The White Company
“Not whilst I can stand between you,” cried Alleyne, springing before
the bowman. “It is shame and sin to see two Christian Englishmen turn
swords against each other like the frenzied bloodthirsty paynim.”
“And, what is more,” said Hordle John, suddenly appearing out of the
buttery with the huge board upon which the pastry was rolled, “if either
raise sword I shall flatten him like a Shrovetide pancake. By the black
rood! I shall drive him into the earth, like a nail into a door, rather
than see you do scath to each other.”
“'Fore God, this is a strange way of preaching peace,” cried Black
Simon. “You may find the scath yourself, my lusty friend, if you raise
your great cudgel to me. I had as lief have the castle drawbridge drop
upon my pate.”
“Tell me, Aylward,” said Alleyne earnestly, with his hands outstretched
to keep the pair asunder, “what is the cause of quarrel, that we may see
whether honorable settlement may not be arrived at?”
The bowman looked down at his feet and then up at the moon. “Parbleu!”
he cried, “the cause of quarrel? Why, mon petit, it was years ago in
Limousin, and how can I bear in mind what was the cause of it? Simon
there hath it at the end of his tongue.”
“Not I, in troth,” replied the other; “I have had other things to think
of. There was some sort of bickering over dice, or wine, or was it a
woman, coz?”
“Pasques Dieu! but you have nicked it,” cried Aylward. “It was indeed
about a woman; and the quarrel must go forward, for I am still of the
same mind as before.”
“What of the woman, then?” asked Simon. “May the murrain strike me if I
can call to mind aught about her.”
“It was La Blanche Rose, maid at the sign of the 'Trois Corbeaux' at
Limoges. Bless her pretty heart! Why, mon gar., I loved her.”
“So did a many,” quoth Simon. “I call her to mind now. On the very day
that we fought over the little hussy, she went off with Evan ap Price,
a long-legged Welsh dagsman. They have a hostel of their own now,
somewhere on the banks of the Garonne, where the landlord drinks so much
of the liquor that there is little left for the customers.”
“So ends our quarrel, then,” said Aylward, sheathing his sword. “A Welsh
dagsman, i' faith! C'etait mauvais gout, camarade, and the more so when
she had a jolly archer and a lusty man-at-arms to choose from.”
“True, old lad. And it is as well that we can compose our differences
honorably, for Sir Nigel had been out at the first clash of steel; and
he hath sworn that if there be quarrelling in the garrison he would
smite the right hand from the broilers. You know him of old, and that he
is like to be as good as his word.”
“Mort-Dieu! yes. But there are ale, mead, and wine in the buttery, and
the steward a merry rogue, who will not haggle over a quart or two.
Buvons, mon gar., for it is not every day that two old friends come
together.”
The old soldiers and Hordle John strode off together in all good
fellowship. Alleyne had turned to follow them, when he felt a touch upon
his shoulder, and found a young page by his side.
“The Lord Loring commands,” said the boy, “that you will follow me to
the great chamber, and await him there.”
“But my comrades?”
“His commands were for you alone.”
Alleyne followed the messenger to the east end of the courtyard, where a
broad flight of steps led up to the doorway of the main hall, the outer
wall of which is washed by the waters of the Avon. As designed at first,
no dwelling had been allotted to the lord of the castle and his family
but the dark and dismal basement story of the keep. A more civilized or
more effeminate generation, however, had refused to be pent up in such
a cellar, and the hall with its neighboring chambers had been added for
their accommodation. Up the broad steps Alleyne went, still following
his boyish guide, until at the folding oak doors the latter paused, and
ushered him into the main hall of the castle.
On entering the room the clerk looked round; but, seeing no one, he
continued to stand, his cap in his hand, examining with the greatest
interest a chamber which was so different to any to which he was
accustomed. The days had gone by when a nobleman's hall was but a
barn-like, rush-strewn enclosure, the common lounge and eating-room of
every inmate of the castle. The Crusaders had brought back with them
experiences of domestic luxuries, of Damascus carpets and rugs of
Aleppo, which made them impatient of the hideous bareness and want of
privacy which they found in their ancestral strongholds. Still stronger,
however, had been the influence of the great French war; for, however
well matched the nations might be in martial exercises, there could be
no question but that our neighbors were infinitely superior to us in the
arts of peace. A stream of returning knights, of wounded soldiers,
and of unransomed French noblemen, had been for a quarter of a century
continually pouring into England, every one of whom exerted an influence
in the direction of greater domestic refinement, while shiploads of
French furniture from Calais, Rouen, and other plundered towns, had
supplied our own artisans with models on which to shape their work.
Hence, in most English castles, and in Castle Twynham among the rest,
chambers were to be found which would seem to be not wanting either in
beauty or in comfort.
In the great stone fireplace a log fire was spurting and crackling,
throwing out a ruddy glare which, with the four bracket-lamps which
stood at each corner of the room, gave a bright and lightsome air to the
whole apartment. Above was a wreath-work of blazonry, extending up to
the carved and corniced oaken roof; while on either side stood the high
canopied chairs placed for the master of the house and for his most
honored guest. The walls were hung all round with most elaborate and
brightly colored tapestry, representing the achievements of Sir Bevis
of Hampton, and behind this convenient screen were stored the tables
dormant and benches which would be needed for banquet or high festivity.
