Valliant did some mighty rapid thinking. That glimpse of Mellis’s
face had stirred his manhood to a kind of Norse frenzy. Yet he kept his
wits unclouded; and this was the way he reasoned the thing out.

“They will build that bridge of theirs. I might shoot one or two of them
through the loophole, but they have cross-bows and will mark the loop.
When they have built their bridge they will be able to batter down the
gate, and while I am busy there, one or two of them might swim the mere
and come at me from behind. They are in light harness. This armor of
mine should turn a cross-bow bolt. I will try to shoot one or two of
them, and then open the gate, let down my bridge, and give them battle
there or on the causeway.”

The audacity of the plan pleased him, for Martin Valliant was
discovering in himself the wit and daring of a great fighter. He hung
his green shield about his neck, dropped the vizor of his salade, took
the bow and arrows and his naked sword, and made straight for the
gate-house. The ladder and stage he had built gave him command of the
loophole. And his luck and his cunning shook hands, for he pinked two
men, one in the body and the other in the throat, before a cross-bow
bolt came stinging through the loophole.

“Two from ten leaves eight.”

He scrambled down the ladder, leaving his bow on the stage, and quite
calmly and at his leisure unbarred and opened the gate.

Mellis, lying in a patch of young fern on the edge of the beech wood,
held her breath and watched him in amazement. For one moment a wild
doubt stabbed her; he was a craven, he was going to surrender Woodmere
and shirk a fight. The next moment she thought him mad, but she had torn
all doubt of him from her heart and thrown it from her with hot scorn.
She saw Martin let down his bridge, and take his stand just outside the
gate, with the point of his sword on the ground and his hands resting on
the pommel. He was a white and challenging figure holding the bridge and
the gate, daring Swartz and his men to come at him and try their
fortune.

One of the cross-bowmen fired a shot; the bolt struck Martin’s pauldron
and glanced harmlessly aside.

“Drop that—drop that!”

Swartz roared at the fellow. He was a tough old rogue, but he had a
soldier’s love of courage.

“One man against eight, and you want to fight him at fifty paces!”

He pushed his horse along the causeway, and looked curiously at Martin
Valliant. The figure in white harness puzzled him; it did not seem to
belong to a runaway monk.

“Who are you, my friend?”

Martin answered him.

“Come and see.”

Swartz grinned.

“By God—and we will! Bid that Dale wench drop her bow, and my fellows
shall not use their arbalists. We will make a straight fight of it,
Master Greenshield.”

The first man to try his luck was a little stunted fellow who had been a
smith and was immensely strong in the arms and back, but a fool in the
choice of his weapons. He came footing it cautiously along the narrow
bridge, with his spear held pointed at Martin. He had some idea of
feinting at Martin’s throat, of dropping the point and getting the shaft
between the taller man’s legs and tripping him. The trick might have
worked if Martin Valliant had not lopped off the spear-head with a
sudden sweep of his sword, caught the staff in his left hand, and swung
the fellow into the water. The smith could not swim, and was drowned;
but Martin had no time to think of being merciful.

A tall fellow charged him while he was still on the beam, and it was a
question of which man gave the bigger blow and knocked the other into
the mere. Martin’s sword had that honor. Swartz’s second gentleman fell
across the beam with a red wound in his throat, struggled for a few
seconds, and then slipped dying into the mere.

Swartz was biting his beard.

“What—there is no man here who can stand up to a monk! Big Harry,
there: have a swash at him with your pole-ax.”

Big Harry had the face and temper of a bull. He made a rush along the
bridge, swung his pole-ax, and struck at Martin’s head. The salade threw
the point aside, and the shaft struck Martin’s shoulder. He had
shortened his sword and thrust hard at the big man. The point went
through Big Harry’s midriff, and the mere hid a third victim.

Swartz rolled out of the saddle and drew his sword.

“Stand back! This fellow is too good for such raw cattle. I have fought
many fights in my time.”

Then Martin did a knightly thing. He went to meet Swartz, crossing the
beam, so that they met on the broad causeway where neither man could
claim any advantage.

Swartz saluted him.

“I take that to heart, my friend. It was gallantly thought of. One word
before we fight it out like gentlemen. Who the devil are you?”

Martin kept silent.

“You will not tell me? I must find it out for myself. Good. And so—to
business.”

Swartz was lightly armed, and he trusted to his swordsmanship, for he
was very clever with the sword. But his swashbuckling craftiness proved
useless against a man harnessed as Martin Valliant was harnessed, and
who fought like a young madman. It was like aiming delicate and cunning
blows at a man of iron, a man who struck back furiously without
troubling to defend himself. Swartz, with blood in his eyes, plunged to
escape that whistling sword, closed with Martin, and tried to throw him;
but Martin’s gadded fist beat him off and sent him heavily to the
ground.

Swartz lay still, while the five men who had stood to watch this battle
royal fumbled with their weapons and looked at each other out of the
corners of their eyes.

“Try the cross-bow on him, Jack.”

“Shoot, man, and we’ll push at him with our spears.”

But Martin Valliant did not leave them the right to choose how and when
they would attack him. His blood was on fire. He came leaping along the
causeway, a white figure of shining wrath, and those five men turned
tail and fled incontinently toward the woods. Martin did not follow
them, but went back to the place where Swartz was lying. The old
swashbuckler was sitting up, dazed, ghastly, trying to wipe the blood
out of his eyes with his knuckles.

The man in Martin leaped out to the man he had wounded. This fellow with
the black beard was made of finer stuff than the lousels who had taken
to their heels. He grinned at Martin Valliant, and tried to rise.

“Lord, my friend; but am I also to feed the fishes?”

Martin helped him to his feet.

“That blood must be staunched. Those rogues should have stood and fought
for you.”

“Let them run. Master Greenshield, methinks you have broken my brain pan
with that blow of yours. Let me lie down on something soft. I feel sick
as a dog that has eaten grass.”

Martin sheathed his sword, picked up Swartz in his arms, and carried him
over the footbridge. He remembered his own bed of bracken at the foot of
the stairs, and he bore the wounded man there and laid him on the fern.

“Thanks, Greenshield. My head’s full of molten metal. No—let me lie.
I’ll just curse and burrow into the fern, I have had worse wounds than
this in my time.”

He stretched out a hand suddenly.

“No bad blood—no grudges! I’m your prisoner; I play fair.”

Martin gripped his hand hard and went back to the gate.

Mellis had been lying in the bracken, listening to the rout of Swartz’s
gentry in the wood behind her. For five men they made a fine noise and
flutter in getting to horse, and it was like the flight of a small army,
what with their shouting and their quarreling as to what should be done.
She heard them galloping away into the Forest, for they were in frank
agreement upon the main issue, and that was to have nothing more to do
with that devil of a man in white harness who held the bridge at
Woodmere.

Mellis rose up, and went down toward the mere, her heart full of
Martin’s victory. He came out through the gate as she reached the
causeway and crossed the footbridge to meet her. He had taken off his
salade, and so came to her bare-headed, flushed, brave-eyed, and
triumphant.

The sheen of her eyes opened the gates of heaven. She was exultant,
glorious, a woman whose love had taken fire.

“Martin Valliant—oh, brave heart! What a fight was that! I thought you
mad when you came out on the bridge.”

He could find nothing to say to her, but his eyes gave her an answer.

“You little thought that I was watching you.”

This made him smile.

“Yes, I knew that you were up yonder. I saw you looking down from behind
a tree. I think I could have beaten twenty men—because you were
watching me.”

“Am I so fierce?”

“No, it is not that,” he said, quite simply.

Mellis knew what was in his heart, and the cry that echoed to it in her
own. She looked at him with a sudden, tremulous light in her eyes.

“I would have a man brave and staunch—for my sake. It is very sweet to
a woman when she is lonely.”

Martin dared not look at her for a moment. He was her man so utterly
that he could have kissed the dust from her feet, for the love in him
was great and passionate and holy.

“I did what my heart bade me,” he said, “and not to shame this sword.”

“Yes, give me the sword.”

“It is all bloody.”

“What matter. It is but a christening.”

He drew the sword from its scabbard and gave it into her hands. And
Mellis kissed the cross of the hilt, and held it for him to take.

“That is a second sacrament,” he said; “I shall need no other crucifix.”

They entered Woodmere, and Martin raised the bridge and closed the gate.

“You took a prisoner.”

He remembered Swartz, brain-sick and groaning.

“Their captain! A good fighter—and a generous. I must wash his wound;
and if I could find linen——”

“You shall have linen. I love that softness in you, comrade; good
soldiers are made so.”

She turned aside through the postern into the garden, and Martin went to
look at Swartz. He was sitting up, holding his head between his hands,
but the blood had ceased flowing.

“Ah, Brother Greenshield, get me out into the sunlight. I would rather
lie on the green grass—under those apple trees. This place smells of
the coffin.”

Martin helped him up.

“That wound of yours must be dressed. Mistress Mellis is finding me
linen.”

Swartz put an arm around him.

“Deo gratias, but I guess I owe this crack of the poll to her. Well, I
bear her no ill-will. And I have a liking for you, Greenshield, a man
after my own heart.”

“We were trying to kill each other half an hour ago.”

“Lord, man, are we the worse for that?”

Martin helped Swartz out into the orchard and propped him against a
tree. And there Mellis found them like brethren in arms when she brought
linen and red wine.

“I have found you linen, Martin Valliant.”

But she did not tell him that she had torn it from her own shift.

Swartz had a look at her as she turned to go.

“Saints, brother, but some things are well lost for a woman.”

Martin’s eyes grew grim.

“Tush, man, I did not speak lightly. Never flare out at Peter Swartz; he
is too old a ruffian.”

Martin fetched water from the mere in his salade and washed and dressed
Swartz’s head for him. He gave him wine to drink, and Swartz was glad of
it.

“Zounds, that’s good. Now, by my soul, I think I will spend the night
here, out of the dew, and with the stars blinking above. I have a love
of the green earth, Martin Valliant; I was not bred in a city. And look
you here, man——”

Martin gazed at him steadily.

“You took me in fair fight, and here I shall stay, so long as you hold
the place. I swear to keep faith, and to play no tricks on you. And
here’s the hand of a soldier.”

Martin accepted the pledge.

“My heart trusts you,” he said.

“One word, lad: never trust the man I serve—or did serve—Roger Bland,
if you have him as you have me now. I am a war-dog, but he is a cold
snake. Put your heel on his head, and spare no weight.”




                             _Chapter XXIV_


The sun sank low in the west, and the whole world was very still. Peter
Swartz had fallen asleep under his apple tree in the orchard, and the
white blossom scattered itself on him as he slept.

A great wonder had overtaken Martin Valliant. He had eased himself of
his harness and gone down to a little grassy place where willows cast a
net of shadows over the brown water. He stood there, leaning against the
trunk of a willow tree, listening to the birds singing in the valley
that shone like a great bowl of magic gold. The west was all afire, and
throwing a strange glory over the woods, so that the tall trees seemed
topped with flame. Not a breath of wind stirred in the leaves or
grasses.

And Martin Valliant’s heart was full of a strange, listening awe. He
looked at the still water, the burning trees, the glimmering meadows,
and there seemed no sadness anywhere, but only deep exultation and a sob
of wonder in the throat. His face shone under the soft green of the
willows. This place was the new Paradise, and a woman’s eyes looked out
of the window of Heaven.

A voice called to him.

“Martin, Martin!”

A spasm of emotion shook Martin Valliant’s soul. He spread his arms, and
raised his face to the sunset. If to love a woman was sin, then God was
a devil, and the Lord Christ had never walked the earth.

He heard Mellis come singing through the orchard where Peter Swartz
slept under the apple trees. The sound of her voice quickened his love
almost to anguish. He dared not go to her for the moment or meet those
dark eyes of hers.

“Martin Valliant!”

She came out from the shadows of the orchard, and saw him standing
there, his right arm covering his face. Her heart faltered for a beat or
two, and then quickened with a rush of wonder and awe.

Mellis went toward him, her eyes mysterious and full of soft, tremulous
light. Martin heard her footsteps and her gown sweeping the grass. He
uncovered his face, and it was all white and strange and radiant.

For a moment they looked at each other with mute timidity. There seemed
nothing that could be said, for the great mystery of life had touched
them.

Then Mellis spoke, and her words were no louder than a light wind moving
in the trees.

“I do not know what the day has done to me. But I could sit in the long
grass and listen to the birds singing, and watch the sunset on the
water, and never speak nor move.”

“It is very wonderful,” he said, “for all the joy of the world seems in
this valley.”

“I could touch no food to-night but honey and white bread, and moisten
my lips with the dew.”

She heard Martin draw in his breath.

“And presently the soft dusk will come, and the day will die. But there
will be the stars, and a silver sheen on the water, and a silence that
waits—and listens——”

Her face dreamed.

“Come.”

He followed her, found himself at her side, moving through the long
grass that rustled under their feet. He was no more a body, but a soul
that burned with yearning and a great white glory. And Mellis’s hair was
as black as the night.

She led him into the garden, and there he saw their table strewn with
flowers. She had set out bread, and wine, and honey. His helmet lay in
the midst on a cushion of green leaves, and she had bound it about with
a spray of red roses taken from the old rose bush.

Mellis pointed a finger.

“Even the roses bloomed for us to-day. And there is your crown of
victory.”

He stretched out a hand and touched hers timidly, as though he were
afraid.

“Mellis——”

Her hand closed on his with a sudden thrill of tenderness.

“Is not life good? Do you fear to look at me, Martin?”

“You have stepped out of heaven,” he said, “and the great light of you
blinds my eyes.”

They sat down at the board, but though the bread was white and the honey
sweet, little of either passed their lips. It fell to old Swartz to make
an end of the loaf, and to sweeten his black beard with the honey.

“Deo gratias,” he said when Martin brought him his supper; “but I have
been asleep and dreaming, and in my dreams I thought I heard a woman
singing. You can leave me the wine bottle. I shall not play the swine
with it.”

He looked shrewdly at Martin Valliant’s face, and saw that the green
island had become a place of enchantment.

“Get you gone, Sir Greenshield. I shall be ready to sleep again, and
this apple tree will serve as a tent. Black beards are not for such as
you, and perhaps I was not dreaming when I slept.”

He cut himself a great hunch of bread.

“Think of the blood I have to make good! Take your youth, man, and thank
God for it. You are welcome to any glory you have got out of the
bloodying of my poll!”

Swartz watched Martin Valliant walk back toward the garden.

“His head is in Paradise,” he said to himself, “but he had the heart to
remember my supper. May the wench be kind to him. It is all a midsummer
madness—this love. Well, give me the madness, say I; good wine and a
comely woman. The worms can have me when a wench will no longer give me
a glint of the eye.”

Mellis had brought her lute with her from the Black Moor, and she had
not touched its strings since she had sung to the burgher revelers in
the tavern at Gawdy Town. And somehow all her grief and travail and
yearning seemed to melt into an exultation that was like the beauty of
an April day, a race of sunlight and of shadow.

As the sunset reddened, and the black bats began to flutter around on
noiseless wings, the sound of her lute went over the water. Old Swartz
heard it, and then her voice, deep, and strange, and very sweet, warming
the heart like wine.

She looked down at Martin lying in the grass at her feet.

“Is there sin in my singing—when my brother is dead? Am I forgetting
because my mouth is not silent?”

The sunset lit up Martin’s face. His eyes were gazing into the distance,
eyes that questioned the earth and heaven—and life and the hypocrisies
of men. It was as though the gates of a new wisdom had been opened to
him. A man may think himself into hell, and feel himself into heaven.

“What is sin?”

She smiled at him.

“Such words from your lips!”

“I see a vision,” he said slowly, “of the beauty of the earth and the
mystery thereof. Shall I quarrel with the apple because it comes from
the bloom of the tree? Do not the beasts fight for their mates, and is
there not a nobleness in valor? The good knight rides out, and his
strength is for the service of those who are oppressed. As for hiding in
a cell and starving one’s body—such a life begins to smell of
cowardice.”

She raised her head proudly.

“We are rebels, Master Valliant, you and I. Say, have I lost you your
soul?”

“No, by God; but you have found it for me, and set it free. I am no
longer afraid of the shadows of sick thoughts.”

She swept her fingers over the strings, and began to sing to him as the
dusk gathered. The woods melted into a cloud of blackness; the red of
the sky changed to amber; moths came to feed from the white flowers in
the grasses of the wild garden.

Between the snatches of song she leaned toward him, and he knelt to meet
her.

“What if we die to-morrow? What can the Lord of Troy take from us?”

“No man shall take you while I live.”

“And in the Forest the birds sing at dawn.”

“And in the night I lie before your door to guard it with my body.”

They looked long into each other’s eyes.

“Martin Valliant,” she said very softly, “Martin Valliant.”

And he bowed himself and kissed her feet.




                             _Chapter XXV_


John Falconer of Badger Hill was too shrewd a gentleman to betray
himself or his affairs to the lurkers whom John Rich had left in the
woods to watch him. Falconer made no stir about the place, left his men
working in the fields, and kept his own counsel.

“If the dogs have been busy about here,” he said to himself, “we will
give them no cause to hunt us. There are other parts of the Forest where
men can muster and march to help Mellis Dale.”

Yet he was much troubled about Mellis, and what might have happened at
Woodmere in her absence. Roger Bland’s men might have seized the place
and made it a trap for her. John Falconer had no faith in any runaway
monk, even though he happened to be old Valliant’s son.

When night came he went quietly to the stable with a wallet full of
food, saddled and bridled his horse, and rode out by the way of the pine
woods. The moon would not be up for an hour; the woods were dark as a
pit; he saw nothing of Rich’s men, nor did they see anything of him.
When he was well away from Badger Hill, John Falconer tied up his horse
and sat down to wait for the moon.

Old forester though he was, Falconer missed his way that night, and the
sun had been up an hour before he reached the hills above Woodmere Vale.
Martin Valliant had been up and stirring before the dawn, for love and
his harness had left him but little sleep.

Mellis had taken the watch, and had bidden him unbuckle his harness and
sleep in the upper room; but Martin had refused to take off his breast
and back-plates, gorget and cuishes, lest Roger Bland’s men should try
to steal into the place at night and catch him unprepared.

“When your friends rally here,” he had said, “then I can rest out of
this iron skin.”

He was minded to better his footbridge, and broaden it with two lighter
pieces of planking so that a horse could be brought across. His
forethought proved prophetic, for when the first grayness of the dawn
spread over the valley he saw three horses quietly cropping the grass
not fifty yards from the bridge-head. One of them was Swartz’s roan; the
others had been lost by the five men in the flurry of their flight.

Swartz’s roan seemed to be a companionable beast. He came down to the
bridge-head, and stood there whinnying and watching Martin at his work.
He was still saddled and bridled, as were his two comrades who went on
cropping the grass.

Martin Valliant looked at Swartz’s horse as he had never looked at a
horse before. The creature had a new meaning for him; it was no ambling
pad, no fat palfrey, but a beast built to carry a man to battle, one of
the strong things of the earth whose strength had to be mastered. Martin
left his bridge-building for something more knightly. He wanted to ride
Swartz’s horse, to feel himself astride of that brown body, to know
himself the creature’s master.

The roan seemed as ready as Martin Valliant. He was playful, full of
zest, and went off at a canter directly Martin was in the saddle. But
the man was the lord. He made the beast drop to a trot, and then worked
him to a gallop over the dew-wet grasslands between the water and the
woods.

So when John Falconer came to the edge of the beech wood he saw a young
man in half armor galloping a horse furiously up and down the valley,
and handling him like no novice. Horse and man were in excellent temper,
the one delighting in riding, the other in being ridden.

John Falconer kept himself in the shade, and looked down on Woodmere. He
noticed the two horses feeding by the mere, that the bridge was down and
the gate open, and for the moment he had good cause to fear that the
Lord of Troy’s men had taken the place, and that this galloper on the
horse was one of them. Then he saw a woman appear on the leads of the
tower, and knew her to be Mellis.

She watched Martin Valliant and the roan horse, and waved a hand to him
as he came cantering back from the lower end of the valley. Falconer
tugged at his beard with thumb and forefinger.

“So this is our outlaw monk! The fellow has learned to sit a horse.”

He rode out from the beech wood, and the two horses converged upon the
bridge, Martin feeling for his sword and calling himself a fool for
galloping about unarmed, with the bridge down and the gate open.

He saw Mellis waving a scarf at the new-comer, and guessed that all was
well. Falconer had reined in by the bridge-head and was waiting for the
man on the roan horse. The master of Badger Hill had a shrewd eye for
the shape of a man, the color of his eyes, and the set of his head. He
could look inwards, judge without favor; and though he had no desire to
be pleased, Martin Valliant pleased him.

These two men stared into each other’s eyes with a certain searching and
haughty curiosity.

“So this is Roger Valliant’s son? You are overtrustful, young man, to go
galloping up and down with that gate open. Had I been an enemy, I could
have put a shaft into you.”

Martin flushed.

“I have called myself a fool for it,” he said bluntly, “but the horse
came and whinnied at me, and I had to ride him.”

“Then it is no horse of yours?”

“No, Peter Swartz’s.”

“Peter Swartz’s! Such a tale hangs crooked!”

“He is wounded and a prisoner.”

Then Mellis came out to them with eyes that smiled at old Falconer’s
grim and puzzled face. He had to be told everything, how Martin had
fought with Peter Swartz and his men, beaten them, and taken Swartz
prisoner. And still John Falconer was not pleased. He had ridden out
with a fixed distrust of Martin Valliant in his heart, and being an
obstinate and dogged gentleman, he was in no hurry to surrender his
distrust. Martin had tied up Swartz’s horse and gone back to his
bridge-building.