The floor was of polished tiles, with a square of red and black diapered
Flemish carpet in the centre; and many settees, cushions, folding
chairs, and carved bancals littered all over it. At the further end was
a long black buffet or dresser, thickly covered with gold cups, silver
salvers, and other such valuables. All this Alleyne examined with
curious eyes; but most interesting of all to him was a small ebony
table at his very side, on which, by the side of a chess-board and the
scattered chessmen, there lay an open manuscript written in a right
clerkly hand, and set forth with brave flourishes and devices along the
margins. In vain Alleyne bethought him of where he was, and of those
laws of good breeding and decorum which should restrain him: those
colored capitals and black even lines drew his hand down to them, as
the loadstone draws the needle, until, almost before he knew it, he
was standing with the romance of Garin de Montglane before his eyes, so
absorbed in its contents as to be completely oblivious both of where he
was and why he had come there.
He was brought back to himself, however, by a sudden little ripple of
quick feminine laughter. Aghast, he dropped the manuscript among the
chessmen and stared in bewilderment round the room. It was as empty and
as still as ever. Again he stretched his hand out to the romance, and
again came that roguish burst of merriment. He looked up at the ceiling,
back at the closed door, and round at the stiff folds of motionless
tapestry. Of a sudden, however, he caught a quick shimmer from the
corner of a high-backed bancal in front of him, and, shifting a pace
or two to the side, saw a white slender hand, which held a mirror of
polished silver in such a way that the concealed observer could see
without being seen. He stood irresolute, uncertain whether to advance or
to take no notice; but, even as he hesitated, the mirror was whipped
in, and a tall and stately young lady swept out from behind the oaken
screen, with a dancing light of mischief in her eyes. Alleyne started
with astonishment as he recognized the very maiden who had suffered
from his brother's violence in the forest. She no longer wore her gay
riding-dress, however, but was attired in a long sweeping robe of black
velvet of Bruges, with delicate tracery of white lace at neck and at
wrist, scarce to be seen against her ivory skin. Beautiful as she had
seemed to him before, the lithe charm of her figure and the proud, free
grace of her bearing were enhanced now by the rich simplicity of her
attire.
“Ah, you start,” said she, with the same sidelong look of mischief,
“and I cannot marvel at it. Didst not look to see the distressed damosel
again. Oh that I were a minstrel, that I might put it into rhyme,
with the whole romance--the luckless maid, the wicked socman, and the
virtuous clerk! So might our fame have gone down together for all time,
and you be numbered with Sir Percival or Sir Galahad, or all the other
rescuers of oppressed ladies.”
“What I did,” said Alleyne, “was too small a thing for thanks; and yet,
if I may say it without offence, it was too grave and near a matter
for mirth and raillery. I had counted on my brother's love, but God has
willed that it should be otherwise. It is a joy to me to see you again,
lady, and to know that you have reached home in safety, if this be
indeed your home.”
“Yes, in sooth, Castle Twynham is my home, and Sir Nigel Loring my
father. I should have told you so this morning, but you said that you
were coming thither, so I bethought me that I might hold it back as
a surprise to you. Oh dear, but it was brave to see you!” she cried,
bursting out a-laughing once more, and standing with her hand pressed to
her side, and her half-closed eyes twinkling with amusement. “You drew
back and came forward with your eyes upon my book there, like the mouse
who sniffs the cheese and yet dreads the trap.”
“I take shame,” said Alleyne, “that I should have touched it.”
“Nay, it warmed my very heart to see it. So glad was I, that I laughed
for very pleasure. My fine preacher can himself be tempted then, thought
I; he is not made of another clay to the rest of us.”
“God help me! I am the weakest of the weak,” groaned Alleyne. “I pray
that I may have more strength.”
“And to what end?” she asked sharply. “If you are, as I understand, to
shut yourself forever in your cell within the four walls of an abbey,
then of what use would it be were your prayer to be answered?”
“The use of my own salvation.”
She turned from him with a pretty shrug and wave. “Is that all?” she
said. “Then you are no better than Father Christopher and the rest of
them. Your own, your own, ever your own! My father is the king's man,
and when he rides into the press of fight he is not thinking ever of the
saving of his own poor body; he recks little enough if he leave it on
the field. Why then should you, who are soldiers of the Spirit, be
ever moping or hiding in cell or in cave, with minds full of your own
concerns, while the world, which you should be mending, is going on its
way, and neither sees nor hears you? Were ye all as thoughtless of your
own souls as the soldier is of his body, ye would be of more avail to
the souls of others.”
“There is sooth in what you say, lady,” Alleyne answered; “and yet I
scarce can see what you would have the clergy and the church to do.”
“I would have them live as others and do men's work in the world,
preaching by their lives rather than their words. I would have them come
forth from their lonely places, mix with the borel folks, feel the pains
and the pleasures, the cares and the rewards, the temptings and the
stirrings of the common people. Let them toil and swinken, and labor,