“Very pretty—very pretty. But the fat’s in the fire, thanks to our
champion’s valor. ’Twould have been almost better to have played fox and
let them have the place.”

“And what would you have said of Martin Valliant if he had made no fight
for it?”

“Praised his cunning, no doubt!”

“No; you would have called him a coward and a traitor.”

She was smiling, but there was a glitter of hot partisanship in her
eyes, and she was ready to stand by her man and speak for him.

“This is not like you, John Falconer, to quibble and sneer!”

“Mistress, when our heads depend on the adventure, our wits are apt to
fly out hot-temperedly. Nor am I pleased that we should owe yonder
fellow a service.”

“Then men are less generous than women. Why, I owe life and more to that
man; I have taken his vows from him, made of him a murderer in the eyes
of the law. Before he saw me—before I blundered into his life—he was
God’s man, with nothing to fear in the whole world. To-morrow he might
hang, because the blood in him was generous.”

Falconer looked like an old dog who was trying to take his scolding
without a blink of the eyes. He knew that Mellis was in the right, and
that it was his own heart that grudged Martin her gratitude.

“Well, well, he will either hang or be knighted. Nor have we any leisure
to stand arguing here. I could bring no men with me, for my place is
watched.”

“Roger Bland is wise by now.”

“That’s the devil of it. We must get a garrison for Woodmere as soon as
we may. Young Blount can call two or three score fellows together with
good speed. You and I had better ride at once to Bloody Rood. Your face
will count with young Nigel.”

She gave him a shrewd look.

“And trust Woodmere to Martin Valliant? He is not so poor a comrade,
after all!”

“I spoke hastily. The lad has brave eyes. We can trust him.”

“To the death.”

So Martin Valliant was left to hold Woodmere, while Mellis mounted her
horse and rode with John Falconer to Bloody Rood.

Men called young Blount “Sir Nigel Head-in-air.” He was a dark,
hawk-faced stripling, very passionate and headstrong, vain, quarrelsome,
the fool of any woman who could use her eyes. John Falconer would never
have chosen such a fellow as a comrade, but the Blounts had a strong
following and had to be considered. Moreover, young Nigel would be ready
to gallop on any wild adventure; he had impudence and courage and a
sense of his own splendor. Men were wanted at Woodmere. Nigel Blount
could be packed off with Mellis to temper his recklessness, while he,
John Falconer, went about to raise the Forest.

The morning proved propitious. They found Sir Nigel in the midst of his
hounds and his men, ready to start out after a fine hart that had been
spotted by his trackers. He was mounted on a black Arab, and his colors
were crimson and green. He looked sulky when he saw John Falconer, but
Mellis’s face put him in a different humor.

“A good day’s hunting spoiled, lording!”

“And well spoiled in such a service.”

He was ready to tumble into his harness and ride out as Mellis’s
champion almost before John Falconer had said all he had to say.

“Nothing but a scurvy hedge priest left at Woodmere! Heart of Heaven,
but that shall be altered. Leave Woodmere to me, sir.”

The hounds were sent back to the kennels. Young Blount had jacks and
steel caps for some of his men, and a score or so bills and boar spears.
The men took their bows with them. He mustered eighteen followers, a
force that was strong enough to hold Woodmere till the Forest rose in
arms.

John Falconer took Mellis aside.

“Watch that young jay. He screams too much. Remember to make him obey
you. It should be easy.”

She knew how to queen it over young firebrands like Nigel Blount.

“I shall rule him, John, with one finger. And now, good-by. Woodmere
waits for us.”




                             _Chapter XXVI_


Five men rode up to the gate of Troy Castle just as the sun was setting
in a flare of yellow behind the black towers. These five gentlemen were
a little ashamed of themselves, and had dressed up a tale between them
to show to the Lord of Troy. Peter Swartz was dead and could not kick
their scarecrow to pieces. That devil of a fellow in white harness
bulked bigger and bigger in the romance, cutting men in two with one
sweep of the sword, and tossing Swartz like a puppy dog into the moat.

“We have run, gossips, and there must be a reason for it, or we shall be
damned.”

Their unanimity was admirable. My Lord of Troy owed them six months’
pay, a shrewd way he had of keeping men at his heels, but he did not
concern himself with cowards. These five dogs knew better than to run
home with their tails between their legs.

Roger Bland was at supper, a noble function in which all stateliness was
properly and finely considered. He had a love of taking his meals in
public, of playing at pageantry even among the plates. His wealth showed
itself in his gold cups and dishes, his tapestries and dorsers, his
linen and silver, the musicians, their coats of blue and green, his
crowd of serving men, the profusion of food. All this peacocking had a
purpose. Men’s senses are conquered and led into subjection by the pomps
that paint a picture of power.

Fulk de Lisle had returned and brought in the bodies of Vance and the
archer. Rich and his men were back from Badger Hill. Neither of these
captains had caught much; the Forest did not lightly surrender its
secrets.

Meanwhile those five fugitive worthies had chosen a player and
spokesman, a little Welshman with much language and fiery eyes. He was
to tell their tale of the attack on Woodmere to Roger Bland, and dress
up a few picturesque lies to give the tale a greater appearance of
reality.

The news of their coming was brought to my Lord of Troy as he sat at the
high table. The page who brought the news had been listening to the
Welshman filling the guard-room with sound and fury.

“These fellows say, my lord, that Swartz is dead, and five more with
him, and that they were beaten by one man.”

My lord was cracking nuts, and picking them out of their shells with
precise indifference.

“Who are the men, Ralph?”

It was De Lisle who asked the question.

“Morgan the Welshman, Part, and Simonsby, and fat Horner, and one more.”

De Lisle laughed, and nodded at Roger Bland.

“I could have named the men, my lord; spunkless rogues all of them.
Morgan would lie the hoofs off Satan.”

My Lord of Troy went on cracking nuts.

“Ralph.”

“My lord?”

“Bring the men in here, all of them, and let them line up in front of my
table.”

He was obeyed. The five bold “blades” found themselves standing in a
row, while Roger Bland ate his nuts, and looked at them as though they
were cattle to be judged. He did not speak, and the five tried not to
fidget.

“Question these fellows for me, Sir Fulk de Lisle.”

“My lord, with pleasure.”

And Fulk de Lisle thrust the bright blade of truth into the belly of
their invention.

“So you ran away, my friends?”

They denied it, Morgan the Welshman leading the chorus.

“Then, how is it that you are here?”

Roger Bland smiled like a cynical old priest listening to a confession.

“A very presentable question, sir. Let me amplify it. You found people
at Woodmere, Morgan?”

The Welshman tried to get his imagination into its stride, but my lord
would not let him gallop.

“You saw no more than one man?”

“A giant, sir, a devil of a fellow in white harness, plated from poll to
toes.”

“Ah, a paladin! You say that he killed Swartz and five more?”

“He was like an iron bull, my lord.”

“And so you ran away! Yes, yes—I have no patience to waste, fool, on
your paltry lies. You saw nothing of a woman?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“Very well. Out with you—out of my sight! Master Rich, come here to
me.”

The five slouched out, and John Rich, who was sitting at the far end of
the dais table, came and stood behind Roger Bland’s chair.

“My lord?”

“Ah, Master Rich, bend your head nearer. You will take thirty men and
such gear as you need, and ride at dawn. I must have this fabulous
fellow in white harness. See to it that he does not frighten you all.”

Rich grinned.

“It shall be done, my lord.”

“Man, let it be done. I am beginning to be angry.”

Five minutes later my Lord of Troy took a last sip of sweet wine, washed
his hands in perfumed water, and went to his closet. Fulk de Lisle
followed at his heels, smiling humorously at the great man’s back.

“Fulk de Lisle.”

“My dear lord?”

“Is there more in this, think you, than meets the eye?”

“The slaying of Vance, sir, was very natural, and I take it that Swartz
fell by the same hand. This bastard priest is something of an enigma.
How did he come by armor and a sword? Such things do not grow in the
Forest.”

Roger Bland’s pale eyelids seemed to flicker.

“We must see the end and bottom of this affair. I have given John Rich
the adventure; I give you John Rich. Is that plain to you?”

“Most plain, my lord.”

“See that this business is carried through. I want the Forest’s
secret—if it is keeping a secret. I care not how it is come by.”

Fulk de Lisle bowed.

“You have a spacious way, my lord, of sending a gentleman upon your
business. We are not cramped and hindered by little abominations of the
law. It is an honor to serve you.”

And he went out with the air of a man who knew himself to be shrewder
than his master.

Such were the preparations that were maturing at Troy Castle on the
night after Martin Valliant’s defeat of Swartz and his men. John Rich
took the road next morning, while Martin was improving his footbridge,
and Mellis was chastening the hot vanities of young Nigel Blount. Martin
had brought the three horses over the mere, stabled them in the old
dining hall, pulled up the bridge and shut the gate. He took life with
great seriousness, but his heart was full of a new song.

Martin was shaping a new oak bar for the garden postern when Peter
Swartz came out of the orchard for a gossip. He had slept passably and
eaten better, though his legs were none too steady under him.

He squatted on the grass, and watched Martin with a friendly glint in
his eyes.

“My noddle still simmers like a boiling pot. What happens to-day,
brother?”

“What God wills.”

Swartz looked at him intently.

“Fine philosophy, Martin Valliant, but God may leave a man with a noose
about his neck. You would say that this is no affair of mine, nor is it,
save that I have no lust for a man’s blood, or to see him kicking at the
end of a rope. The Forest would be healthier than this sweet island.”

Martin stood idle, the bill hanging in his hand.

“I am here to serve,” he said.

“My friend, you have drunk of the magic cup. A man might wound you, and
you would hardly feel it. But my Lord of Troy is no child of dreams. You
are but a rat—to be sniffed out by terriers.”

“I am not alone.”

“Thunder—that’s where the trouble lies. This child with the eyes of
midnight wonder——”

He shook his fist at Martin.

“No frowns, no haughtiness, good comrade. Is she too miraculous to be
spoken of by my lips? Why, by all the devils, have I no heart in me, and
no liking for the gallant splendor of youth? You will be attacked
to-day, not with ten men, but with fifty.”

Martin answered him bluntly.

“She has gone for help. We are not alone.”

He stared down at Swartz, and Swartz’s eyes met his without flinching.

“So—that is the game! I guessed it. There is the color of a red rose in
all this.”

“Guess what you please.”

“A Richmond—a Richmond! The Forest is stirring with the wind, eh? And I
am Peter Noside for the moment. Yes, and let me tell you one thing,
Martin Valliant, your friends will need to hurry if they are to make
this place good. There are cannon at Raychester. Oh, this great and
happy madness!”

He rose up, and walked to and fro.

“What an old fool I am, but I could change sides to get a blow at my
dear master. Why must some of us always rush to help the man who has his
back against the wall? Hallo—hallo!”

Shrill and clear came the scream of a trumpet from the valley. Martin
Valliant and Peter Swartz stood looking at each other.

“Troy, by God! And a summons. What did I tell you, comrade?”

Martin dropped the billhook and took his sword, that was leaning against
the wall. He stared hard at Swartz, as though to read the man’s soul.

Swartz smiled at him.

“No, I shall not stab you in the back, man; have no fear. Let us go up
on the tower and look at the country.”

He followed Martin to the leads, but did not show himself above the
wall. Martin was scanning the valley.

“What do you see, brother?”

“A man on a white horse with a green banner, and on it a silver key.
There is another man with a trumpet.”

“Troy. What else?”

“A knight in black harness, on a black horse.”

“That would be John Rich. Nothing more?”

“There is a shining of something, back in the beech wood.”

“Steel, man, steel.”

The trumpeter blew a second blast, and John Rich and his banner-bearer
rode down nearer to the water. They were scanning the island, and had
sighted Martin on the tower.

“A summons, Greenshield.”

“I have nothing to say to them.”

“Then say nothing. They will take to other music.”

Swartz, raising his head to look, saw John Rich turn his horse and ride
back slowly to the beech wood, followed by his trumpeter and the man who
carried my Lord of Troy’s banner.

“Ha, the old fox! John Rich takes his time. You will not see until you
do see.”

An hour passed, and nothing happened. The beech wood looked black,
mysterious, and inscrutable, while Martin stood to arms upon the tower,
feeling that the wood above was full of eyes that watched and waited.
Swartz had grown restless. His heart was taking sides in the adventure.

“What is the old fox at? I mislike this silence.”

Suddenly he heard Martin Valliant give a strange, sharp cry.

“Look!”

He stood rigid, his eyes shining like glass in the sunlight, his
forehead all knotted up.

Swartz looked over the battlements, and uttered a robust and honest
oath.

“What damnable fool is that?”

Away down the valley young Nigel Blount and Mellis had ridden out from
the woods and were crossing the open grassland toward the mere, with
Nigel’s men straggling as they pleased half a furlong behind them. Young
Blount was riding gallantly enough, making his horse cut capers, while
he showed what manner of man he was in the saddle. His men were laughing
and talking, their bows unstrung, not one of them troubling to keep
watch.

“Peacock! Ape! Shout, man, shout! There is a trap set here, if I am not
much mistaken.”

Martin raised his sword, and flashed it to and fro. He saw Mellis draw
rein, and knew that her eyes were on him. He pointed toward the beech
wood, but even if she understood his warning it came too late.




                            _Chapter XXVII_


The beech wood filled with sudden movement, and its blackness was like a
storm cloud sending out a vague and hollow muttering. Dark shapes came
hurrying out of the gloom beyond the gray trunks, the shapes of men and
horses that took on color, fierceness, life. There was the rattle of
harness, the flashing of steel. John Rich and his riders came out at the
gallop.

A piece of tapestry seemed unrolled, so swiftly did things happen. The
very power of movement was taken away from Martin Valliant. He saw all
that passed as though it were in a dream, the black figure of John Rich
and his horse going at the gallop with spear leveled, the men behind him
strung out in a half circle and all rushing like the wind. There was
Mellis’s white face, helpless, hesitating, like a piece of apple blossom
floating on the blackness of a pool. Young Nigel Blount, sword in air,
was shouting to his men, who had turned tail and were running for the
shelter of the woods. Then Rich’s spear smote right through Nigel
Blount’s body. Martin heard the lad’s scream, saw him twist like a
puppet on a wire, and tumble backwards, dragging the point of Rich’s
spear to the ground. The riders swept around Mellis; she seemed to sink
out of sight in the thick of the crowd.

Martin Valliant awoke. He uttered a great cry, and rushed toward the
little turret where the stairway opened upon the leads. As he reached it
Peter Swartz caught him by the sword belt.

“Stay, you fool!”

Martin tried to thrust him off, but Swartz kept his hold.

“No, no, my friend, knock my teeth out if it pleases you, but if your
head’s on fire mine had better do the thinking.”

“Let go, man.”

“And see you rush out there and be ridden down and spitted like that
poor popinjay! Thirty to one are heavy odds, Martin Valliant.”

“Let go, curse you.”

“And hold on, say I. Listen to reason, man, and use your wits. You’ll
not help that girl by getting yourself killed.”

“The strength of God is in me.”

“And the brains of a sheep! The game is not lost and won yet, but it
will be if you go rushing out like a mad bull. Cunning, man—cunning and
patience.”

Martin stood irresolute, his eyes full of wrath and yearning.

“If I must die, I’ll die now, Swartz.”

“Oh, good fool, set your teeth and bide your time! It is no time for
dying. What use would a dead man be to the child out yonder? Set your
teeth, Martin Valliant; play the grim dog who can watch and wait.”

He laid his arm across Martin’s shoulders and drew him aside.

“Why, man, I’m with you, and you will thank me to-morrow for this. And
here are we squabbling and scuffling when we should be watching like
hawks. Come—we must match John Rich for cunning.”

Martin Valliant surrendered, but he covered his face with his sword-arm
and stood shaking like a man with the ague.

Meanwhile John Rich was riding back at his leisure, the bridle of
Mellis’s horse over his wrist. Ten of his men had gone in pursuit of the
foresters from Bloody Rood, and two more had dismounted, taken young
Blount’s body by the heels, and were dragging it down to the mere. John
Rich brought his horse close to the bridge-head, and his trumpeter blew
a summons.

“A parley, Valliant.”

Martin straightened himself, with a sudden shining of the eyes. He saw
Mellis sitting her horse beside John Rich, pale, motionless, tragically
calm. She looked up toward the tower, and Martin fancied that she
smiled; he felt that his heart would break for her.

“If they would take me and let her go!”

Swartz scoffed at his madness.

“My Lord of Troy is no honey-pot, to catch flies and let them escape as
they please. Have nothing to say to John Rich; let him blow his trumpet
till the fellow’s cheeks burst.”

Martin stood forward, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. John
Rich hailed him.

“Hallo, there! Come down and open the gate. The game is played out.”

Martin Valliant’s eyes were fixed on Mellis’s face. He was wondering
whether she despised him for not rushing out to strike a blow for
her—whether she thought him a coward. Swartz had crouched down behind
the wall, and was watching Martin narrowly.

“Steady, brother. That child has brave eyes and a fine heart. She will
understand. Tell Rich to go to the devil.”

Martin stood like a statue, and Rich bellowed again:

“Have done with this fooling. Will you give us the place, or are we to
take it?”

Martin was waiting for something, and that something came. He saw Mellis
raise her head proudly; he saw her mouth open; her voice reached out to
him across the water:

“Stand fast, Martin Valliant!”

He raised the cross of his sword and kissed it as a sign to her.

“To the death!” he called to her.

And John Rich, accepting the defiance, turned his horse and rode back
with Mellis to the beech wood.

Now John Rich was a man of method. He posted a guard of ten men to cover
the bridge, and two more to patrol the banks of the mere. The rest
disappeared into the woods, shed their harness, and took to ax and saw,
for John Rich had brought a tumbril laden with ropes, a ladder, tools,
balks of timber, and such-like gear from Troy Castle. The matter was to
be undertaken stolidly and with thoroughness. He set his men at building
a couple of rafts or floats that could be dragged down to the mere after
dark. Half his party would pole themselves over to attack the house,
while the rest held the causeway.

Martin kept watch upon the tower, and Swartz remained with him out of a
new-born spirit of comradeship. A great restlessness tormented Martin
Valliant. He could no longer see his love, nor guess what might have
befallen her, and his soul suffered in a lover’s purgatory. All the past
years had been blotted out; he had lived just seven days since this
woman had come into his life, with those eyes of hers dark as the forest
and her lips red as the rose. Great storms of tenderness and wrath swept
through him. He was tortured by vivid memories of her, flashes of her
that hurt his soul, the miraculous way her dark eyes would fill with
golden lights, her plaintive look when she was sad, the little dimple in
her cheek, the way her lips moved, the shape of her fingers, the curve
of her chin, the falling of her dark hair over her ears. These vivid
flashes of her intoxicated, maddened him. He wanted to pour himself out,
die for her, spend his great love, and make her feel it.

Swartz watched Martin closely as he went restlessly to and fro, or stood
and stared at the beech wood as though it held both heaven and hell.

“Patience, brother.”

Martin turned on him with furious eyes.

“Patience! Man, man, I burn—I burn!”

“Keep your torch alight; there is no harm in it. With the night will
come your hope.”

“Night?”

“Things may be done by a desperate man at night.”

“True. I can swim the moat.”

He stood and brooded with a face that spelled death for some one. His
love and his helplessness scorched him like flame. He could have choked
Swartz for telling him to wait, though in his heart he knew that Swartz
was right.

Sometimes he would start, fancying that he had heard Mellis calling to
him:

“Martin—Martin Valliant!”

He would turn on Swartz:

“Did you hear?”

“Nothing, my son—nothing.”

Swartz was laconic, implacable. He had made himself a little peephole by
loosening some of the stones with his dagger and levering them out. This
squint of his commanded the beech wood, and he watched it like a dog
waiting for a rat.

“Thunder!”

Martin turned and saw him kneeling with his eye close to the hole. His
lips were stretched tight over his teeth.

“Are you behind me, man? What do you see?”

Martin faced sharply toward the beech wood. A man had ridden out from
the shade—a man in a red doublet slashed and puffed with blue, a red
hat on his head, his legs and thighs cased in white armor. He was a very
tall man, and he sat his horse with a certain swaggering grace. In his
right hand he carried a light switch.

Swartz spat hate at him.

“Hell hound, swaggerer, bully.”

Martin looked puzzled.

“I have not seen that fellow before.”

“And I have seen him too often. What, you have lived in these parts and
know not Messire Fulk de Lisle?”

Martin’s forehead wrinkled itself.

“Fulk de Lisle! A great gentleman in my Lord of Troy’s service.”

“A great gentleman! God help you, Martin Valliant, and God help—
Enough. This clinches it. I have often itched to cut that man’s throat,
though I have served with him.”

Martin Valliant’s eyes filled with a sudden fury of understanding.

“Why is he here?”

“To play any devil’s trick that pleases him. You do not know Messire
Fulk de Lisle. Rich is a saint beside him. The debonair, filthy,
malicious devil! Why, I could tell you— Oh! to hell with the beast!”

He twisted around and looked up into Martin Valliant’s face.

“Man, can you stand torture?”

“Speak out!”

“Supposing he brings the child—and tries to break you by—shaming her?”

Martin’s face was like a white flame.

“God! It’s beyond belief! Why should he?”

Swartz grimaced.

“Because he is Fulk de Lisle; because he has a foul cleverness and a
liking for such things. My Lord of Troy would laugh at such a comedy.
God and the Saints, I wonder now why I have lived with such men!”




                            _Chapter XXVIII_


Mellis lay in a patch of young bracken in a little glade among the beech
trees. They had tied her feet together, but left her hands free, after
searching her and taking away her poniard. Five paces away a man stood
on guard—a man with the beard of a goat and stupid eyes hard as gray
stones out of a brook.

Mellis lay very still, the fronds of the fern arching over her and
throwing little flecks of shadow on her face. But though her bosom
hardly betrayed her breathing, and her hands lay motionless among the
bracken stems, all that was quick and vital in her lived in her eyes.
The pupils were big and black and sensitive with fear, wild, tremulous
eyes in a white and anguished face.

For a great fear gripped her—the nameless, instinctive fear of the wild
creature caught in a trap, where struggling is of no avail. She waited,
listened, counted the beats of her own heart, closed her eyes at times
so that she might not see the imbecile face of the man who guarded her.
But even a moment’s blindness quickened her fear, her quivering dread of
what might happen.

She was snared, helpless, and felt a great hand ready to close over her.
The violence of young Nigel’s death had shocked her horribly. She could
not get the vision of the poor fool out of her head; he was still
screaming and writhing on Rich’s spear. The patches of blue sky between
the trees seemed hard as steel; there was no softness in the sunlight on
the bracken.

“Martin—Martin Valliant!”

She mouthed his name, but without sound. Her fingers quivered; she drew
her breath with a deep, pleading misery. Her hands and her soul reached
out to him; he seemed the one strong and loyal thing left her in the
beginnings of her despair. For her despair was very real and no piece of
cowardice; she had no illusions as to the temper of the men who served
the Lord of Troy.

It was not death she feared so much as that other—nameless thing. She
was herself as yet, clean, pure, virginal, and a man loved her. And even
as her love reached out to him she clung with passionate, hoarding
tenderness to her own chastity. It was hers—and it was his. She wanted
it because he was what he was—her man, her life’s mate. Such
exaltations, such dear prejudices rise from the sacred deeps of the
heart. Without them flesh is but flesh, and love mere gluttony.

Hours seemed to pass. The man who guarded her yawned, spat in the
bracken, and slouched around like a tired cur. Sometimes Mellis found
him staring at her with a hungry, gloating glint in his eyes, a look for
which she loathed him as she would have loathed some slimy thing that
had touched her hand.

Presently she heard voices in the beech wood, voices that seemed on the
edge of a quarrel. They came nearer, like two birds sparring and
scolding at each other; one was gay and insolent and swift, the other
sullen and toneless.

“Have your way, then! Damnation, such drolleries are not part of my
harness.”

“You are too gentle, good John Rich. What is life but a great hunting?
And a plain, straight-forward gallop does not always please me. There is
no wit, no cunning in it.”

“No devilry, you mean.”

“Have it that way. I like my wine well spiced, and a new spice tickles
the palate. You dullards are content with rivers of beer.”

The man with the goat’s beard brisked up and stood stiffly on guard as
Fulk de Lisle and John Rich came out from under the shade of the trees.
Rich hung back, seeming to have no stomach for Fulk de Lisle’s spiced
devilries.

“Stand away, Bannister.”

The guard saluted with his sword, and slunk off under the beeches.

Mellis sat up. Fulk de Lisle was standing within two paces of her, his
hands on his hips, his red hat with its plume clapped on his head like a
halo. His brown eyes stared at her boldly, and his red lips seemed on
the point of smiling. She hated the man instantly, hated because she
feared him.

“So this is the gentlewoman who turns quiet priests into turbulent
traitors! Mistress Dale, is not the thing heavy on your conscience?”

His bantering air made her shiver, for it was like the gliding of a
snake through the fern. She did not answer him.

“By my chastity, I feel sorry for that young man. For three days to eat
of the forbidden fruit, and then——”

He watched the hot blood stain her face.

“Assuredly it is a case for a rescue. Being a faithful son of the
Church, I must take it upon myself to deliver the young man from this
enchantment, that his eyes may be opened before some good Christian
hangs him. How does it feel, madam, to have made a man a murderer?”

To John Rich her eyes would have cried, “Have pity,” but Fulk de Lisle
saw no more than a handsome wench whose pride struggled with her fear.
Her pride won the victory. She remained mute before him, with a white
stillness that refused to unbend.

Fulk de Lisle’s brown eyes were smiling.

“Madam is sullen; she does not repent. Humility is good in a woman. It
seems then that I must play the father to this poor fool of a monk;
there are many ways of opening a man’s eyes. Supposing, Mistress Dale,
you were given the chance of saving this man’s life, by making a
sacrifice such as many women make with resignation, even with joy——”

She caught his meaning, and the blood seemed to congeal in her heart.
She felt cold, so cold that she shivered.

“Did God make you?” she said, hanging her head.

He laughed.

“He chose a fine sire and a handsome woman, madam, and I myself am
considered a presentable man. Even you may grant that I have my points,
if I chose to prove them.”

The power of speech died in her.

“Consider awhile. You shall be left in peace for an hour.”

He swept his red hat to her, and moved backwards through the bracken to
where John Rich stood biting his beard.

“Well, have you done?”

“I have but begun, good John; this wine is to my liking.”

Fulk de Lisle wasted no time. Martin Valliant saw men come out of the
beech wood carrying roughly shaped posts and the branches of trees, and
for a while their labor puzzled him. They were setting up a shelter or
bower halfway between the mere and the woodlands, digging the posts into
the ground and lashing the branches of the trees to them. This forest
lodge was left open toward the island, but closed in on all the other
sides with a dense wall of green leaves. Four short stakes were driven
into the floor of the lodge, and a bed of leaves and bracken made
between them.

The thing was barely finished when Fulk de Lisle appeared on the
hillside, followed by a trooper who carried a piece of white cloth
fastened to the staff of his spear. De Lisle sighted Martin on the
tower, pointed with his riding switch to the white pennon, and came down
at a leisurely pace toward the causeway.

Swartz had his eye to the loophole.

“Here comes the devil on a parley. Go down to the gate; I will keep
watch here.”

Fulk de Lisle made his way along the causeway as far as the raised
footbridge, and stood there with an air of serene insolence, as though
he had nothing to fear from arrow shot or cross-bow bolt. He was wearing
no body armor, and carried no weapon save the dagger at his side.

“Brother Martin, a word with you.”

Martin had climbed the ladder to the squint in the gate-house wall, and
he could see Fulk de Lisle’s red figure framed like a picture. The man
had courage, and knew how to use a smiling audacity.

Martin answered him.

“I am Martin Valliant. What do you want with me?”

Fulk de Lisle raised his eyes to the loop.

“Is that you, Brother Martin? I have come to speak with you as man to
man, and to reason with you over your madness. That a priest should shed
blood is very shameful, that he should shed it for the sake of a
woman——”

“I am no longer a priest.”

“Listen awhile, good sir. My Lord of Troy is a devout gentleman. He
would be willing to gloze over this midsummer madness, for the sake of
St. Benedict, even to the point of sending you back to your cell—for
discipline—and chastisement.”

“I ask nothing from my Lord of Troy.”

“You seem in a furious hurry to be hanged, Brother Martin. Listen a
little further: I will put the matter with what grace I can, even though
the thing is not as delicate as it should be. There is a certain young
gentlewoman who is a prisoner in our hands. Is not that so?”

Martin set his teeth, and made no answer.

“Your silence is sufficient. Come now, let me tell you that this young
gentlewoman is very loth to see you hanged, so loth that she is ready to
offer that most inestimable thing—her virtue——”

He paused, looking up with an ironical grin at the loop in the wall.

“Consider this great sacrifice, Brother Martin, for though it is very
flattering to myself——”

Martin’s face was as gray as the stone. He turned, and went silently
down the ladder, and began to unfasten the rope that kept the footbridge
raised.

Fulk de Lisle’s voice taunted him, but grew fainter, for he was
withdrawing along the causeway.

“Tricks will not serve you, Brother Martin. I give you till nightfall to
decide. Come out to us, unarmed, and wearing nothing but your cassock,
and your neck may be saved. The lady will pay.”

Martin let the bridge fall with a crash, and sprang to unbar the gate.
His face was the face of a devil, mouth awry, nostrils agape, his
forehead a knot of wrinkles; but by the time he had the gate open Fulk
de Lisle was across the causeway, and walking back toward the woods, and
several of Rich’s men were moving down to meet him.

Martin Valliant stood there, breathing like a man who had run a mile
uphill. He did not hear Swartz come quietly behind him and take hold of
the rope to raise the footbridge.

“No, no, good comrade; that trick shall not work against you.”

Martin turned with a sharp, fierce cry.

“Swartz! Let go of that rope! I must die out yonder—or win through.”

But Swartz heaved the bridge up, fastened the rope, and stood to face
his man.

“What! Will you be fooled by that rogue’s tongue? I heard all that I
needed to hear. He came down to try his wit on you; he prides himself on
such pretty quips and villainies.”

“Man, I am selling her, betraying her!”

Swartz struck him a blow on the chest.

“Wake—wake! Will that rouse you? To play with a man like Fulk de Lisle
one wants a skin of iron and a brain of brass. He knew that he could cut
you to the quick, drive you mad. Such things must not be.”

He pushed Martin aside, and shut the gate.

“Gird up your soul, Martin Valliant, and set your teeth. Such a coil as
this is not unwound by prayers and whimperings and such-like softness.
Be hard, man, to win. You shall fight your fight—yet.”




                             _Chapter XXIX_


Martin Valliant and Swartz went back to the tower, for a stage had been
set and the play was about to begin with the wracking of a man’s soul.

Martin leaned against the battlement, his face turned toward the great
beech wood, and his eyes fixed on the green bower that Rich’s men had
built. He had taken Swartz’s words to heart; he was hardening himself,
preparing to bear his torture without flinching and without uttering a
sound. He thought of the day when he had hung on the cross to prove
himself stronger than Kate Succory’s youth, and how the physical pain
was as nothing to this torment of the soul. Swartz sat close to him with
his back to the wall, and Swartz’s face was very grim. He had changed
sides, turned rebel; he was a good hound, and no cur.

Fulk de Lisle had vanished into the beech wood, but in a short while his
red figure reappeared. He stood leaning with one hand against a tree
trunk as though waiting for some order of his to be obeyed, and Martin
Valliant watched him with steady eyes, letting his anger gather like
deep water behind a dam.

Something white glimmered under the trees. It drew nearer, and was led
forth into the sunlight close to where Fulk de Lisle stood waiting.
Martin Valliant covered his eyes with his forearm, and Swartz, who had
put his eye to his squint-hole, rolled aside, and stared at the sky.

Martin Valliant said never a word. A new and wonderful strength seemed
to come to him; he uncovered his eyes, stood up calmly with a face that
was like a great white light. His lips moved, but no sound came.

They had fastened a rope about Mellis’s neck, and the man who held the
end of the rope had crowned himself with a wreath of wild flowers.
Another fellow who walked behind had a garland on his spear. Fulk de
Lisle’s allegory burned itself into Martin Valliant’s brain. This
beautiful nakedness was to be sacrificed to shame him.

Old Swartz was cursing to himself. He glanced up at Martin and stared in
an awed way at the man’s white and shining face.

He saw Martin cross himself.

“Some day I shall kill that man,” he said, as though he were praying; “I
shall not die till I have killed him.”

Mellis was led through the long grass to the green bower. She looked at
the ground, but once her eyes lifted to the tower with one tremulous
glance of appeal. And Martin’s soul struggled like a live thing in a
cage.

“It shall not happen!” he said. “By the greatness of God, it shall not
happen!”

The men led her into the bower and made her lie down upon the bed. One
of them tossed a riding-cloak over her. They cut the rope into four
pieces, and tied her by her wrists and ankles to the four stakes. Their
work was done; they threw their garlands on the ground, and went off
laughing and looking mockingly at Woodmere tower.

Martin was watching Fulk de Lisle, who came pacing with all the airs of
a great lord toward the place where Mellis lay.

“What a chance to shoot the red devil!”

Swartz rubbed his hands together.

“Ah! I thought so.”

De Lisle was playing a part, and his swaggering was mere whimsical
insolence. He marched up and down in front of the lodge of leaves,
pointing his toes and cocking his head, the male thing in possession. A
servant came down from the wood with a silver cup full of wine, and Fulk
de Lisle made a great parade of his drinking. He walked into the bower
and drank to Mellis, turned again, and drank to Martin on the tower. He
was in high favor with himself. Life was a dissolute jest.

Martin Valliant heard Swartz whispering to him.

“Have you come by any plan, brother?”

“Only that I am going yonder to-night.”

His face was gray and hard as a winter dawn.

“I can better that plan.”

“How?”

“They will be too much on the alert to give you an honest chance. If you
open the gate and cross the bridge they will be waiting for you. We must
make them face two ways—scare them a little.”

“Go on.”

“I have my horn with me. Picture us stripped, comrade, you with a sharp
knife, and I with my horn. We swim the moat after dark, and before the
moon is up. I creep through the grass into the woods, get around behind
the gentry, blow my horn like the last trump, and shout to my imaginary
men to cut the rogues to pieces. We must trust to them getting a trifle
ruffled. You will have to take your chance of saving the child.”

Martin stared at him fixedly.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why? Why do we eat and sleep, man? Because we must. To cheat that red
rogue over there is as natural as eating. Thunder! but I have forgotten
one thing. The girl would not be able to swim.”

Martin hid his knowledge.

“I could carry her over. That is nothing.”

“Love could carry the moon! What say you to my plan, Martin Valliant?”

Martin stooped and caught Swartz by the shoulders.

“And I was near killing you two days ago!”

“Hard blows have begun many a good friendship. My heart’s with you,
Martin Valliant.”

And so it was agreed between them, that they should try this desperate
venture when darkness came.

To Martin Valliant it seemed very long in the coming, though the shadow
of the tower lengthened itself across the water till it touched the
grassland beyond the mere. He watched the fish leaping in the water, and
the swallows skimming the surface and calling shrilly to each other. As
for the sunset, it seemed to set the earth afire and make everything
burn with miraculous color, so that the grasslands were a great green
carpet dusted with precious stones, and the beech trees all glowing with
yellow light. In that little shelter of leaves Mellis lay white and
still like a sweet saint sleeping in a tomb cut out of crystal, while
Martin Valliant’s fierce restlessness longed for all this beauty to be
blotted out. He could have pulled the sun down out of the sky, and
thrown it into the mere for the quicker quenching of the day.

Fulk de Lisle had had a seat made of sods and branches on the edge of
the wood, and he sat there like a great lord while the men built two
fires, one for themselves and one for their captains, and with the
coming of the darkness these two fires were like great red eyes under
the black brow of the beech wood. A pot was slung over the flames, and a
table set for Fulk de Lisle and John Rich, and covered with a white
cloth. The shelter of leaves lay a hundred paces or more away from the
fires and beyond the edge of the light. It showed as a dark blur on the
open grassland.

Martin Valliant had been stripping off his harness, but Swartz was still
on the watch.

“They are guarding the causeway. Fulk de Lisle would not lose his supper
for any woman. It is time we made a beginning.”

Martin gathered up his armor, and they went down into the courtyard.
Swartz was fumbling at the points of his hose.

“Curse these knots! Give me your knife, man.”

He cut himself out of his clothes, chuckling fiercely. Martin had laid
his armor and his sword beside the postern leading into the garden; he
had stripped himself of everything save his short cassock, for the thing
would not spoil his swimming, and it hid the whiteness of his body. Old
Swartz came out haired like an ape, his horn slung to his neck by a
stout cord.

“Here is your knife, man. We had best take to the water on the farther
side, and paddle across softly.”

They passed through the orchard where the grass and weeds brushed their
knees, and Swartz talked in a whisper.

“Crawl around and get as near as you can to the child. Then, wait—and
have patience. I shall have to make a wide sweep. When you hear me
blowing my horn and shouting, you must be ready to make your dash.”

Martin Valliant was grimly cool.

“I shall waste no time,” he said.

They stood for a moment to look at the two fires and the men gathered
around them. The blaze lit the trunks of the beech trees and made the
lower branches shine like brass. A man was fishing meat out of the iron
pot with a dagger. Fulk de Lisle’s red figure was the color of blood; he
had a cup in his hand and was about to drink.

“While gluttons eat, wise men are up and doing. The hour is ripe for
us.”

They struck the water on the far side of the island, where willows grew.

“Well, God’s good luck to us, comrade.”

Their hands met. Then Martin let himself down into the water, and Swartz
followed him. They paddled slowly and softly across with hardly a
splash, Martin swimming with his knife in his right hand. The mere was
as black as a well, and the willows hid them from the men who watched
the causeway.

When they reached the shallows under the farther bank they crouched and
listened. There was no shouting; no alarm—not a sound save the faint
lapping of a few ripples among the reeds and sedges. Martin climbed out,
and gave Swartz his hand. There was a thorn tree growing within a few
paces of the water, and they took cover under it before parting.

“Give me a minute’s start, Valliant. I shall make a track well out into
the open, and then turn toward the woods. God grant the mud has not got
into this horn of mine.”

He slipped away into the long grass, and Martin knew that all that he
held most dear hung on the good faith of Peter Swartz.




                             _Chapter XXX_


Martin Valliant did not tarry long under the thorn tree. He knelt for a
moment to listen, and then started on his way around the mere, crawling
on hands and knees through the rich rank grass that grew near the water.
It was wet with dew, and the brown sorrel and the great white daisies
brushed against his face. The smell of the green growth touched him like
a subtle, clinging memory. He did not think of death or wounds, but only
of Mellis and what might happen to her if he failed.

Skirting the mere, he came to the sluice ditch, all choked with shrubs
and brambles. The ditch was less than two hundred paces from the
causeway, and about the same distance from the shelter of leaves, and
Martin scrambled down and took cover in spite of the thorns and
brambles. He half stood and half lay, with his head and shoulders above
the bank, and a stunted thorn stretching a canopy above him. He could
see the two fires, and Fulk de Lisle’s red figure. Mellis’s bower lay
between the sluice ditch and the camp fires; Martin could not pick it
out of the darkness, though he strained his eyes till the lids began to
flicker.

Still, he knew where she lay, and there was nothing for him to do but to
lie still and wait for Swartz’s horn. He could feel his heart beating as
he leaned against the grassy bank. Every nerve and muscle in him seemed
a-quiver. He fingered the point and edge of his knife, and smiled.

Then a strange thought came to him. What if he failed—what if he found
the adventure hopeless?

He would die—he meant to die in such a case—but Mellis would be
living. He would go out into the great darkness leaving her alone. Rough
hands might do what they pleased with her. Fulk de Lisle would come down
full of his wine, violent and inflamed.

Martin fondled his knife. One blow, and all that would be saved. And yet
he recoiled from the thought with a spasm of tenderness and horror. To
strike that white body of hers, to hear her cry out, to know that her
blood was flowing! The passion in him hardened to an iron frenzy. He
would not fail; no strength should master him; nothing should say him
nay.

Martin Valliant had fought through those moments of a man’s strong
anguish when Swartz’s horn brayed in the deeps of the beech wood. Martin
did not wait to see what would happen. He was out of the ditch and
running through the long grass like a greyhound loosed after a hare. He
knew where the shelter of leaves should be; that was all that mattered.

And yet his senses were dimly aware of other things that were happening.
Swartz was shouting like a madman, “At them! At them! Cut the swine to
pieces!” Fulk de Lisle had sprung to his feet and was facing toward the
beech wood; his men were rushing to arms. The fellows on the causeway
had left their post and were trailing across the grass to join their
comrades by the fires.

Martin went like the wind, conscious of a wild exultation. A black shape
loomed in front of him, like a hay-cock in a field. He reached it, fell
on his knees, and crawled into its shadow.

“Mellis!”

He heard her cry out.

“Martin—Martin—oh, my comrade!”

“Don’t speak, child. I must cut those ropes.”

He groped for her right arm, found it, and cut the thong that fastened
her wrist to the stake. To free her left arm he had to lean over her
body, but the second rope was cut, and of a sudden he felt her arms
about him.

“Martin!”

Her great joy and her love would not be stifled. Her arms held him
close, and for a moment he lay on her bosom, feeling her breath on his
face, and the beating of her heart answering his.

“My own dear mate——”

“Child, it is life and death.”

He freed himself, and cut the ropes that bound her ankles.

“Come.”

She was up like a blown leaf, holding the cloak over her bosom with one
hand, and running at his side. Martin looked back at the fires.
Confusion still fooled Fulk de Lisle and his men. There was much running
to and fro and shouting under the beech trees, and no grasping, as yet,
of the trick that had been played them.

Martin felt himself touched upon the shoulder.

“You are all wet, dear comrade.”

“I had to swim across.”

She gave an exquisite, shy laugh.

“The mere is an old friend. You will not have to carry me.”

There flashed on Martin Valliant a swift new consciousness of her as a
woman, a woman who trusted him as a bird flies to its mate. A great
white light had blazed for him, lighting such an awe of her that the
very thought of touching her had seemed sacrilege. And now a miraculous
thing had happened. Her arms had held him; she was not afraid; and in
the soft darkness her eyes sought his. His awe of her melted to a deep
and exultant tenderness. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was,
that he was ready to die for her, that she was the most wonderful and
adorable thing in the whole world.

He touched her hand.

“Have no fear,” he said, “for no harm shall come to you.”

“Fear! I have no fear of you.”

“God be thanked. We have been close to the edge of hell, Mellis, you and
I, to-day.”

He heard her draw her breath as though in pain.

“Let me forget it—let me forget it.”

The mere lay at their feet, black and still and welcoming. There was no
pursuit as yet, though Fulk de Lisle was turning his eyes and his
thoughts to Mellis and the shelter of leaves.

“Blessed water!”

She stepped confidently into the mere, and went forward till the water
rose above her waist.

“S-sh! How sweet and cold it is! Martin—my cloak!”

She had folded it over her bosom and shoulders.

“There is no saving it,” and she laughed softly; “the thing must get
soaked.”

“Give it to me. I can carry it above my head.”

“No, no; something else must serve. Mother of Heaven—they are after
us—at last!”

She let the cloak drop, and left it floating as she dipped to the water
and struck out for the island. Martin caught it up and followed her,
blessing the darkness for its friendliness. He glanced over his shoulder
as he swam, and saw a dozen red lights tossing toward them over the
grassland. Fulk de Lisle had sent a man to the shelter of leaves, and
its emptiness had been discovered.

Mellis was swimming so swiftly that he had to strike out hard to
overtake her. Her arm came out and cut the water like a silver sickle,
each stroke striking a little splash of foam. Martin drew to her, and
they swam side by side.

“We shall beat them.”

“Please God. The torches will not show the farther bank.”

“How you can swim!”

“I always loved this side stroke. I could beat my brother in a race.”

Her whiteness played near him under the black swirl of the water.

“This way. The bank is low by the orchard; we can land there. That man!
I was forgetting him.”

“Swartz?”

“Yes.”

Her sudden, sensitive trepidation thrilled him. He found that he had
forgotten Swartz.

“Swartz is in the woods over yonder. He swam across with me. It was his
horn that you heard. We owe—this—to him.”

“What! He is on our side now?”

“Yes.”

“That is noble.”

They reached the shallows just as Fulk de Lisle’s torches came flaring
to the landward bank. The men could see nothing but ripples; the light
did not carry to the island. One of the fellows hurled his torch out
into the darkness at a venture. It kissed the water, threw out a
momentary radiance, and went out.

Martin was up the bank, and reaching for Mellis’s hands. They heard Fulk
de Lisle cursing.

“Martin, we have fooled them.”

She came out to him like a child, dim, dripping, exultant. Her hands
held his without shame.

“Mellis.”

He threw the wet cloak over her, but she cast it off.

“Not that clammy thing. The night is warm, and I am all aglow.”

She put up her hands, and in a second her hair came clouding down.

“What now? Dear man, they will be mad. You must get your harness and
stand ready.”

Martin was moving away when new sounds came out of the darkness of the
night. A horn blared in the woods; a man screamed in agony; there was
the noise of men running, and shouting as they ran.

Martin turned and looked across the water.

“Listen!”

Mellis was at his side.

“Did you hear that cry? ‘Richmond! Richmond!’ It is John Falconer.”

A man in armor, whose horse was half unmanageable, blundered out into
the light of the fires. It was John Rich. He waved his sword, and
shouted to Fulk de Lisle,

“To us! To us! We are attacked.”

Fulk de Lisle’s torches went tossing up the hill; but before he and his
men reached the beech wood, the fight came tumbling out like a drove of
swine. John Rich was down with an arrow through his throat, and his
horse went charging straight at the torches. Fulk de Lisle caught the
beast by the bridle, swung himself into the saddle, and snatched a spear
from one of his men.

“Troy! Troy! Hold together, lads!”

But that rough and tumble on the edge of the wood was no fitting stage
for flamboyant feats of arms. Falconer’s men poured out in a black
swarm. The fighting was at close quarters, a wild swirl of jerking and
grotesque figures, a tangle of men and horses, torches, flying embers,
oaths and blows. The fires were kicked out, smothered by the bodies of
men who fell on them, and rolled away—cursing. Torches were flung,
tossed back again, trampled under foot. There was no knightliness in the
game. It was a battle of wild beasts who were in a mad haste to kill. My
Lord of Troy’s men had raped and bullied the Forest, and the Forest was
taking its vengeance.

Mellis’s head was close to Martin’s shoulder, and his arm had slipped
about her body. Neither of them spoke. The work up yonder was too grim,
too breathless. The fires were scattered; a few torches flared in the
grass; the dance of death became a thing of darkness.

Then a horse went galloping down past the mere, a dim, hurrying shape.

“Who was that?”

Martin strained his eyes. A faint radiance was stealing over the
grassland, the light of the rising moon. The horse became a gray ghost
carrying a man who rode for safety.

“Who should it be?”

“Fulk de Lisle.”

“That devil!”

The bloody game under the black shadows of the beeches seemed to be
losing its fury. Men were calling to each other in the darkness; there
was a kind of whimpering murmur, a vague scattering of voices. Once a
man shrieked aloud, and Martin felt Mellis shiver.

“It is over. Look, you can see men running. One, two, and another—over
there, in the open.”

“Is it with us, or against us?”

“Troy is beaten. Hear them shouting—our people, ‘Richmond! Richmond!’”

“What a night, comrade, what a night!”




                             _Chapter XXXI_


A broad silver radiance spread above the black tops of the beech trees.
It was the moon rising behind the wood, throwing long slants of light
across the grasslands, and making a glimmer of mystery everywhere. The
towering shadow of the beech wood still lay upon the island and the
mere, leaving them all black in a world of tremulous white light.

Mellis drew aside suddenly, her arms over her bosom, her eyes looking
toward the tops of the beech trees.

“Martin!”

A something in her voice kept him from looking at her.

“I must become a man. This adventure has shipwrecked me.”

He was most desperately and dearly perplexed.

“Is there no cloth anywhere?”

She could not help laughing at his immense seriousness.

“Have you forgotten? Ah!”

The moon seemed to glide suddenly above the beech wood, huge, and
yellow, and stealthy. The shadows slipped away from the island; the long
grass glimmered like silver wire; the mere shone like a shield.

Mellis threw herself in the long grass.

“Have you forgotten all our gear in that cellar? If you love me,
man—hasten.”

“What shall I bring?”

“A suit of light armor, and a wadded coat—and—and—things to go under
it.”

He blundered off, calling himself the most imbecile fool that ever was;
but before he had got across the orchard he heard Falconer hailing him.

“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant!”

Martin had other matters to attend to. John Falconer could wait. But he
gave him an answering shout,

“Is that Master Falconer?”

“Aye.”

“All’s well.”

“Let down the bridge, man.”

“All in good season.”

Martin ran to the tower, groped for the ring of the great stone, found
it, and then remembered that he would need a light. The tinder-box and
the candles were in Mellis’s room. He was about to go for them when he
heard a sound of soft footsteps, and some one glided up the stairs.

“Martin!”

“I need a light.”

“The tinder-box is above. Come to me in a moment.”

He lifted the stone out, rolled it aside, and waited. He could hear the
ring of the flint against the steel, and then her voice calling to him
softly,

“Here. It is lighted.”

Martin climbed the stairs and found a candle burning outside her door.
He picked it up, holding it in one big hand and shading it as though
that flame was one of the most precious things in the world. The light
played upon his solemn face, and mirrored itself in his grave, intent
eyes. He held his breath all the way down the stairs; the flame was a
flickering soul, and he was guarding it.

So Martin lowered himself into the vault, and setting that precious
candle on a stone bracket let into the wall, he made a great disorder
among the stuff that was stored there. The idea of thoroughness obsessed
him, of not letting Mellis lack for anything that might be of use in
such a crisis. He made three journeys to the landing outside her chamber
door, and the merchandise that was piled there testified to his
sincerity. It included a suit of light mail; a woolen doublet and hose
to be worn beneath it; a belt, sword and dagger; leather shoes; an odd
piece of green cloth that bows had been wrapped in; some strips of
leather; a green and blue banner rolled in a canvas bag. He left the
candle burning there, and went down to lower the bridge for Falconer and
his men.

John Falconer had torches with him, and the causeway was a glare of
light. Martin lowered the bridge and swung the gate open; Falconer came
across.

He stared at Martin Valliant.

“Hallo! This is a queer way to go harnessed.”

“There is much to be told.”

“Is the child safe?”

“She is in her chamber. Her men were ambushed this morning, and she was
taken.”

Falconer nodded understandingly.

“You have been in the water, my friend?”

“Swartz and I swam across to rescue her.”

“Swartz? Peter Swartz?”

“He is with us now. He went into the woods to raise an alarm, while I
saved Mellis. Warn your men that he is a friend.”

Martin and John Falconer passed on into the courtyard, and the Forest
followed them with a tossing of torches, and much grim jubilation. The
men were as diverse and rustic as their weapons. Oak clubs, scythe
blades on poles, axes, spits, wooden mallets, all came dancing into the
yard of Woodmere. Many of the men had bows on their backs and arrows
stuck in their belts. Not a few were wounded. There were bloody faces,
arms that hung limp, stockings soaked all red. But the crowd was hot,
triumphant, and fiercely merry; they had tasted blood; many vile things
had been avenged.

“Look to your wounds, lads. Lay a fire, some of you. We have come far,
and no man is grudged his supper.”

Several of the Forest gentry gathered around Falconer, and looked
curiously at Martin Valliant.

“Is this the fellow?”

“He has some limbs on him.”

“But a runaway priest, gentles, is black company. What say you?”

Falconer answered them gruffly:

“And what are we but traitors, so long as Crookback wears the crown! Men
who can fight are the blood and muscle of such a venture as ours. Use
your wits, gentlemen. We are not women to tilt our noses and screw up
our mouths.”

Martin had drawn aside. He felt a stranger and almost an outcast under
the eyes of these mesne lords who stared at him and did not lower their
voices. The mysterious and solitary nights and days had vanished. He saw
Mellis surrounded by a crowd of figures, knights, yeomen, foresters.
They seemed to thrust him back into the darkness; he had served his
purpose and no one held out a hand.

He gathered up his harness from the spot where he had left it by the
gate that led into the garden, and made his way into the orchard. The
life had gone out of him for the moment; this secret and love-enchanted
island had been seized by a hundred rough fellows who shouted and
crowded in the courtyard. He did not belong to them; he was a thing to
be eyed with distrust.

The moonlight flooded the orchard, and Martin sat down under an apple
tree and began to arm himself, but there was no pride of purpose in his
hands. Bitter thoughts crowded into his heart, and he sank in a slough
of self-abasement. He had been in heaven, and suddenly he found himself
in hell. What was he but an outcast, a murderer, a thing that was
neither priest nor man? And he had believed for one short hour that
Mellis loved him. What madness! What could he be to her, or she to him?
He had mistaken a child’s gratitude for the love of the woman. The
danger was past, for she was in the midst of friends; he had played his
part, and the dream was ended.

Into the melancholy circle of his thoughts drifted a sound of some one
moving through the orchard grass. Martin was in the shadow of the tree,
and the moonlight showed him a primeval figure scouting furtively toward
the house. It was Swartz, naked, and very cold.

Martin hailed him, and the man of the horn joined him under the tree.

“God be blessed; all the devils in hell seem loose to-night! A dance I
have had of it, everyone’s enemy and no man’s friend. These Forest
worthies have been hunting me like a pig. I had to take to the water and
sit with my chin in it under the bank.”

He was shivering.

“My kingdom for a bit of lamb’s wool, brother.”

“Where did you leave your clothes, man?”

“On my lady’s table in the garden, God forgive me! But if those wild
devils get a sight of such a thing as I am—I shall have a scythe blade
between my ribs.”

Martin was in too grim and sad a mood to see the ludicrous in Peter
Swartz. He rose, went into the garden, and returned with the soldier’s
clothes.

“Corn in Egypt!”

Swartz tumbled into them, his teeth chattering.

“Hallo! those fellows are lighting a fire; they must be taught to love
Peter Swartz. And I would not quarrel with some wine and a bite of
supper.”

Martin’s melancholy was not a thing that could be overlooked. Swartz
discovered it, and ceased his prattling.

“Why, man, things did not go amiss?”

“No. She is safe.”

Swartz was trying to remedy the disastrous haste of his undressing.

“May the curse of the prophet fall on these tags and tatters! What ails
you, man?”

“Nothing.”

“Then let it be nothing.”

He stared hard at Martin, puzzled by his strange sullenness, but too
shrewd to vex it further.

“Old Falconer came in finely—like a pot boiling over. And Messire Fulk
de Lisle has gone galloping home to Troy; he passed within five yards of
me. Hallo—cheering! They are in great heart, yonder.”

Those rough men in the ruined court of Woodmere had seen a vision, for
Mellis had come out to them, clad in bright harness, her dark hair
pouring over it, a naked sword in her hands. Behind her walked John
Falconer, carrying a green and blue banner fastened to the throat of a
lance. The men crowded from the fire, and from every corner of the
courtyard. And she stood and spoke to them in a clear, calm voice:

“Good gentlemen and comrades all, I thank you for coming to me. We have
begun bravely. God speed King Harry!”

They cheered her.

“Shout, lads, for our captain.”

“Mistress Mellis—Mistress Mellis!”

“Let Roger Bland try to take ye from us.”

“Aye, and there be more of us a-comin’.”

Mellis’s eyes were restless, searching for something that she could not
see. She turned and spoke to John Falconer.

“Martin Valliant——”

Falconer shook his head. She grew imperious.

“Call him. He must be here.”

“The man may have some shame, Mellis.”

“Shame!”

She flushed with sensitive wrath.

“Shame! God forgive you. Ah! I see how things have sped!”

Falconer’s eyes shirked meeting hers.

“There may be draughts that men are loth to swallow,” he said dourly; “I
did not make the world or men’s hearts.”

She stood a moment, with dark, thinking eyes and a proud, hurt face.

“I am young—still. Oh, these jealous tangles that men weave! Must we be
little and thankless for the sake of fools?”

Mellis made her way through the crowd of mesne lords and gentlemen,
looking neither to the right hand nor the left. They stood back for her,
for she was proud, more pure in her strength than they. The moon hung
clear and white and splendid in the sky, shining on her face and the
plated steel half hidden by her hair.

“So they would think him an outcast,” she said to herself. “My scorn is
theirs for the asking.”

Some instinct led her through the garden into the orchard, where the
long grass was all patterned with the black shadows of the trees. She
stood in the moonlight, and called softly:

“Martin—Martin Valliant!”

Old Swartz crept away, a dog grown mute, and wise in his silence.
Martin’s face was all twisted with a spasm of pain, for he was fey that
night with a mysterious forefeeling of great sorrow and despair.

“Martin—Martin Valliant!”

She came down through the orchard, and Martin rose to his feet. The
moonlight through the trees shone on his harness, and betrayed him to
her. He stood absolutely still, waiting for her to draw near.

“Martin!”

Her voice had a soft, wounded plaintiveness.

“Why are you hiding here?”

His face was all somber in the shadows.

“I had a wish to be alone.”

He could not bring himself to look at her, because of the new bitterness
in his heart, and because her voice was so soft and luring.

“What has happened to you, Martin?”

She went close, looking in his face.

“Tell me. Have I no right to know?”

He answered her with strange gentleness, but his eyes would not meet
hers.

“Perhaps I have seen a vision, a glimpse of the world as it is. Some
things are too beautiful to endure, for other men break them in pieces.”

She drew her breath deeply.

“Ah! Have these rough fools touched your pride? They can have my scorn
for the asking. And are you nothing to me, or I to you? Have we not gone
through the deeps together, and have you not carried my life in your
hands? Man, what do these rough squires matter? Look into my eyes and
see if there is shame in them.”

He bowed his head.

“Mellis—what am I but an outcast?”

“Then I am an outcast also. But for me you would be chanting your
Masses. And you have been very noble and good to me. Oh, Martin, Martin!
this wounds my heart.”

He gave a sudden cry, and fell on his knees before her.

“God help me, but there is nothing else in the world but you. I cannot
bear that for my sake you should even suffer pain.”

She bent over him, her hands hovering close to his face.

“Pain! What pain is there? And were it real—should I not bear it?”

“God forbid! Child, I have a kind of dark forefeeling to-night.
Yesterday was all sunlight, there was no fear or sorrow in my heart. I
was Martin Valliant, a man who was ready to die for you. What has
happened? I feel a menace, a threat, a shadow drifting toward us; we are
not alone; other voices strike in on ours. This island is not the world;
here—I could serve you; but beyond us there are shadows, the shadows of
other men—other women; they whisper together against me.”

A great light transfigured her face. She was on her knees, her hands on
his shoulders, her eyes wonderful to behold.

“Martin, what has come to us? Oh, my dear, must I speak out?”

He looked at her, awed, trembling, entranced.

“Mellis, Mellis!”

“Is not my fate yours—and yours mine? What is pain to you is pain to
me. If there is a world of shadows before us, I go—where my man goes.”

He uttered a deep cry.

“Can I touch you? Is it possible? Will you not melt into the air? Oh, my
God! but I dare hardly look at you.”

“Martin, I am a soul in a body. What am I but a woman? Guard me—hold
me!”

His arms went around her, but they were all tremulous with awe. Her face
was close to his, a white, yearning face, with parted lips and
half-closed eyes.

“Mellis—oh, my heart!”

She lay in his arms and smiled at him as he kissed her.




                            _Chapter XXXII_


Fulk de Lisle rode all that night, a madman, inflamed, balked of the
satisfaction of a violent desire. He had nothing but the stars and the
moon to guide him; the Forest was no more than a pathless waste; he
pushed northwards, raging like a torch burning in the wind. At dawn his
horse died under him, driven by the spurs till its heart failed on the
brow of a steep hill. Fulk de Lisle kicked the beast’s body, and looked
with red eyes at a gray and silent world.

But the luck was with him—the luck of the adventurer and the drunkard.
Dim and sullen, Troy Castle stood less than two miles away on its great
hill; the rising sun struck slantwise upon it, so that it looked like a
huge turreted ship sailing above a sea of green.

Fulk de Lisle came on his own feet to Troy Castle. There was a sense of
stir about the place although the day was still so young. A couple of
dusty and sweat-streaked horses were waiting outside the gate-house;
grooms and servants were gossiping, and on the battlements soldiers were
unlashing the canvas covers of my lord’s cannon.

Some one on the walls recognized Fulk de Lisle when he was a quarter of
a mile from the dry fosse; there was some shouting and running to and
fro; a man vaulted on to the back of one of the tired horses and went
cantering down the road. He was a squire in Roger Bland’s service, a
youngster with red hair and an impudent mouth.

“Good morning to you, sir. Why this humility?”

Fulk de Lisle took him by the leg and pitched him out of the saddle.

“Thanks. I will ride the last furlong, and help you to mend your
manners.”

Red Head scrambled up and dusted his clothes. Fulk de Lisle was too
soaring a bird for him to fly at, but his impudence refused to be
chastened.

“I trust your news is better than your face, sir. Our dear lord has the
ague this morning.”

Fulk de Lisle rode on, without troubling to turn the lad’s wit.

He clattered over the bridge and into the main court, and the men who
saw him ride in stared at his savage face.

“Pride has had a fall,” said some one.

“Or been balked of a woman.”

Fulk de Lisle called a page who was loitering on the steps of the
chapel.

“Have you nothing but eyes, you brat? Where is my lord?”

“In his closet, sir.”

“Run and tell him that I am in the castle.”

Roger Bland already had the news, and his groom of the chamber came out
with a haggard face.

“My lord would see you—instantly.”

“Damnation—may not a man eat?”

The Lord of Troy sat in his great padded chair with a writing-board on
his knees, and quills and an inkhorn on the table at his side. He looked
white about the gills, with that whiteness that tells of a faltering
heart; his hand had lost its steady, clerkly niceness, and there were
blots upon the paper. He had not been barbered, and still wore a
gorgeous crimson bed-gown that made his thin face look all the yellower.

“What’s this—what’s this, man? Shut that door, Bennington. Not more bad
news?”

He was petulant to the point of childishness. Fulk de Lisle’s red-brown
eyes looked at him with veiled and subtle scorn.

“I could not make it worse, my lord. The Forest is up.”

“The Forest—in arms against us! Man—you are dreaming!”

“I am very wide awake, sir. We were ambushed last night as we lay
outside Woodmere. They must have been a hundred to our thirty. We made a
fight of it; that is all that can be said.”

Roger Bland’s face twitched.

“How many men came back with you?”

“None, my lord.”

There was a short silence. My Lord of Troy’s fingers were playing with
his quill. He looked old and querulous.

“These swine! I thought we had tamed them. There is a deeper cunning in
all this. I have had secret news this very morning. Richmond is on the
sea. By now he may have landed.”

Fulk de Lisle took the news as a soldier of fortune takes his pay.

“The King will not grudge him a battle, my lord.”

“Bombast is so easy. But to say who are friends and who are enemies!
Supposing I chose to have you hanged, sir?”

“A most unreasonable fancy, my lord.”

“And why?”

“I have risked my neck in your service. I have no quarrel with your
generosity. And my pride is concerned in this—the pride of a soldier
and a captain.”

“We shall see, sir; I may let you prove it. And now—we must strike, and
strike quickly. These letters shall go at once; they must not miscarry.
In three days we should muster a hundred spears and two hundred archers.
The falconets and serpents are to come from Roychester; Sir Humphrey
Heron will be master of the cannon. I have chosen my gallopers. Look to
the garrison, and see that our tenants are fitly armed as they come in.”

Fulk de Lisle bowed.

“My heart is in this venture, my lord,” he said; “you can trust me,
because my blood is up.”

So Roger Bland’s gallopers went out from Troy Castle, carrying letters
to Sir Humphrey Heron at Roychester, to Sir Paul Scrooby at Granet, and
to such lords and gentlemen as favored the White Rose. The rallying
place was to be Troy Castle. Naught was said of the Earl of Richmond
being upon the seas, for such news might have aroused a dubious loyalty
among the gentry of those parts, where fear ruled and the King.

“I charge you to come to me with all your might—and within three
days—for the chastening and humbling of certain rebels and traitors.”

So ran the Lord of Troy’s message. These smaller fires had to be
quenched before the great beacon burst into a blaze.

My Lord of Troy had eyes in Gawdy Town to serve him, and men were
watching to see the Rose come into port; but, seeing that she carried
merchandise that was too precious to be fingered, her master elected to
lower it overboard before making the land. The Rose came towering along
about sunset, with a mild breeze behind her. The sea was a deep purplish
blue, and the red west promised fair weather.

Her master had put the ship on a strange course. She hung out to sea
till the land grew gray with the dusk, and then, turning her gilded bows
shorewards, footed it solemnly toward the land. No one in Gawdy Town had
seen her topsails. The gossips on the quay said that she would not make
port before the morning.

Half a mile from the land the Rose backed her sails and lay to. The sky
was all blue-green above, the sea black as pitch, and the land, with its
Forest ridge, looked like a great cloud-bank. The Rose lowered two
boats, each manned by half a dozen seamen. Baggage was tumbled into them
from the waist, and about a score of voyagers left the ship.

The master stood on the poop and lifted his hat to them as the boats
pulled away.

“A good market to you, gentlemen,” he shouted.

A deep voice answered him,

“God save the King.”

The boats went shorewards at a good speed, looking like two gray beetles
on the water crawling with white legs, the foam from the oars. They
melted into the dusk, and the Rose veered and beat up against the
breeze, to play mother till her boats returned.

The baggage and the twenty adventurers were landed in a horseshoe-shaped
cove under the cliffs. Some one had been watching for them above, for a
couple of men came scampering down the steep path, one of them waving a
piece of red cloth.

“All’s well.”

The seamen pushed off and rowed back toward the Rose, but the men stood
in a group on the shingle and talked.

“The King is at sea.”

“Sure enough.”

“And the Forest is up.”

“So soon!”

“A woman as usual! They stabbed young Dale in Gawdy Town, and would have
taken his sister. So Falconer raised the Forest. Bland’s men came to
beleaguer Woodmere; we ambushed thirty of them last night, so the fat is
in the fire.”

The man with the deep voice, who seemed to be the leader, betrayed a
savage impatience. He had the hard, flat, high-cheeked face of a Mongol,
with a brutal mouth, and cold blue eyes.

“The devil fly away with all women! Young Dale was a fool to take the
wench with him, and Falconer was a fool to trouble his head about her.”

“That is not the whole story, Sir Gregory.”

“Damn your story! They have rushed matters too rashly. We may have to
fight before we are ready. Now for the baggage. Have you any horses
above?”

“Six.”

“Bustle up, then. The sooner we are knee-deep in the Forest the better.”

The baggage was carried up the cliff and lashed on the backs of the
pack-horses. The men who had landed were well armed under their cloaks.
Sir Gregory took the lead, one of the foresters walking beside him.

“Now, man, this story of yours; let us hear it.”

The forester told all that he knew concerning Mellis and her championing
by Martin Valliant.

The round-headed man was not pleased.

“Beelzebub—what a beginning! A blackguard monk is a pretty stormcock to
open the hurly-burly for us. Fools are superstitious, and I am one of
the fools.”




                            _Chapter XXXIII_


The Forest had sounded its war-horn, and the woods and heaths and
leaf-hidden hamlets gave up their men. They gathered in Woodmere valley,
foresters, laborers, charcoal burners, breeders of horses, swineherds,
and a scattering of broken men. The gentry and their tenants were
passably horsed and harnessed; the foresters had their bows; but there
was many a fellow who had no more than an oak cudgel or a scythe blade
lashed to a pole.

They brought cattle and sheep with them and tumbrils laden with sacks of
flour. Booths were built, fires lit, scouts sent to watch the woodland
ways and the gray menace of Troy Castle. The vault at Woodmere was
emptied of its arms, and a new bridge built in place of Martin’s single
beam.

As for Martin Valliant, he held aloof from the mesne lords and slept at
night across Mellis’s door.

Now the Forest was superstitious, and devout with the devoutness of
ignorance. There was no wild thing that could not happen, no marvel that
might not be believed. God, the Virgin and the Saints, the devil and his
progeny were part of the Forest life, mysterious beings to be prayed to
and to be feared. There were holy wells, wonder-working images in more
than one of the churches, places that were accursed, goblin stones,
devil’s hounds that ran by night, headless horsemen, ghosts, fairies,
haunted trees. The people of the Forest were obstinate, credulous
children. They believed all that the Church taught them, even though
many a priest spat at his own conscience.

Martin Valliant had been a priest. He had shed blood, and he slept at
night outside the door of a woman’s bed-chamber. The facts were
flagrant, fiercely honest. Your pious savage does not love honesty; he
lives in a world of make-believe; he will not quarrel with imperfections
that spue their slime in dark and hidden corners. He will even laugh and
delight in the lewd tales that are told of priests. But let some priest
be honest, shake off his vows, and declare himself a clean man, then he
has committed the unforgivable sin, and any foul sot or filthy hag may
sit in judgment upon him.

So it proved with these rough Forest gentry. Martin Valliant had sensed
things truly. That sudden shadowy foreboding had heralded a real
darkness that was spreading toward him from the mistrusts and prejudices
of these common men. They looked at the facts baldly as they would have
looked at pigs in a sty. The strange, tragic, sacrificial beauty of the
thing was lost on them. To them love was a giggling scrimmage. Their
religion was so much bogey worship, a rude mysticism that was shaped to
suit their lives.

Before a day had passed Martin Valliant found himself outlawed by a
vague and reticent distrust. He cast a shadow. The common men looked
askance at him and held aloof. The gentry were more open, and more
brutal in their displeasure; with them it was not a mere matter of
superstition; there were young men among them, and Mellis was very
comely. And this fellow had the insolence to sleep across her door.

Falconer was the only man who spoke to Martin Valliant, and it was done
grudgingly and with an ill grace.

The rest looked through him, over him, at his feet. There was no place
for Martin at the table that had been set up under a shelter of boughs
in the hall. Even Peter Swartz was better treated; he was half prisoner,
half comrade, but he drank and ate with them, diced with them, told
tales.

Martin took his meals on the leads of the tower or in the garden. His
heart grew heavy in him, and a kind of fierce sadness showed in his
eyes.

These English worthies were ready with their judgments as they sat at
table.

“The wench is mad.”

“The fellow is wearing her brother Gilbert’s harness.”

“Such a thing cannot be stomached, sirs. We lack godliness if we carry
such an unclean vagabond with us. My men are grumbling already, and
seeing a curse in the fellow.”

“Send him back to Paradise.”

“The prior will thank you for nothing. One kicks a mangy dog out of the
gate, and that’s the end of it.”

Swartz listened and said nothing. He was a rough god compared with these
boors; he had seen the world and tasted the wine of many countries, and
he knew that it is mere foolishness to step in between a clown and his
drink.

Falconer tried to speak up, but they were against him to a man.

“I choose to live with honest men, sir, not with vermin.”

Such was the Forest’s verdict.

On the second day the gentlemen of the Rose marched into Woodmere, Sir
Gregory at their head. There was much cheering, much shaking of hands.
“The King was upon the sea.” That night they drank much ale. And women
had come from Gawdy Town, bold-eyed wenches dressed as men. Some of the
wilder spirits made a rough night of it, shouting, quarreling, and
singing songs, and Mellis was kept awake by their clowning. Nor did
Martin Valliant get much sleep, for he had to take more than one drunken
man by the shoulders and prove to him that the threshold of Mellis’s
chamber was sacred ground.

The coming of Sir Gregory and the gentlemen from France made matters
more sinister for Martin Valliant. Sir Gregory was a man of violent
self-pride, obstinate as sin, and far more cruel.

He bearded John Falconer.

“A pretty chaplain you have found us! This fellow must go, or I’ll not
answer for the men.”

“We owe him some gratitude.”

“And for what? Bloodying our game for us? Dale was a fool in the
beginning, and you have been little better than his shadow. I’ll have no
women picking and choosing in my company.”

Falconer owned as rough a temper as this crop-headed bully, but he knew
that Sir Gregory had the crowd at his back.

“There is no harm done yet. I will speak to the girl.”

“What claim has the wench to be considered?”

“The claim of courtesy—and compassion, sir. Look to it, Gregory, I will
have none of the bully in you; my fist is as heavy as ever it was.”

And there the matter rested for a while.

John Falconer did not deceive himself; these mesne lords and squirelings
were no children of romance. The wars had bred a savage spirit in the
land; the middle age was dying, cruel and brutish in its decadence, and
the strong man was not there as yet to smite it down forever with his
kingly club. Martin Valliant would have to go; these men of the Forest
would not hesitate to sacrifice him.

But Mellis?

He hardened his heart, and went in search of her, and finding her in the
tower room, he shut the door and spoke out.

“Child, this man cannot stay with us; he will bring us evil luck.”

“Who sent you with that message, John?”

“The whole place is whispering it. It might have been born with the men,
but our friends will have none of him.”

She stood at her full height, calmly scorning him and them all.

“What an amazing thing is life! You come to me, and bid me turn on this
man, and hound him out as an outcast. Am I so vile and heartless a
thing, and are men so afraid of the devil that they must throw a sop to
him?”

Falconer stood his ground.

“You should know the Forest, Mellis.”

“I know the trees and the glades, the blown leaves and the sunlight, the
little streams and the deer—but its men! If these are they, I know them
not!”

“Valliant has blackened himself in their eyes.”

She flung out her hands.

“And for whom, and for what purpose? I tell you that man has the heart
of a child. I was in peril, and he succored me; I was lost, and he gave
me his all. Nay, more than his all, for in saving me he lost the good
will of God’s noble men. And you—you come to me and tell me to spurn
him, desert him, because these fools are afraid of the devil. I would
rather die than stoop to such shame.”

His face was clouded and stubborn.

“Your heart is too kind, because——”

“Ah! Speak out.”

She went nearer, her eyes dangerously shining.

“I am not afraid, John Falconer. Tell me I love this man. I do most
dearly love him, with all my heart and soul. And who shall cast a
reproach at me, or make me believe that there is any man who would have
treated me with such sweet, strong faith? I care not what men say. God
shall judge. If there is beauty and tenderness and truth in our poor
hearts, will He throw us to the dogs?”

“You are mad!” he said miserably.

“Mad! Then I would that all the world were mad! And if your law is God’s
law, then I am a rebel against God. Yes, and I would glory in it. I have
no more to say to you, John Falconer.”

He left her, ashamed, angry, feeling that tragic things were about to
happen.

As for Martin Valliant, he knew what he knew, and his heart was heavy.
He thought of the lepers in the wood of yews at Paradise, and his lot
seemed like unto theirs. Love had made him an outcast, a thing of evil
omen to be thrust away into the darkness. No one was ready to call him
brother or comrade in arms, or to pity him because the man had been
stronger than the monk.

He strove bitterly with himself and with his love, but the truth showed
him no mercy. It was like the great wooden cross on the Black Moor,
standing bleak and clear against the sunset, bidding mortals remember
that Christ suffered. He understood why these men hated and mistrusted
him, and grudged him the right of guarding Mellis.

Words were spoken that were meant for his ears.

“The monks of Paradise have earned a foul name.”

“They have reared a fine, upstanding rogue in that fellow.”

“Old Valliant’s son. A pretty mate for Mellis Dale! What shame for the
woman!”

Martin Valliant could bear no more. If his homage meant shame for her,
then it had better end.

He went in search of Mellis, but for a long time he could not find her,
and the house and island seemed full of fools who stared at him. Martin
Valliant’s humility was in the dust. Had he been a fiercer and more
carnal man, a strong and striving selfishness might have carried him
through; but the rebel spirit faltered in him when voices whispered that
the woman suffered shame because he loved her. Generous souls are always
at the mercy of the meaner and more cunning spirits. A clever lie, like
a snake crawling from the mouth of a sorcerer, has bitten many a strong
man’s heel.

Martin found his love in a far corner of the orchard where an old tree
had been blown down, but still lived and threw out green leaves. Mellis
was seated on the trunk and half among the boughs, so that she was
hidden like a bird, and discoverable only by some one who came quite
near, for the weeds and grass were rank and tall, and melted into the
green of the tree.

He stood before her, sorrowful and heavy-eyed, and she knew why he had
come to her and what was in his heart.

“Martin!”

Her eyes loved him.

“So these clowns have been pulling ugly faces.”

He answered her simply and sadly.

“It may be that the clowns are right. We live our lives among clowns; we
must not live too finely, or the clowns will be displeased. Is it not a
sin to offend even against fools?”

She left her seat on the tree and stood facing him.

“So they would drive you out—send you to beggary or death.”

“They think me accursed.”

Her hands went to his shoulders, but his arms remained rigid, and he did
not move.

“Martin Valliant, the rebel in me fights for you. Why should we truckle
to this clowns’ world? What does it know of my heart or of yours? Why,
we could go on living to the mean level of the beasts, throwing our
pearls in the troughs, forever and ever.”

“But what I was—and what I am!”

“Man, man, I love you! Is there shame or sin in my eyes? Why, there was
no true beauty in the world till we began to love each other. And am I
to disown you, send you back to your death, because these lords and
gentlemen have unclean, grudging hearts? No—by my God, I will not let
you go.”

He stood rigid, opening and shutting his hands. His eyes looked into
hers appealingly.

“But, child, they speak shameful things.”

“Let them call me all the foul names that ever were. Am I touched by
them? It is for me to choose. And I say to you that they shall not part
us. For if you love me, Martin——”

She gripped his arms, and her face lay close to his, her lips open, her
eyes full of soft gleams. Her voice was quick, passionate, and
challenging.

“For if you love me, dear——”

He stared at her, head thrown back, his eyes filling with a strange,
wild light.

“Mellis!”

“Death—what would death be? But here is life and desire—and beauty.
Oh, my heart, play me not false! They shall not take you from me!”

“Mellis—dear heart!”

He held her at arm’s length, his face transfigured.

“God help me! If this is sin—then let them write it down against me.
Why, all that I hold here, the most adorable thing in all the world——”

“Martin!”

“The beauty, the mystery of you, the white light in my soul!”

“Ah! ah! Can mortal men harm us? We will hold to each other, you and I.
Is not the whole world open, and can these so-called comrades say us
nay? Where you go, I go also.”

“So be it, child,” he said.




                            _Chapter XXXIV_


About dusk that day, as Martin was passing through the courtyard, some
one touched him on the shoulder. He turned, and found himself looking
into Peter Swartz’s face. The soldier gave a significant jerk of the
head, closed one eye, and lounged casually in the direction of the
doorway opening on the garden. The courtyard was full of men who had
been cooking and eating their supper; one side of it had been turned
into a stable; the south-east corner had become a kitchen where a huge
fire blazed. The men lay about on piles of bracken, their arms hanging
from wooden pegs that had been driven into the wall. There seemed to be
an abundance of ale. One of the women from Gawdy Town was sitting on a
saddle and singing to the men, while she thrummed her lute. Martin had
to pass close to her, and she looked at him insolently and laughed.

Martin followed Swartz into the garden. The place was so wild and
overgrown and tangled that no one troubled to enter it, save when there
was a reason for lying concealed. Swartz was waiting by the yews near
the sundial, and Martin joined him.

“A word with you, man.”

His eyes were restless and alert.

“Come this way, under the nut trees. Those sluts are still at supper,
and not looking for dark corners.”

They pushed into the tunnel of leaves and stood listening. Then Swartz
began.

“The Forest is full of swine, and I go elsewhere. Look to yourself.”

He jerked a thumb toward the house.

“Swine! I know the nature of the beasts. If I stayed here a day longer I
should have my throat slit, just to make matters certain. Dead men need
not be watched.”

He drew Martin close to him.

“Guard yourself, my friend; the pigs do not love you. If you are wise
you will come with me and leave these gentry to be hunted by my Lord of
Troy. Thunder, but what a man-at-arms I could make of you! In France and
in Italy a good sword wins much gold; they offer you a gay life, plenty
of wine, and honor to be won. These English have no souls; they are all
butchers and brewers.”

He looked into Martin’s face.

“What say you? Would she come also? Three comrades in arms! I have money
on me; you can buy any ship-master, and he will sail you to hell or
heaven. Come—what do you say?”

Martin’s answer showed on his face.

“Swartz, no man has been more brotherly to me——”

“Damnation, man, I have a sort of foolish liking for you. Good men are
rare, men who can fight, and throw the whole world over for a bit of
honor. And here they are ready to play some foul trick on you.”

“Swartz—I cannot come.”

“And why not, man? If——”

“I have a doom here to work out; I feel it in my blood. Nor would she
go—as yet.”

“Try her.”

“No; the word would come from her—if it ever came. I stay here, on
guard, her man-at-arms. I have set myself on this path, and I shall not
leave it.”

Swartz knew his man, and that he was not to be persuaded.

“One word. I shall make for Gawdy Town; I shall lie there for seven
days; if your mind changes you will find Swartz at a tavern near the
harbor, at the sign of the ‘Crossed Keys.’ Much may happen in seven
days.”

They gripped hands.

“Look to yourself, Martin.”

“There are things a man never forgets.”

“Tush! I have the soul of a soldier. Remember the ‘Crossed Keys.’”

When Martin Valliant went to his post that night outside the door of
Mellis’s room he found a drunken man trying to open her door. It was
barred on the inside, but the fellow was fumbling with the latch,
sottishly enraged and babbling oaths. Martin took him by the shoulder,
sent him rolling down the stairs, and followed to see whether he
betrayed any desire to return. The man went down the newel stairway with
absurd contortions, like a beetle rolling over and over and kicking as
he rolled. He gathered himself up at the bottom, clasped his head
between his hands, and disappeared unsteadily through the doorway.

Martin returned to the landing outside Mellis’s room, and stood
listening.

“Mellis!”

Her voice answered him from the other side of the door.

“I am here. What has happened?”

“Nothing. A clown had lost his way, and I showed it to him with some
briskness. These knights and gentlemen keep but poor order among their
men.”

He heard her sigh.

“Martin!”

“Dear lady!”

“I have a feeling of strange restlessness to-night. I know not what ails
me.”

“What is there to fear?”

He spoke with calmness, but her voice had made him think of a wind
blowing sadly in the distant woods at night, plaintive and forlorn. His
own heart was heavy in him with deep foreboding, though he would not
confess to it before her.

“Is John Falconer in the house?”

“I saw him an hour ago.”

“One friend, please God. Where is Swartz?”

Martin hesitated, and then gave her the truth.

“Escaped—or on the verge of it. He does not trust to promises—fears to
be treated as a traitor.”

“Ah! he is right. Martin, I have come by a most evil fear of my own
people; their eyes do not look straight into mine. That man, Sir
Gregory, is no friend of ours. Oh, I know; we women are quick. I feel a
shadow over us.”

He heard her move the bar that closed the door, and the rustling of her
dress.

“The shadow is mine,” he said.

“No—no.”

There was passion in her voice.

“It is the evil in the hearts of other men. I feel it—feel it like a
fog creeping into my window. And I loved this place; we were so happy,
even though death was near; I was not afraid. But now—a dread of
something seizes me.”

The bar was in her hands, and the door moved so that Martin saw a little
streak of light. His heart seemed to stand still, and then beat like the
heart of a man who is afraid.

“Martin!”

He did not answer her.

“There is danger for you—there. They might creep up while you are
sleeping. Oh! what am I saying, what is this dread that makes me a
coward? But I am not a coward, and I love you. See—you can sleep here,
across my door, so that no one can touch you.”

She threw the door open, and the gray light from her room fell upon his
face. She was all shadow, wrapped in a cloak that had been found for
her—a vague, soft outline that seemed to yearn toward him, a dream
begotten of the night, tender, mysterious.

He covered his face with his hands.

“Mellis!”

“Is there pride between us, and no sweet faith? Am I asking you to do a
shameful thing? Why, this is no more than a simple room, where I breathe
and move—and sleep. I have a great fear for you to-night; I want you
near me.”

He was silent.

“Martin, would you shame me, hold aloof as though I had tempted you?”

She caught his hands, and drew them from his face.

“Oh! I am wounded—if you have no faith!”

“Mellis!”

“Yes—wounded, to the heart! Oh! my dear love!”

He lifted her hands and kissed them almost fiercely.

“It shall be as you wish. This room is a chapel, its altar—where you
sleep.”

He was over the threshold, and freeing a hand, she softly closed the
door. Her breath came quickly, with a flutter of exultation.

“Oh, my dear lord, my man, is this not a great sacrament between us?
Now—you have made me happy; is it not strange? See—you will lie here;
there is bracken, and I will spread it; and here—is a wallet for a
pillow.”

She glided about the room with innocent joy.

“Set your sword there. Now, we are in our castle, and I have no fear.
Shall we pray, kneel down like children?”

She caught his hand, and they knelt down side by side. Their prayers
were said in silence, such prayers as save this world of ours from the
doom that it has earned.

She started up suddenly, took his face between her hands, and kissed
him.

“Dear heart, good-night!”

Mellis stretched herself on the bed, and Martin went to his couch of
bracken by the door. Neither of them spoke again, but they lay awake for
a long while, listening to each other’s breathing.




                             _Chapter XXXV_


Martin Valliant was asleep when a man crawled up the stairs, groped his
way to the closed door, lay there a moment listening, and then crawled
back by the way he had come.

A number of figures showed black about a fire that had been lit in the
center of the roofless hall. John Falconer was there, sullen,
heavy-eyed—a man who found no pleasure in looking at his own thoughts;
also Sir Gregory, skull-faced and ominous, with blue eyes that stared. A
hot posset was going around in a big tankard. These gentlemen had but
little to say to one another; they were waiting; the case had been
heard, and judgment given.

The man who had gone a-spying up the tower came and stood before Sir
Gregory.

“The priest is not this side of the door, lording.”

John Falconer’s sullen eyes seemed to catch the light of the fire.

“You lie!”

“See for yourself, Master Falconer. What’s more, he is asleep across the
door, for I could hear a sound of breathing.”

A grim laugh went around the fire. Ironical looks were thrown at
Falconer, who was frowning and biting his beard.

Sir Gregory spoke.

“Such insolence must be chastened; we must be rid of this bastard.
Hallo, there! Axes for the breaking of a door.”

A little man with a sallow face and bright black eyes stood forward.

“The room has a window, sir.”

“Well?”

“Breaking the door is a clumsy device, and this Valliant is desperate
strong. Why not use the window, gentlemen, and crawl in upon him while
he is asleep?”

“Most excellent! But will God give us a ladder twenty feet long?”

“There is no need for a ladder. Strain a stout rope over the battlement
so that it runs in front of the window, and men can slide down the
rope.”

“Well thought of.”

John Falconer appeared to rouse himself from a sort of stupor.

“Wait, gentlemen. Let no violence be done this man. He has served us,
and will suffer for it.”

“What would you, John Falconer?”

“Let him be taken, mastered, stripped of his harness and his arms, and
turned out into the woods. His blood should not be upon our hands.”

“Plausible, very plausible!”

“I stand for that—or nothing.”

Sir Gregory chuckled.

“By my soul, such a punishment is better than blows. There is a certain
subtlety about it. I put my seal to the document. Some one fetch the
rope.”

The work was done noiselessly by men who crept about on bare feet, and
without as much as a whisper. John Falconer and a dozen of his own
fellows were ready on the stairs. Four men were to slide down the rope,
enter by the window, and while three of them fell upon Martin Valliant,
the fourth was to unbar the door.

Nature willed it that Mellis and her man should sleep heavily that
night, solaced by the innocent sweetness of being so near each other, so
full of a happy faith in their great love. They slept like children,
Mellis on her bed, Martin lying across the door, his arms folded, his
naked sword beside him.

He woke to a cry from Mellis.

“Martin—Martin! Guard yourself!”

The last man to enter by the window had slipped on the sill, and
blundered against the man in front of him; and Mellis, opening her eyes,
had seen him outlined dimly against the window.

Her warning came too late. The fellows had thrown themselves on Martin
before he could rise, and had dragged him from the door. One of them
pulled out the bar, and threw the door open.

He shouted to those on the stairs, and Falconer’s voice took up the cry.

“Torches—torches! Forward! Up with you, and follow me.”

Mellis had slipped out of bed and was trying to find the sword that
Martin had brought her out of the vault. She could hear men struggling
in the room, but the light was too dim for her to see what was passing.
A horror of helplessness seized her; she shrank back against the wall,
with her hands pressed to her ears.

“Help, there—help!”

Martin had broken free and was on his feet. One man lay writhing with a
bone in his throat broken; another had been thrown against the wall and
stunned. Martin had another fellow lying bent across his knees and was
choking him, while the fourth man clung to his feet.

Then Falconer and his torches came up the stairs; the doorway filled
with smoke and glare and steel.

A sudden palsy seemed to strike all the players in that tragedy.
Valliant let go of the man whom he was throttling, while the fellow who
had been clinging to Martin’s ankles squirmed away toward the door.
Martin stood motionless, like a wrestler touched by enchantment and
turned into a statue; Mellis, her hands to her ears, her eyes two great
black circles, leaned against the wall; Falconer, with torch and sword
in the doorway, held back the men who were behind him.

Martin’s sword lay close to Mellis’s bed. His eyes looked at it, but he
did not move.

Then Falconer spoke.

“Martin Valliant, no harm is meant you. Leave the sword lying there; it
will not avail.”

Mellis’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. She moved forward into
the room, and her eyes were on John Falconer’s face.

“Traitor!”

His mouth twitched; he looked at Martin, and passed her over.

“Valliant, we captains have sworn not to keep you as one of us. It is
our right to choose; we have our reasons. No harm shall be done you; you
shall go out into the Forest—as you came from it. Take your life, man;
this room is no place for you, and no place for brawls and violence.”

Martin’s face was gray and haggard. The muscles stood out like cords in
his throat, and he drew his breath heavily. He gave one glance at
Mellis, and moved suddenly toward the door.

“Explicit,” he said, crossing his hands upon his chest. “God have mercy
on us all, John Falconer.”

The men seized him and hurried him down the stairway, nor did he resist.
In the courtyard they stripped him of his armor, leaving him nothing but
his old cassock, a girdle and a knife. He was taken across the bridge
and through the camp to the beech wood. A knight in black harness was
waiting there, leaning on his sword. One of the men gave Martin a wallet
full of food.

The knight—it was Sir Gregory—went close to Martin, and stared into
his face.

“Let us not see you again,” he said. “Go—and take your shame and your
sin away from us.”

He pointed with his sword into the gloom of the beeches.

“Show your face again, and there shall be no mercy for you, you thing of
evil omen. Go!”

And Martin Valliant went from them into the darkness like a broken man
carrying a curse.

John Falconer had cleared the men from the room, and set his torch in a
rusty bracket on the wall, where it threw a wayward, draughty flare upon
his face. Mellis stood by the window with her back turned to him, rigid,
motionless, her hands at her throat.

“There will come a time when you will thank me for this.”

She was struggling for self-mastery, and against the bitter shame that
they had thrust upon her, while her heart had gone out into the darkness
with Martin Valliant, and in a way she was desperate, robbed of her
love. She might have come through her anguish in silence had John
Falconer been less of a dull and jealous fool.

“Now get you to bed, child; there will be peace in this house.”

“Peace!”

She flashed around on him with generous fury.

“Peace—for me, when you have treated me as though I were a harlot? Oh,
you blind fools, you souls full of foul imaginings! That man was a
saint, white as God’s own self. And you have robbed me of such a love as
a man but seldom gives to a woman. Yes, he could have taken that sword
and given death to many of your curs, but there was a nobleness, a
humility, that did not touch you. He knew what was in your hearts, that
you hated him, were jealous, breathed foul lies. He besought me to let
him go. And I—I bade him stay. I would that he had taken all that a
woman has to give; yes, my very body and soul. There is the truth; I
fling it in your face, John Falconer, you sour and godly and grudging
hound!”

Her anger scorched him like a flame. He answered her hoarsely.

“It was for your sake I did it. For you are precious to us.”

“My sake! Ye gods! Is a woman’s love to be put in pawn by gray fools and
wiseacres? I tell you I am his; I shall die his; I would that he had
taken all that I had to give. And I am precious to you? Never, by my
soul! I cast you off! I am your enemy henceforth, and every man here is
my mortal foe. May disaster befall you all! May you be cut off, slain,
trampled into the earth! Get you gone out of this room; my love has
slept here, and you do foul it.”

She advanced on him, and he went back before her, covering his face with
his arm.

“You will thank me—yet,” he said.

“Nay, I shall die before I thank you,” and she closed the door on him as
he went out.




                            _Chapter XXXVI_


Martin Valliant had fallen into great darkness of soul.

The Forest lay about him, vast, silent, and mysterious; the sky was
overclouded, and the moon obscured; and life seemed like the Forest, all
black and without a purpose, a wilderness where wild beasts wandered and
outcast men hid themselves from the law.

For a while he wandered about among the beech trees like a blind man who
had lost his way, for in very truth he was blind of soul, so smitten
through with anguish that he could neither think nor pray. A stupor
gripped him, a stupor of misery and helplessness. It was as though a
great hand had swept down and put out the white light that had burned
within him; blackness, nothingness, remained.

As he went to and fro under the great trees, Martin Valliant struggled
to break through this human anguish and all this coil and tumult of
loving and being loved. He tried to stand as his old self, calm,
patient, gentle, a watcher of other men’s lives. Things had been so
quietly ordered in the old days; nothing had been able to master him, to
send him like a blown leaf whirling with the wind.

But now—what had happened? Was God mocking him, or had he been cheated
by the devil? Who was God, and who was the devil? What was this thing
that men called sin? Was life only a huge fable, a piece of tapestry,
behind which lay the burning, passionate reality, the being and
becoming, the great glowing flux of fire?

He fell on his knees and clasped his head between his hands.

Who was calling him, and why did his heart answer?

“Mellis! Mellis! Mellis!”

She was in the darkness, she was among the stars, in the leaves of the
trees, in the stillness of the night. She was light and shadow, sound
and silence, colors and perfumes; she held the round world in her hands,
and heaven was behind her eyes. He loved her, and her love was his.
Where was the sin? Where was the shame?

Martin made a cloister of the beech wood all that night, pacing up and
down between the black boles, sometimes lying prone in the dead leaves
or the bracken. He saw nothing but Mellis—Mellis white and speechless,
stretching out her hands to him, looking at him with eyes of anguish.
She was a white flame burning in the darkness, and he could see nothing,
think of nothing but her.

So Dame Nature, Mother of all the gods, led Martin to the deep waters
and showed him in their blackness the image of a woman. And into these
waters a man must cast himself naked, madman and rebel, leaving his
manifold hypocrisies behind him, stripped of the shreds and the
patchwork and the cap of the moral fool. Before dawn came Martin
Valliant had taken that great plunge. He was a rebel, naked and
unashamed, most bitterly refusing to surrender the great thing that was
his, and ready to fight for it with savage fierceness against saints and
devils, priests and men.

With the first grayness of the dawn Martin turned his face toward
Woodmere, and stealing from tree to tree, worked his way slowly through
the beech wood. There were no more than three or four great trees left
between him and the open sky, and he could see the mere lying in the
valley and the tower where Mellis had slept; the birds were singing; the
camp still seemed asleep.

Something whirred past him and struck the trunk of a tree away on his
left, and Martin threw himself flat, for he knew that a cross-bow bolt
had been loosed at him. Though he raised his head cautiously, and peered
about him, he could see nothing but the bracken below, the green gloom
of the branches above, the great gray trunks standing like the pillars
of a church. But the man who had fired the shot could still see Martin.
A second bolt whizzed over his head and buried itself in the ground.

“Run, you dog! Off with you, or the next shot shall be in your body.”

The voice came from the fork of a tree, and Martin was shrewd enough to
believe in the man’s sincerity. He sprang up, and dashed back into the
deeps of the wood, furious at the thought that Falconer had set men to
watch for him. He tried another part of the wood, but with no better
luck. This time an arrow from a long bow drove into the ground within a
yard of his feet, warning him that he was shadowed and that the Forest’s
eyes were wide awake.

Martin took the lesson to heart, and turned back sullenly into the deeps
of the wood. His wits were at work, offering him all manner of wild
hazards, and the more desperate and foolish they seemed, the more bitter
and dogged grew his resolution. He passed through the beech wood,
crossed a stretch of open grassland, and plunged into a thicket of
hollies that trailed down from the slopes of an oak-covered hill. Once
under cover, he stood at gaze to see if he had been followed, and his
shrewdness had its reward. A man in a doublet of Lincoln green showed
himself for a moment on the edge of the beech wood, scanned the
grassland, and then turned back into the woodshade as though he had no
liking for following such a wild dog any farther.

Martin cut northwards into the oak wood where the trees stood well
apart, with no scrub growing between them, their trunks rising from the
green turf. He went at the double, keeping well in among the trees,
bearing westwards along the hill that bounded Woodmere valley in the
north. His need of a weapon asserted itself, for he had nothing but his
knife, and coming across a young holly growing straight and clean, he
felled it after five minutes’ hacking with his knife. With its boughs
and top trimmed off, it made a heavy and notable club, and he went on
with it on his shoulder, and in a temper that boded ill for any man who
should give him battle.

It took Martin Valliant the best part of an hour to cast a half circle
around Woodmere valley and approach it from the other side. A hazel
copse proved friendly; he crawled into it, and plowed his way cautiously
through the green cloud of branches. The copse ended in a great bank of
furze that poured down the hillside like a flood.

Martin Valliant had the whole valley spread before him, all wet and
washed with the morning’s dew, the sunlight slanting down on it with the
calm beauty of a summer morning. Smoke rose straight and blue from the
camp fires; the mere shone like glass; the tower, with its
lichen-stained walls, was the color of gold. But if the woods and the
valley breathed peace, man plotted war, and all the green hill beyond
the water was astir with men running to arms.

Falconer and the Forest lords were preparing to march. Each captain was
rallying his company, and there was much shouting and hurrying to and
fro. The swarm of figures in their reds and greens, russets and blues,
sorted themselves and gathered to their pennons and banners like a
pattern of flowers. There were the archers, with bows on their backs,
and bills in their hands; the common crowd of footmen with their pikes,
partisans, scythes, axes, and oak cudgels; the gentry and their servants
mounted and sheathed in steel, their lances rising straight and close
together like pine trees in a wood.

Martin Valliant marked a little group of riders sitting their horses
apart from the rest. They numbered about twenty lances, and a man in the
midst of them carried a banner of blue and green. The sunlight
splintered itself on their harness; they looked big men and stoutly
armed, chosen for a purpose.

Two riders were crossing the grassland from the direction of the mere,
and Martin Valliant’s eyes filled with a hungry, yearning light as he
watched them. One was a woman, the other a man. The woman was
distinguishable by her hair, that hung loose upon the suit of light
harness that she wore, and by the cloak or apron of green fastened about
her waist. She rode a white horse. The man, John Falconer, had her
bridle over his arm. She was a prisoner. The twenty lances were to serve
as her guard.

Martin Valliant knelt and watched her, leaning on his holly staff, his
eyes shining like steel.

The trumpets blew. A swarm of archers and mounted men went scattering
into the beech wood and were swallowed up by its shadows. The massed
“foot” began to move in columns, like fat, brightly colored caterpillars
crawling up the hill. The gentlemen and men-at-arms followed, with
jogging spears and a glittering of harness. Last of all rode John
Falconer, Mellis, and her guard.

Martin Valliant sprang up, and held his staff aloft as though
challenging them. Then he turned back into the woods, a divine madman
hunting an army.




                            _Chapter XXXVII_


Sir Gregory’s scouts had been watching Troy Castle, and my Lord of
Troy’s spies had had their eyes on Woodmere. Both parties were kept well
victualed with news; but Sir Gregory was no better than a round-headed
butcher, a mere bullying, blasting Englishman, ever ready to think his
enemy a fool; whereas Roger Bland had an Italian shrewdness and an
imagination that made him something of a coward. A clever coward is
worth any number of bull-headed fools. And in this game of hide-and-seek
my Lord of Troy was too subtle and too cunning for the Foresters. He saw
to it that they had false news, and no real knowledge of the power that
he could bring against them.

Scouts had galloped back to Woodmere, greatly exulting.

“Troy is on the march. Fifty archers and a hundred men-at-arms. They
have cannon with them. We can eat them up, lordings all.”

Such was the news, and the Forest captains rose to it, and set their
trumpets blowing. But Roger Bland was no such facile fool. Sir Gregory’s
scouts had watched Troy Castle, and the roads leading to it; they had
reported faithfully, counted their men with honest precision, accurately
judged the enemy’s strength. Yet no one appeared to remember that there
might be another cloud in the sky, hidden from them by the tree-tops and
the hills. My Lord of Troy had blundered, belittled the forces against
him! He had marched out and camped for the night on Bracknell Plain with
his cannon and a hundred and fifty men. That was how Sir Gregory and his
captains viewed it, and they rushed out to attack my Lord of Troy,
meaning to catch him on the march.

Roger Bland had not hurried himself. He was still camped on Bracknell
Plain, though the sun had been up some hours. And that camp of his was
very cunningly placed, with three great open woods sending out leafy
capes within a quarter of a mile of it, good cover for an ambuscade. His
camp had a rampart of brushwood and sharp stakes; his cannon were loaded
and ready, the gunners lying beside them; his archers squatted behind
the brushwood; gentlemen and men-at-arms were in full harness and ready
to mass their spears. The horses were tethered outside the camp, half a
furlong away; a sharp look-out was being kept. My Lord of Troy had
baited his trap and sat down to wait for his prey.

It was a league and a half from Woodmere to the edge of Bracknell Plain,
and Sir Gregory had halted his companies under cover of a heathy hill
and waited for his riders to come in. John Falconer had the rear-guard,
and Sir Gregory jogged back to speak with him, and to look with lustful
eyes at a woman who was very beautiful.

“We should have good news, John. And how doth our sweet Mistress like
the morning?”

Mellis had dismounted and was sitting in the heather, white, dark-eyed,
and sullen, holding herself proudly because of these men and of the
shame they had put upon her.

She did not look at Sir Gregory, or answer him.

“Tut, tut! Our sweet comrade is still wroth with us, John. Women are
unreasonable.”

Falconer growled at him.

“Let the wench be! We have flayed her pride, and she hates us.”

A squire, very hot and dusty, came cantering down on them.

“News, sir—news!”

“Out with it.”

“My Lord of Troy is still camped on Bracknell Plain. They have not
stirred, sir. Their horses are unharnessed, their sentries pushed out no
farther than a furlong.”

“Ye gods! This Roger Bland was never a soldier. Why, we shall be on them
before they can get to horse. Come, sirs, come.”

Away in the woods Martin Valliant was seeing strange things. He had
followed the march of Sir Gregory’s men from Woodmere, and when they had
reached the rolling heaths that led up to Bracknell Plain, he had drawn
away among the pine thickets so that he could watch them without being
seen. His course had led him toward one of those strips of woodland that
jutted out into the plain toward my Lord of Troy’s camp, an open wood of
beeches and Scots firs. The place seemed silent and empty, full of deep
shadows and splashes of sunlight that played on the bracken and the
trunks of the trees.

Then of a sudden he saw something that made him drop down in the bracken
like a bird when a hawk is hovering overhead. A knight in armor was
riding his horse through the wood. He reined in and remained motionless,
spear on thigh, red plume trailing under the branches. He wore a red
tabard embroidered with gold; his horse’s harness was of red leather
studded with brass; his spear was painted black, and a bunch of white
roses had been tied to its throat.

Martin, lying flat on his belly, grew aware of a strange, tremulous
stirring in the deeps of the wood. It was as though some great monster
were moving, ponderous and slow, the earth and the trees quivering as it
moved. There was a shrilling of steel and the snorting of horses. The
knight in the red tabard held up his spear, and the wood seemed to grow
silent.

Martin had blundered into the midst of a mystery. He crawled backwards
through the bracken, keeping his eyes on the knight in the red tabard;
but that gentleman was staring through a woodland window out upon
Bracknell Plain, and Martin Valliant escaped unseen.

He lay for a while in a little dell, resting his chin on his hands, and
staring at the seed pods of the wild hyacinths that had carpeted the
ground. The wood remained silent, save for the screaming of a couple of
jays, yet Martin guessed that the red knight was no solitary adventurer,
but the leader of a great company that was lying hidden among the trees.

What of Sir Gregory and the men of the Red Rose? Were they pushing
blindly into an ambush, and if so—what would come of it? A grim
impartiality guided Martin’s thoughts; he cared not which beast devoured
the other, provided Mellis was not harmed; he was a thief ready to
snatch the precious plunder while these gentry fought. The inspiration
was obvious, and stirred him to action. He crawled to the edge of the
wood, followed it southwards for a short distance, chose a tall fir, and
swarmed up it, leaving his club lying in the grass.

The tree forked above thirty feet from the ground, and Martin wriggled
up and out along one of the limbs till he was part of the pine needles,
like a crow in its nest. The fir gave him a superb view. He could see
nearly the whole of Bracknell Plain, my Lord of Troy’s camp, even Sir
Gregory’s troops massed in the hollow behind the hill. This live map
puzzled him for a moment; he was thinking of the red knight in the wood,
a sinister figure, the wizard who could conjure forth a dragon of steel.

Martin had his eyes on Sir Gregory’s forces, when he saw one of the
columns push forward up the hill with a scattering of dark figures
running on ahead. Sir Gregory was sending on his archers to sow arrows
and disorder in my lord’s sluggish camp. The gentry and men-at-arms
followed at a walk, moving on the farther side of the footmen, and ready
to break into a charge when the archers had done their work. Last of all
came Mellis’s guard, a knot of steel-clad figures with Falconer and
Mellis in the midst.

Martin turned his eyes on my Lord of Troy’s camp. It looked amazingly
still and unconcerned, the sentries standing to their arms in the midst
of the heather. This carelessness seemed astonishing to the man who was
watching those armed masses surging up the blind side of the hill. But
the very foolishness of that seemingly casual camp flashed the meaning
of it all into Martin Valliant’s mind. It was not my Lord of Troy who
was in dire peril, but those hot heads who were streaming to the attack.

For many a year the Forest had good cause to remember the battle of
Bracknell Plain. It began with the rush of Sir Gregory’s archers over
the hill, and a rattling shower of arrows into my Lord of Troy’s camp.
Yet these arrows did but little damage, for the White Rose bowmen had
thrown up a wall of sods behind the line of brushwood and were lying
under cover, while the heavily armed knights and gentry could trust in
their harness. The foresters fired flight after flight of arrows into
the camp, shouting and leaping like madmen, for not an arrow shot came
in return.

Sir Gregory, who rode over the hill with his men-at-arms, saw his
archers shooting furiously, and heard them cheering as though the
victory were won. He did not pause to consider the question, but
thinking my Lord of Troy’s men too panic-stricken even to run to their
horses, he set his riders at the gallop and charged down upon the camp.
His footmen were to follow and to end the business when he and his
“spears” had broken in and scattered the enemy.

Then Martin saw puffs of blue smoke belch out from behind the brushwood,
and heard the roar of my lord’s cannon. The archers sprang to their feet
and poured a flight of arrows into the charging “horse.” The cannon shot
tore into the mass; the arrows struck the horses. A great confusion
followed, as of a wave of water meeting a wall; horses and men were
down; the whole company faltered, broke, tangled itself into a whirl of
disorder. Arrows came stinging down on them, for the shooting was fast
and easy so far as my Lord of Troy’s archers were concerned.

A thunder of hoofs in the wood behind him, a screaming of trumpets, and
out galloped the red knight with a torrent of steel at his back. The
charge was superb, terrible, carried out like a whirlwind. It bore down
on Sir Gregory’s disorder, crashed through and over it, wheeled, and
headed for the mass of footmen who had halted in a palsied crowd on the
edge of the plain. My lord’s archers and footmen were running out to
complete the overthrow of Sir Gregory’s horse, to cut throats and to
take prisoners.

The battle was over in twenty minutes; it became a wild slaughter, a
scattering of death and despair over Bracknell Plain. Sir Gregory’s
“foot” had turned and run, throwing down their weapons as they fled over
the heather. And Martin Valliant had come swarming down his tree, picked
up his club, and started to run toward the rout as though he had lost
his senses.

He had seen John Falconer and his men-at-arms halt on the open plain and
stand watching the battle as though it was neither their business to
fight nor to fly. None the less, the disastrous issue had pricked their
consciences; they had moved forward tentatively, faltered, and thought
better of such heroism; moreover, they had a prize to guard, and John
Falconer had kept his head. But fate and Fulk de Lisle did not will it
that they should escape the slaughter on Bracknell Plain, and Martin had
seen the red knight and some fifty of his lances wheel and gallop down
on Mellis’s guards. De Lisle’s men opened out and enveloped the little
group before it could escape over the edge of the plain.

That was the reason of Martin Valliant’s madness and his wild dash
across the heather. Fortune was with him in a sense, for he came through
the butchery and the turmoil without being struck down by my Lord of
Troy’s men. There was a space of calmness between the main rout and the
fight that was going on between John Falconer and De Lisle, but the
tussle was over before Martin drew near. Falconer lay dying from a spear
thrust through the body; his men were down or had surrendered; De
Lisle’s riders tossed their spears and cheered.

Then Martin saw a sight that made him stand stone still and set his
teeth. The group of steel-coated figures parted, and from the midst of
them came riding the red knight, leading a white horse by the bridle.
Martin Valliant saw Mellis drooping in the saddle, her hair falling over
her face, her hands hanging as though she despaired.

The red knight did not turn toward my lord’s camp, but rode calmly away
over the plain toward the woods in the distance. No one followed him or
the woman on the white horse. His men knew that Fulk de Lisle was not to
be meddled with when he followed the chase and the game was a stag or a
woman.

Martin Valliant started running again, his face all white and twisted.
But a certain cunning saved him from throwing his life and his hope
away. He doubled sharply under the brow of the hill, caught a riderless
horse that was standing nosing the heather, mounted, and urged the beast
to a canter, keeping to the lower ground out of sight of the riders from
Troy.

When he was well clear he turned upwards on to Bracknell Plain, the
reins in one hand, his hollywood staff in the other. The white horse and
the red tabard showed a mile away over the heather, and Martin followed
them with the grimness of death.




                           _Chapter XXXVIII_


Fulk de Lisle rode for a mile without troubling to glance back. He was
in great good humor, and trying to raise some color in the face of the
girl beside him. She looked dazed, beaten, her eyes empty of all light,
her hands gripping the pommel of her saddle.

“Why so sad, sweet mistress? Am I not as good a man as any fellow
yonder, and better than our friend the monk? I have won you on a fair
field.”

Her eyes glanced at him with furtive dread.

“I know not who you are.”

He put up his vizor and she knew him by his eyes, bold, brown, and
merciless.

“Ah!”

Her frank horror angered him, and he reached out and twisted his hand
into her hair.

“What! Shall I have to tame you, teach you what manner of man I am? What
others have had I will have also.”

“Beast!”

Her pride rose at his challenge.

“Let me go, or I will throw myself out of the saddle.”

“And be dragged by the hair, my shrew! No, no; such tricks will not
serve. I have taken my prize, and this time I shall not be balked of
it.”

She knew her own helplessness, and constrained herself to try other
weapons.

“Let me go. You are hurting.”

“Is the fault mine? Smile at me, you jade, and look not so sick and
passionless.”

She contrived to smile, hating him the more for it.

“That’s better—much better. Why, I have taught many women to love me,
but love does not last, wench; that is why men should marry for a month
and no more.”

He let her go, and glancing back over his shoulder, he reined in with
sudden fierceness. The white horse, checked so roughly, swerved and
showed temper.

“Stand still, you beast! Hallo! what have we here?”

Mellis saw what Fulk de Lisle saw, and her face flamed like a sunset.
Martin Valliant had drawn up to within a quarter of a mile of them, but
he was holding his horse in and following them with a certain grim
leisureliness. This eastern part of Bracknell Plain was an utter
wilderness; they had left victory and defeat far behind; nothing moved
over the heather.

Fulk de Lisle caught a glimpse of Mellis’s face with its shining eyes
and its rich rush of tenderness. The droop had gone out of her figure,
and her throat had regained its pride.

He laughed with malicious insolence.

“What is this, my lady? A beggar in a black smock? I am in no temper to
give alms to-day.”

He spurred on his horse, and jerked Mellis along with him. It was his
spear that had broken itself in John Falconer’s body, and he felt to see
that his sword was loose in its scabbard. Mellis noticed the act, and
smiled strangely. Ahead of them towered the fir woods of Amber Holt,
dark and silent, like a great green cloud across the blue. Dense gloom
lay behind the tall straight trunks, and bracken foamed at their feet.

She glanced back over her shoulder, and realized that Martin had no
harness. He had drawn nearer, and she could see that he carried some
sort of weapon on his shoulder. Fear for him darkened her eyes. What
chance had he, a naked man, against this steel-coated swashbuckler with
his sword and dagger?

She hated Fulk de Lisle—hated him with such intensity that he turned
his head sharply and met her eyes. Even his vanity could not misread the
look in them.

“So! Madame has a tender heart? You white-bosomed jade!”

He drew the white horse in, hooked an arm around her neck, and forced
her face close to his helmet.

“Look in my eyes, wench. Yes, our friend can see this pretty picture. If
he meddles with me I shall kill him; somewhere over yonder in the fir
woods. Then we shall be alone together, you and I, and you will give me
all that I desire.”

She strained away from him.

“Beast! Be not so sure!”

He laughed.

“What—a fool of a monk with a club! I know that sort of clumsy savage.
It will be mere murder.”

But she would not betray her fear.

“Have it so. Strange things happen—even to kings.”

Martin saw all this, and his wrath blew like a north wind. He had
guessed the name of the red knight and knew the man with whom he had to
deal. It would be no easy business, setting about this notable sworder
and captain with nothing but a green holly stake, but somehow Martin had
no doubts as to how the battle would end. His cold fury was so intense
and so fanatical that it resembled a fate that was not to be stayed or
turned back.

Fulk de Lisle and Mellis were nearing the fir woods, and Martin put his
horse at a canter and drew up within fifty yards. De Lisle had no spear;
that was something in Martin’s favor, though his long sword would be
deadly enough in so strong and cunning a hand. Martin had a shrewd
notion as to how he ought to fight the man; if he could dismount him and
get to close grips De Lisle’s heavy armor would make him clumsy and
slow.

The shadows of the firs swept over them, and they were in among the
crowded trunks, riding down a narrow track that seemed to lose itself in
the distant gloom. Martin drew closer, teeth set, his heavy truncheon
ready on his shoulder.

Fulk de Lisle turned in the saddle and looked back at him. He had drawn
his sword.

“My friend, be warned in time. Turn back, or I shall kill you.”

Martin said never a word, but drew closer, his eyes shining in a
dead-white face.

De Lisle had every advantage, but there was a woman at his side, and he
did not respect her courage or her hatred as he should have done. The
white horse was close to his, and of a sudden Mellis twisted sideways,
threw her arms about De Lisle’s body, and held to him desperately.

“Martin—Martin!”

Martin kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, leaning forward and
swinging his club. De Lisle had got an arm around Mellis’s body. He
dragged her around on to his knees, struck her savagely in the breast
with the pommel of his sword, and flung her down under her horse’s feet.
He brought his horse around just as Martin charged him, and gave his
enemy the point; but Martin had been waiting for such a trick, and
slipping down under his horse’s flank, he let Fulk’s blade gash his
shoulder.

His own horse blundered into De Lisle’s and staggered the other beast.
Martin slipped clear, and got in a blow that made the swashbuckler reel
in the saddle. De Lisle struck back at him, and Martin, guarding, had
his staff cut clean in two. He sprang in and up, got a grip of Fulk’s
swordbelt and wrist, and dragged him out of the saddle.

De Lisle’s sword flew out of his hand, and the two men lay struggling
like wild beasts under the horses’ hoofs. De Lisle’s harness bit into
Martin’s flesh, his spurs gashed him, but Martin felt no pain. The fight
was for the swashbuckler’s poniard, already half drawn from its sheath.
Martin came uppermost, one hand gripping De Lisle’s wrist, the other
thrust under the vizor of his helmet. De Lisle struck at him furiously
with his gadded glove, and then tried to tear Martin’s hand away from
his eyes.

But Martin was too strong for him; he had lived a cleaner life, and his
muscles won in the tense balance of such a struggle. Neither man seemed
to move for half a minute, both bodies rigid, straining against each
other. Then De Lisle’s hand was jerked from the handle of his poniard,
and Martin had clutched it and drawn it from its sheath.

Fulk de Lisle knew what was coming. He rolled to and fro, lashed out
with his mailed fists, tore at Martin with his spurs; but his heavy
harness cumbered him, and his breath was gone. Martin struck three times
at the man’s gorget before the plates gave, and the poniard drove deep
into the swashbuckler’s throat.

Two more such blows, and Fulk de Lisle twitched, gave a wet cry, and lay
still.

Martin struggled up, panting, battered, running with blood. He looked
around for Mellis. She had been leaning against a tree trunk, her hands
clasping her bruised bosom, watching that death struggle with eyes that
saw love and life fighting for her and for her honor. Her man was
wounded. He would need her now.

She ran to him, eyes full of soft lights and shadows, pitying his
wounds, and not shrinking from his bloodiness.

“Martin! Oh, brave heart!”

She caught his face between her hands and kissed him.

“Mellis!”

“Was there ever so fine a man as mine? And your wounds, your poor
shoulder! Now it is that my hands can be of use.”

She made him lie down at the foot of a tree, spreading her own cloak for
him. Her horse carried saddle-bags, so did Fulk de Lisle’s, and the two
beasts were nosing each other as though to protest that a man’s quarrel
was not theirs. Mellis took them by the bridles and tied them to a tree,
unstrapped the bags, and laid them on the grass. In her own she found
some clean linen, in Fulk de Lisle’s a bottle of wine.

Martin Valliant lay on his back, white and faint, his eyes staring
dreamily at the flickering sunlight in the fir boughs overhead. A great
lassitude had fallen on him—a sweet indolence. His manhood surrendered
itself into the hands of a woman.

She came and knelt by him.

“Now—your shoulder. That must be mended.”

She had drawn the wooden spigot out of the stone bottle.

“Wine is clean and good. Lie still.”

The wound was washed with red Bordeaux, wiped clean, and swathed in the
bandages torn from her piece of linen. Then she raised Martin’s head and
made him drink, looking at him with eyes that glimmered mystery.

He caught a strand of her hair and laid it against his lips.

“What more could a man ask of life?”

She smiled, and brushed her cheek against his hand.

Presently Martin sat up and looked about him, at the dead man, the
horses, his own ragged cassock, and his spur-torn legs. They were
burning as though he had fallen into the fire, and he knew that his face
had been cut by the gads on De Lisle’s gloves. A pretty object he must
look to her, and yet her love was like a soft light around him.

“A swim in the Rondel would not come amiss.”

“To-night, perhaps.”

He took the wine and the rest of the linen from her, and rising, went
away among the trees. He bathed his face with the wine, swathed his legs
with the linen, and put his hands ruefully through the rents in his
cassock. It seemed to be hanging by shreds, and his skin showed in a
dozen places.

“Martin!”

He rejoined her, looking very solemn, but she was holding up a rich red
cloak that she had unstrapped from De Lisle’s saddle.

“This will serve.”

She tossed it to him, and he flung it over his shoulders and tied the
laces.

“A new color.”

“And no ill color either.”

Mellis picked up her own green cloak and fastened it so that it made her
look more of a woman. She blushed, and gave Martin a shy, laughing
glance.

“This man’s gear does not please me. I shall have to thieve or borrow.
And, alas! all the world has gone against us.”

De Lisle’s red figure lying there stark and still made them remember the
peril that threatened them. The Red Rose was in the dust; the Forest was
but a hunting ground for my Lord of Troy and his riders; the gallows at
Troy Castle would bear deadly fruit.

Mellis’s eyes darkened, and her face lost some of its soft, rounded
light.

“God help us! This has been an ill day for the Forest. And yet—they
were my enemies!”

She stole a glance at Fulk’s body.

“Let us go, dear comrade. We have no friends now—save each other. How
dark this wood is!”

“Where would you go?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Ah! what a question! Where? Into the deep woods with the wild things,
and so somewhere where our faces are not known. I would live a little
while yet, Martin, for life can be sweet—now.”

He looked at her strangely.

“Yes; you are too beautiful to die.”

The horse that Martin had ridden had wandered off into the wood, but
Fulk de Lisle’s was at his service. Moreover, the dead man’s sword and
dagger might have their uses, and for the better carrying of them Martin
took Fulk’s belt and buckled it about him.

“I like it not,” he said; “but necessity is our master.”

He helped Mellis to her saddle, unfastened the horses, and mounted Fulk
de Lisle’s. Then he hesitated, looking into Mellis’s eyes, for he knew
not where to turn.

“Which way?”

“On through the wood. Thanks be to God, I was born in the Forest.”




                            _Chapter XXXIX_


Mellis knew the ways, and through all the heat of the day she guided
Martin southwards toward the Rondel river, picking up the wild tracks
and never faltering in her choice. They kept to the woods, and avoided
the open heaths, sometimes following a brown stream that flickered under
the green shadows and leaving it when it left the woods. Not a living
creature did they see save a few deer far down a deep glade, a hawk
searching for food, and once, a gray-green snake basking on a bank in
the sun.

A gloom seemed to have fallen on the Forest, and even the young foliage
looked darker, heavier, less bright with the freshness of spring. The
open woods were full of a listening sadness, a mysterious expectancy;
for Death was out, Death and the Lord of Troy. Yet Mellis was touched by
no such melancholy, no sinister forebodings; her man’s life was in her
hands, her eyes were keen and watchful; danger gave a sparkle to her
beauty; the day’s need steadied her heart.

Martin Valliant watched her, and marveled. He forgot his wounds in
looking at her forest-shaded face with its clean, clear comeliness, its
alert, proud self-trust. There was nothing more wonderful than her eyes
and the way they filled with light when meeting his. Their color seemed
so elusive, changing from blue to black, and sometimes they were all
a-glimmer like water touched by the sun. He looked at her lips, her
white throat, her hair, the hands that held the reins, and had to tell
himself that she was his. Every part of her seemed a piece of
enchantment. She was so fair in his eyes that the thought of touching
her seemed sacrilege.

He found her smiling at him shyly.

“Have we lost our tongues, dear man?”

“So much has happened, and you——”

“And I?”

“Sometimes I think that you do not belong to this world, that you will
vanish away.”

She looked at him intently, curiously, for it seemed to her that his
mood foreshadowed some solemn and subtle fancy that was working in his
heart. He desired her, and yet did not desire her. The glamour of a
mystical self-renunciation was not dead in Martin Valliant.

“I am flesh and blood, God be thanked for it.”

He half closed his eyes.

“I see more than that.”

She colored.

“See the woman in me. For it is the man in you that has made me dream
dreams.”

They rode in silence for a while, but both were conscious of a listening
tenderness, a mysterious and unsolved unrest.

“Martin?”

He glanced at her gravely.

“Life and Death march on either side of us. We have to take thought for
to-morrow and to-morrow’s morrow. It will not be easy.”

She saw his eyes grow dark and deep.

“Nor is life easy, child. I hold your soul in pledge, and this place is
full of our enemies. And what am I but a broken man, an outcast?”

“You are my love,” she said simply.

He did not speak for a moment, and there were lines on his forehead.

“Is God satisfied? Does He look on us as two children? I could show Him
my heart—without fear—and yet——”

“Well?”

“I could die and not be afraid. But life is yours, and the beauty and
the sweetness thereof, and where is the chalice for such wine? Are my
hands fit to carry it?”

“I ask for no other hands. Let God judge.”

Martin rode at her side, sunk in deep thought. He had not forgotten
Peter Swartz and the inn of the Crossed Keys at Gawdy Town. Life and
liberty might lie that way, escape from the vengeance of my Lord of
Troy, and from the curses of the brethren of Paradise; but it would be
at the cost of exile, of wanderings in a strange land. Was Mellis made
for such a life? Was not her very beauty too rich and perilous?
Moreover, all hope had not vanished for her out of England; Richmond was
on the seas; the Red Rose might yet out-flower the White.

Mellis was waiting on his meditations. Her mind was most obstinately
made up; she was no green child or the victim of fanciful tenors; life
had taught her much; the rough wisdom begotten of her adventures had
been wedded to the sure instincts of the woman. Martin Valliant was her
man; he was strong, and could keep her from the hands of other men, for
she had no waywardness, no wish to change her lovers. Some women are
born to be courtesans, but Mellis was not one of them.

“Still thinking, Martin?”

He hesitated, and then told her of Swartz, and the inn at Gawdy Town.
Her eyes brightened.

“Good Swartz! Good comrade! Why, that is a plan worth trying when
matters look so desperate. The men of Gawdy Town have no great love for
my Lord of Troy.”

Martin looked at her in astonishment, for the brave adventurousness of
her face betrayed no fear of the future.

“Mellis. Have you considered?”

“Everything. More than you can guess, dear lad. Why, I am wiser than you
are, and tougher in the ways of the world. We should find ourselves in
France, taking the open road, sleeping in all manner of odd places,
sometimes begging, sometimes singing for pay. The great vagabond life!
But Swartz was right. Strong men soon jostle free, get a higher seat
than their fellows. I have wandered; I know what can be done. Martin
Valliant was born to fight and to rule.”

But she had not won him yet. His mystical love still glimpsed
self-sacrifice, renunciation.

It was before they came to the Rondel river that they sighted a
forester’s cottage in a deep hollow under the woods. Mellis knew the
place, and after scanning it awhile turned her horse toward it.

“Jeremy Marvel lived there—a good fellow. He may sell us what we need.”

She smiled at Martin’s blank face.

“Yes. I have a little money. I am quite shrewd, good sir. I kept it
under my bed at Woodmere, and a little money is the best friend in the
world.”

They rode down to the cottage and found it deserted, for Jeremy Marvel
had sent his wife and babes across the river before marching to Woodmere
with his bow. Martin had to force the door, and Mellis abetted him.

“The place will be burned or plundered, so let your conscience be easy.
And Jeremy had many a good thing from my father.”

Their needs were simple, food and raiment, and they found both. Mellis
went smiling into the little bed-chamber, and the great cupboard there
gave a plain russet gown, a hooded cloak, rough hose, and a pair of
shoes. She flung a green doublet and gray woolen hose out to Martin, and
shut herself into the good folks’ room. Fulk de Lisle’s red cloak was
stuffed up the stone chimney, and Martin found one of brown kersey to
replace it, hanging on a nail beside an oak press.

When Mellis came out to him she was the laughing country wench in
russet, her hair tied with a green ribbon, her feet in rough shoes.
Martin’s raiment kept hers company. He had discovered a green cloth cap
with a raven’s feather stuck into it, and the thing hid that still too
obvious tonsure of his.

“Good-day to you, Goodman Martin.”

He looked at her dearly.

“Fine clothes do not make the woman.”

“That is rank heresy, dear man; but if it contents you, I will not
complain.”

The larder gave them bread and honey, and Martin went with a pitcher to
the well. They sat down at Jeremy Marvel’s table, and when they had
ended the meal, Mellis left a piece of silver there to quiet her own
conscience.

“I doubt whether it will ever reach the poor clown’s pocket.”

Which was true, for Jeremy Marvel lay dead on Bracknell Plain.

Before they sallied Mellis took some linen from the press for the
dressing of Martin’s wounds. Moreover, a loaf of bread was useful
plunder, though Martin had found bread and meat and half a spiced cake
in Fulk de Lisle’s saddle-bag. Mellis also insisted on his taking the
pitcher.

“Sling it to your saddle. We may bless it to-night.”

The sun was low in the west when they struck the Rondel flowing between
two broad stretches of wild grassland—grassland that was all white with
ox-eyed daisies. They had to follow the river for a while, searching for
a ford where ruffled water marked the shallows. Mellis’s eyes were
watching for a cairn of stones that had been built by a hermit a century
ago to show the depth of the river in winter.

She pointed it out at last.

“I thought that I had not strayed.”

The stretch of sand below the bank was smooth and unscarred; no one had
crossed by that ford for many days, and Mellis uttered a cry of relief.

“This is the nearest way to Gawdy Town, and we are the first over. We
shall be there before the news of Bracknell Plain. That comes of being
bred in these parts.”

They splashed across, and let their horses drink before climbing the
farther bank. The grassland south of the river rose in great green
sweeps to touch the wild woods east of Bloody Rood. A soft breeze sent
patches of wavering green moving over the silver of the feathered grass
tops and the flowers. Here and there a lark rose from its nest, or a
plover went wheeling and complaining.

A gradual silence had fallen on Martin Valliant. As the sun sank low and
the light grew more mysterious, his mood seemed to deepen toward a
passionate and wondering mysticism. He saw Mellis in a glamor of gold,
and his love bent toward a solemn sadness. A deep pity for her touched
him—an infinite tenderness. She became for him a symbol, a beautiful
pure child too wonderful to be sacrificed to the common life of the
world. A new awe of her stole over him, and he was afraid. What was he
that he should take her and her love? What could he offer her? What had
he to give? Surely she was not made for the rough pilgrimage that might
be his, and he could not trade upon her generous courage.

Moreover, Martin Valliant fell to a sudden stroke of superstition. Would
he not carry a curse? And would not Mellis be entangled in it? He might
bring her a great unhappiness, dim all the radiance of her youth and
desire. What right had he to join her life to his? There was such a
thing as “right of sanctuary”; he could lodge here in some religious
house where she would be safe till the times proved themselves, and the
land turned again to peace. He would have been honest with her and with
himself; bitter wounds would heal; God could not say that he had sinned
against her.

The green half-light of the woods seemed in sympathy with this mood of
his. He would not let himself look at Mellis, for he was afraid to meet
her eyes.

“My man is weary?”

She challenged his silence, watching him with steady eyes. But he would
not confess to her, and she had to puzzle out the meaning of his sudden
melancholy. Mellis asked no questions, grew silent in turn, nor was she
long in discovering to herself the thoughts and emotions that troubled
him.

Perhaps she had foreseen this generous obstinacy of his, counted on
having to combat it, for women fly from hill to hill while men labor
through the valleys.

The woods thinned about them, and they found themselves in a soft, green
glade on the brow of a high hill, with the sunset shining in on them,
and bits of blue forest visible in the distance. Mellis reined in. She
was beginning to gather the subtle threads of life into her own hands.

“Here is our camping ground. It will serve us for to-night. We passed a
spring five minutes ago, a spring of clear water.”

She dismounted.

“To-morrow night we shall be in Gawdy Town, if no one says us nay.”




                              _Chapter XL_


Martin Valliant unsaddled and unbridled the horses while Mellis took the
pitcher and went down to the spring.

She did not hurry herself, but walked slowly through the bracken and
under the full shade of the trees, her eyes looking into the distance as
though she were deep in thought. Once or twice she smiled, and pressed
her hand over her heart. Her face had a soft white radiance, a
mysterious glow beneath the skin.

The spring was the beginning of one of the forest streams, a brown pool
that overflowed and trickled in a green and oozy dampness down the
hillside. The clear water lay like a mirror, reflecting the branches and
the fragments of blue sky overhead. Mellis knelt down and gazed at
herself in the pool. She was very fair, with dark and desirous eyes, and
she loved herself for Martin’s sake. Her hair came falling from under
her hood, and one strand touched the water, stirring a faint and
transient ripple.

Mellis filled her pitcher and went back to the glade. The west was a
glory of gold, the light smiting the trees and spreading a yellow glow
upon the grass. The distant forest vistas were all purple, shading into
a violet horizon. Somewhere a blackbird was singing to his mate.

She saw Martin Valliant sitting at the foot of a great oak, and staring
at the sunset. The slanting light touched his face and made it shine
with a strange yet somber fire. So absorbed was he that he did not see
Mellis coming through the bracken. The two horses were cropping the
grass; saddles, harness, and saddle-bags lay piled under Martin’s oak
tree.

Mellis caught a deep breath, and laid a hand upon her bosom.

“Martin—Martin Valliant!”

Her voice was very soft and challenging. Martin turned, looked at her
strangely, and stood up.

“Dreams!”

Her eyes were full of light.

“Yet men must live by bread.”

She set the pitcher on the grass, opened the saddle-bags, and spread
their supper on the grass. Martin stood and watched her, mute, frowning,
like a man breathless from a sudden pain at the heart.

“Mellis!”

“Dear lad?”

“I have been thinking.”

She went on calmly with her work, cutting the bread with a knife she had
brought from Marvel’s cottage, and spreading honey upon the slices.

“What troubles you, Martin?”

He did not answer for a moment. She knelt, looking up at him; the
obstinate anguish in his eyes betrayed to her all that was in his heart.

“Come, you are tired; you shall eat and sleep.”

She spread a cloak and made a rest of one of the saddles, talking the
while as though no love-crisis threatened them.

“I know what it is to be weary, to feel that death might take you, and
you would not care. Then one falls down under a haystack and sleeps, and
in the morning the sun is shining, and the world seems young again. Wine
and water, cooked meat, bread and honey and a spiced cake! Let us be
thankful.”

He lay down some two paces from her, propping himself on one elbow and
not using the saddle that she had fetched to serve as a rest. His eyes
avoided hers. Mellis had spread the slices of meat on a great green dock
leaf, and she held out the dish with both hands.

“Eat, and then you shall talk to me.”

It was a silent meal, but Mellis had her way. She did not trouble him
with words, or by watching him with questioning eyes. He was like a
restive horse, or a thing in pain, to be soothed and calmed and rescued
from its own restlessness. Her mood seemed as calm and as tranquil as
the brown dusk that was beginning to fill the woods while the western
sky still blazed.

When they had ended their meal she knelt up and drew the linen out of
her saddle-bag.

“The light is going. Come here to me, Martin.”

He looked at her almost with fear.

“What would you?”

“That wounded shoulder must be cared for. You will carry the mark of it,
always, for my sake.”

He did not move, and she went to him on her knees, reaching for the
pitcher and the wine. He raised a hand as though to repulse her, but she
put it gently aside.

Yet all the while that she was busy with his shoulder he sat with bowed
head, silent, brooding, not even wincing when she cleaned the raw wound,
and poured in wine. His eyes stared at the grass; the only pain he felt
was the mystical anguish that her soft hands caused him.

“There!”

She knelt facing him of a sudden, her eyes looking steadily into his
face.

“Now, you may speak to me, Martin Valliant. There can be no silence
between us. Tell me all that is in your heart.”

His head seemed to sink lower.

“Are you afraid of me, Martin—you who would fear no man? What am I but
a woman?”

“It is the woman I fear.”

“Oh! man—man!”

He answered her sullenly.

“I was on the way to sin against you. What am I but an outcast? What can
I give you?”

“What do I ask of life?”

“It is I who must ask for you, think for you, face God for you.”

She caught his hands.

“Martin, look into my eyes.”

He obeyed her.

“Tell me, what do you see in them?”

His face shone with a strange light.

“I see—something—something that is too good and great for me, a sacred
thing that I must not touch.”

She drew her breath deeply.

“Oh, my man, what has come to you? Will you not think of me as the
woman, the woman to be saved from other men?”

“Mellis!”

His voice was hoarse, and she felt the muscles in his arms quivering.

“Yes, you cannot shirk that truth. But what is in your mind? You spoke
of Swartz and Gawdy Town.”

He steadied himself.

“That is ended. Is there no right of sanctuary in the land?”

“Sanctuary?”

She had begun to tremble a little.

“The nuns of Lilburn Minster are good women; you could take sanctuary
there—till the times mended. No man could harm you.”

“Martin, you are offering me death!”

“Death?”

“Oh, man—man! Have we not suffered enough together? Are you turning to
stone? Is it for my sake? I would rather die than do this thing! My
heart will have none of it!”

He bowed his head over her hands.

“May I be strong—for your sake!”

“Strong—to wound me—to the death.”

She let go of his hands, drew aside, and knelt staring at the grass.

Presently she spoke, and her voice accused him.

“Are you but a child, Martin, soul blinded, the fool of visions? Life
cannot go back. Things happen; it is like the dawn of the day, the birth
of a flower. You cannot stay the sun from rising, or bid the sap not
flow in the tree. And you have made me love you. I have spoken. Would
you put the truth in me to shame?”

He rose up, leaving her kneeling there, and his face was a mist of pain.

“Mellis!”

“It is the truth. It is in your hands.”

He stood staring at the fading west.

“God, speak to me! Let me listen for a voice. Give me
strength—strength.”




                             _Chapter XLI_


He began to walk up and down the glade as though he were in the
cloisters at Paradise, and Mellis did not hinder him or try to persuade
him any further.

She rose up, put the food that was left back into the saddle-bags, and
took the horses down to the spring to drink. When she returned to the
glade Martin Valliant was still walking up and down, his hands gripping
the bosom of his smock. He did not look at her, and his face had grown
gray in the dusk.

Mellis fastened the two horses to a tree for the night, and taking Fulk
de Lisle’s sword, she set about gathering bracken. The western sky was
streaked with amber, and the light was growing dim; yet as Mellis used
the sword a faint glimmer shone from it, like the glimmer of a star. The
bracken was all feathery blackness under the great trees, falling to the
sharp blade as she swung it from right to left. The sweet, wild scent of
the fern was like a plaintive memory. The sword made hardly a sound as
it cut through the tall stems.

Martin had paused, and was watching her. She showed as a dim figure in
the dusk, with white face and hands. And even this strange labor of hers
seemed part of the mystery of the Forest and of life, so much so that he
felt enveloped by it, caught in some enchantment. What was she doing?
And why did every act of hers take on a strange significance?

He saw Mellis set the sword in the ground, and gather up a bosomful of
bracken. She came past him as he stood, and her eyes were dark and
inscrutable. She threw the bracken down under the oak tree, and went
back for more. Then Martin understood.

A shiver of emotion went through him; he found himself trembling at the
knees. What a silence was this about them! What a falling of the night!
What secrecy! What enchantment! The sunset had died on the hills;
nothing but a faint afterglow remained, and above the trees the stars
were beginning to shine.

Martin moved to and fro, but all his thoughts were with Mellis, and her
gathering of the fern. She had taken the sword and had cut more bracken.
The thick green riding-cloak that had been strapped behind her saddle
served to carry the stuff; she spread the cloak on the ground, piled
bracken on it, drew the two ends together, and carried the bundle to the
oak tree. Mellis made a dozen such journeys to and fro, till she had
built up a deep bed of the soft green fronds.

Martin saw her spread her cloak on the bracken and set Fulk de Lisle’s
sword in the ground at the head thereof.

He turned away, and as he turned she called to him.

“Martin, are you still thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And it is all so simple!”

He heard her sigh, and his heart smote him.

Then she said:

“I am lonely. And I still have a fear that in the night men will break
in and take you away.”

“If God wills it, it will be so,” he answered her with obstinate
sententiousness.

She sat down on the bracken, untied her hair, shook it free, and began
to comb it with a little ivory comb that she took from her gypsire. It
was growing very dark now, and the stars were bright between the trees.
Martin strode up and down, discovering a new torment in her silence, and
in the darkness that seemed to be taking her from him. He could see her
white hands moving, but her face was hidden by her hair.

“Mellis!”

He spoke to her at last, but she did not answer him.

Martin went nearer, trying not to be troubled by her silence.

“Mellis!”

A passionate whisper came back to him.

“You are breaking my heart. What does it matter? You shall not hear me
humble myself again.”

He slunk away, threw himself flat on the grass, utterly shaken and
distraught. The silence of the Forest seemed heavy in his ears, for he
was listening for some sound from Mellis, and he could not even hear her
breathing. A kind of fury seized him. He tore up handfuls of grass,
pressed his mouth against the earth. Why was this agony being thrust
upon him? Had he not tried to deal honestly with his own heart? And he
had wounded Mellis, humbled her, turned away from her love as though it
were a poor thing easily abandoned. She was beginning to hate him; or
perhaps her pride would never forgive.

What could he say to her? Should he leave her while she slept? But that
would be cowardly; he could not desert her till she was in the midst of
friends.

He sat up, staring toward where she was, for he thought he had heard a
rustling of the bracken. But it was so dark now that he could not see
Mellis, only the vague outline of the great tree with the stars studding
the sky over it.

Of a sudden Martin stopped breathing, every fiber of him tense and
strained. It was not the rustling of the bracken that he had heard. The
sound grew louder, less smothered, as though it was too bitter and
poignant to be stifled. Mellis was weeping—weeping as though the pain
could not be borne.

Martin began to tremble. All his blood seemed to be rising to his
throat.

Then he uttered a strange, sharp cry, and went blindly through the
darkness.

“Mellis!”

He was on his knees beside her. She was lying on her face, her arms
spread out.

“Mellis, I can’t bear it. Oh! my love!”

She twisted around, threw her arms around him, and cried:

“My man! My most dear!”




                             _Chapter XLII_


A brisk breeze blew from the sea over the marshes north of Gawdy Town,
turning the willows that grew by the banks of the Rondel a soft gray,
and making a great flutter among the aspen leaves. The reeds bowed and
swayed in the dykes. The purple shadows of the clouds raced over the
marshland meadows where the red cattle stood knee-deep in the lush
grass. Gawdy Town itself spread its ruddy roofs to the evening sunlight,
and flashed its vanes and flèches against a summer sky.

Along the road between the dykes came Mellis and Martin Valliant,
trudging it on foot, their horses left wandering in the Forest. They
looked like a country couple, Mellis in her rough shoes and russet gown,
Martin in Lincoln green, a cudgel on his shoulder, and a couple of
saddle-bags slung from it. He had thrown Fulk de Lisle’s sword and
dagger into the Rondel, for such fine gear did not suit the cut of his
clothes.

Mellis’s face seemed to shine with an inward light, and when Martin
looked at her it was with eyes that said that she was the most wonderful
thing in the wide world. He marched with a slight swing of the shoulders
and a more adventurous carriage of the head. His manhood had lost its
monkish distemper. Mellis had rescued him, and made him the lord of his
own youth.

So they came to Gawdy Town, just before sunset and the closing of the
gates. Women and children were coming in from the meadows and gardens
without the walls, carrying baskets of flowers and herbs; there were
wenches, too, who had been out milking, stepping along with pails of
milk hanging from the yoke chains. Old gaffers toddled along the road,
gossiping about swine and the hay crop. Not a soul had heard a whisper
of the battle of Bracknell Plain.

Mellis and her man entered the north gate with this stream of milkmaids,
children, gardeners, and farmer folk, and no one said them nay. The
porter had his face buried in a black jack as they passed, and Mellis
laughed and glimmered her eyes at Martin.

“That fellow is a good Christian. He sees only that which God meant him
to see.”

Bells were ringing in Gawdy Town, bells great and small, for the people
of Gawdy Town loved their bells. They were a folk, too, who delighted in
color, on the fronts of their houses, in their signs, and in their
clothes, and there was not a richer town in all the south. The great
street between the gates looked as though it had been garnished for a
pageant; the plaster fronts of the houses were painted in reds and blues
and greens and yellows; many of the barge-boards of the gables were
gilded; the people who filled the streets were a chequer of moving
color, a gay and buxom crowd delighting in scarlets and bright greens
and blues. Women leaned out of the windows and gossiped across the
street, showing off their stomachers and the sleeves of their gowns.

Martin Valliant had never seen such a sight before. He shouldered a way
for Mellis, trying not to stare at all these strange people, and at the
quaint signs, and the rich stuffs in the shops. Some one blundered
against his wounded shoulder, and he was not so meek over it as he would
have been a month ago.

“Are they holding a fair in Gawdy Town?”

Mellis glanced at him mischievously.

“I sent a herald forward, dear lad, and they are looking for us. This is
but an ant-heap after all. Some day I will show you Rouen and Paris.”

“A quieter street would please me. Where is this Inn of the ‘Crossed
Keys’?”

“I know it, down by the harbor. This way.”

She turned aside into a dark and narrow lane, where the gables of the
houses nearly met overhead. Lines festooned the alley, carrying all
manner of garments hung out to dry. It was a lane of slatterns, and of
dirty children playing in the gutters, and the smell of it was not
sweet.

“How does this please my lord?”

“I would sooner sleep in the woods.”

She drew close in under his arm.

“And so say I. A clean attic at the ‘Crossed Keys’ will serve. Pray God
old Swartz is there.”

The lane led them down toward the harbor, where the painted masts and
tops of the ships showed above the town wall. Here were the shops of the
ships’ chandlers, and the place began to smell of tar and the sea. There
were yards full of timber, spars, anchors, casks, old iron, chains,
oars, gratings, lanterns, and pumps. A rope-walk ran along the town
wall, with pent-roofs for the storage of cables. The taverns and inns
were for the men of the sea, boisterous houses full of strong liquor and
loose women and foreign ship-men who were handy with their knives.

The Inn of the “Crossed Keys” lay a little way from the harbor and next
to “Little Spain.” It was a solid and orderly inn, and no “stew” house;
men of substance and many merchants lodged there in their comings and
goings, and for the ordering of their affairs. No man had ever been
found stabbed in the “Crossed Keys,” nor had a robbery ever been
committed there within the memory of any living gossip.

Dusk was falling when Martin walked into the inn yard and asked for the
master. An old fellow with white hair and a lame leg came out of the
parlor, buttoned up in a sober black cloak, and with a black velvet cap
on his head. He looked more like an Oxford clerk than an innkeeper, but
his eyes were shrewd enough in his smooth, debonair face.

Mellis was waiting in the shadow of the stairway leading to the gallery
around the yard. The old man’s eyes did not fail to see her. He looked
straight at Martin as though he had weighed him from shoe-latchet to
cap.

“Next door, my lad. ‘Little Spain’ is the place for you, I gather.”

Martin knew nothing of “Little Spain,” and his soul took no offense.

“This is the ‘Crossed Keys’?”

“It has been called that these fifty years.”

“Is there a Peter Swartz in the house?”

The old man blinked his bright eyes, glanced right and left, and poked
his nose into Martin’s face.

“Of the name of Valliant?”

“I am Valliant.”

“Tsst! Not so loud! I am at your service. Come this way, Master
Valliant, and you, madam. Up the stairway; yes—yes—the gentleman is
here; to the right, if you please, and down that passage. Let me pass,
sir; I know the door.”

The room into which he showed them was a private chamber, hung with
green arras and lit by a couple of candles set in tall pewter sticks on
the oak table. A man sat at supper, with a meat pasty, a jug of wine,
bread, cheese, and fresh fruit heaped up in a bowl before him. He was
making himself a salad of herbs when the door opened and the old man
poked his head into the room.

“Master Valliant, sir!”

Swartz threw the wooden spoon and fork on the table and stood up.

“Ye gods, this is magnificent!”

The old man closed the door on Mellis and Martin Valliant, and they
stood before Peter Swartz like a couple of shy children. Then Martin’s
arm crept over Mellis’s shoulders. She was red as a rose, but her eyes
looked proudly at Peter Swartz.

That most magnanimous soldier of fortune scanned the faces of the pair
before him, smiled, gave a wag of the head, and filled a glass with
wine. He bowed to Mellis, raised the glass, and drank to her.

“Madam, I pledge you my homage. I am, and shall always be, your devoted
servant. As for this fellow——”

He stepped up to Martin, smiling, and gave him a blow on the chest.

“Here is a man who has learned the greater wisdom. Good comrade, shake
hands with me; the whole world is ours.”

Swartz went to the door, and shouted for the old gentleman in the black
gown.

“Mine host, mine ancient and most sweet angel, more wine here, and
platters, and more light.”

The wine came, also two more candles, and a rush-seated chair for
Mellis. Swartz was in a joyous mood, and the shy yet exultant faces of
these two young people filled him with an amused delight.

“Come—sit you down. The place of honor for Madam Mellis. Russet and
green, two good colors; friend Martin there has been fighting, a
sword-thrust through the shoulder—eh? Take off your cap, man; there are
no spies here. And now for the news; I’ll tell mine afterwards.”

It was Mellis who told the tale of their adventures as far as the
slaying of Fulk de Lisle, Martin watching her with a rapt look, and
forgetting that there was food on his plate. She had nothing to say of
the journey to Gawdy Town, but Swartz had but to look at their faces to
know that Martin had played the man.

“So the old Fox of Troy was too cunning for your friends. Well,
well—what is it to be—France and the open road, service with some fine
Frenchman or a rich Italian, and our friend Martin here becoming a great
captain with a helmet full of gold pieces? This wet island has wearied
me. I can show you sunny lands and a world of adventure.”

Martin’s eyes watched Mellis’s face.

“I am but a beggar,” he said simply.

She looked at him dearly, and then at Swartz.

“We have twenty gold pieces, Martin and I. I carried them about with me,
and hid them while we were at Woodmere. They are here—in a leather
purse.”

“Shrewd wench—and great lady! Martin, my man, you may do the fighting,
but you should leave all else to your wife. She will be wiser than any
Lombard. Well, old Swartz can put his hand on fifty gold pieces, and I
brought a little plunder away with me that night I left the island.
These English drink too much, and some one must have missed a suit of
harness and a couple of horses. Old Master Hilary here has bought the
horses, and Martin can have the harness. Why, we are ripe and ready for
sword-hire, and there is a ship sailing to-morrow for France.”

He leaned over and filled the drinking cups.

“Here’s to our good fortune, and the Knave of Hearts. Give me the gay,
vagabond, generous, fighting life. Here’s to you, madam, and here’s to
Martin Valliant, and here’s to old Peter Swartz! Martin, my lad, I’ll
make you the finest sworder and swashbuckler this side of Rome.”

He grew quiet when he had had his jest with them, and it was Mellis who
spoke for Martin and herself.

“The life will be rough, but I do not fear it. My man will guard me, and
I shall be his mate. What are riches, and acres—and a lordly house? The
sun and the green earth are for all, and youth goes where it pleases.
Let the old folk count their cattle, and warm their hands at the fire.”

She looked at Martin, and he nodded.

“I will do good deeds—with the sword,” he said; “let us go out into the
world and see the great cities. A man was given eyes to see with.”

Swartz raised his cup.

“And a heart—to love with! Oh, brave youth, never to grow old in the
same bed, and to cross the same dull doorstep day by day! Here’s to the
wander life—here’s to adventure! Assuredly I must get me a wife, and
there shall be four of us. Peter Swartz is young again; God be praised!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without
note. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

[End of _Martin Valliant_ by Warwick Deeping]