The White Company
have spoken it, and yet I cannot please you. Lack-brain she is, and
lack-brain I shall call her.”
Such was a sample of the sudden janglings which marred the peace of that
little class. As the weeks passed, however, they became fewer and less
violent, as Alleyne's firm and constant nature gained sway and influence
over the Lady Maude. And yet, sooth to say, there were times when he had
to ask himself whether it was not the Lady Maude who was gaining sway
and influence over him. If she were changing, so was he. In drawing her
up from the world, he was day by day being himself dragged down towards
it. In vain he strove and reasoned with himself as to the madness of
letting his mind rest upon Sir Nigel's daughter. What was he--a younger
son, a penniless clerk, a squire unable to pay for his own harness--that
he should dare to raise his eyes to the fairest maid in Hampshire? So
spake reason; but, in spite of all, her voice was ever in his ears and
her image in his heart. Stronger than reason, stronger than cloister
teachings, stronger than all that might hold him back, was that old, old
tyrant who will brook no rival in the kingdom of youth.
And yet it was a surprise and a shock to himself to find how deeply
she had entered into his life; how completely those vague ambitions and
yearnings which had filled his spiritual nature centred themselves now
upon this thing of earth. He had scarce dared to face the change which
had come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard
and clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.
He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire,
Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the
Dorsetshire armorer. The day for their departure had almost come, and
the two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their
speed on their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was
much to be done. Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad
who looked on the coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays.
This day, however, he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a
mile to bestow upon his comrade.
“Tell me Alleyne Edricson,” he broke out, suddenly, as they clattered
along the winding track which leads over the Bournemouth hills, “has it
not seemed to you that of late the Lady Maude is paler and more silent
than is her wont?”
“It may be so,” the other answered shortly.
“And would rather sit distrait by her oriel than ride gayly to the chase
as of old. Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning which you have taught
her that has taken all the life and sap from her. It is more than she
can master, like a heavy spear to a light rider.”
“Her lady-mother has so ordered it,” said Alleyne.
“By our Lady! and withouten disrespect,” quoth Terlake, “it is in my
mind that her lady-mother is more fitted to lead a company to a storming
than to have the upbringing of this tender and milk-white maid. Hark ye,
lad Alleyne, to what I never told man or woman yet. I love the fair Lady
Maude, and would give the last drop of my heart's blood to serve her.”
He spoke with a gasping voice, and his face flushed crimson in the
moonlight.
Alleyne said nothing, but his heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice in
his bosom.
“My father has broad acres,” the other continued, “from Fareham Creek to
the slope of the Portsdown Hill. There is filling of granges, hewing
of wood, malting of grain, and herding of sheep as much as heart could
wish, and I the only son. Sure am I that Sir Nigel would be blithe at
such a match.”
“But how of the lady?” asked Alleyne, with dry lips.
“Ah, lad, there lies my trouble. It is a toss of the head and a droop of
the eyes if I say one word of what is in my mind. 'Twere as easy to woo
the snow-dame that we shaped last winter in our castle yard. I did but
ask her yesternight for her green veil, that I might bear it as a token
or lambrequin upon my helm; but she flashed out at me that she kept it
for a better man, and then all in a breath asked pardon for that she had
spoke so rudely. Yet she would not take back the words either, nor would
she grant the veil. Has it seemed to thee, Alleyne, that she loves any
one?”
“Nay, I cannot say,” said Alleyne, with a wild throb of sudden hope in
his heart.
“I have thought so, and yet I cannot name the man. Indeed, save myself,
and Walter Ford, and you, who are half a clerk, and Father Christopher
of the Priory, and Bertrand the page, who is there whom she sees?”
“I cannot tell,” quoth Alleyne shortly; and the two squires rode on
again, each intent upon his own thoughts.
Next day at morning lesson the teacher observed that his pupil was
indeed looking pale and jaded, with listless eyes and a weary manner. He
was heavy-hearted to note the grievous change in her.
“Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha,” he said to the tire-woman, when
the Lady Maude had sought her chamber.
The maid looked aslant at him with laughing eyes. “It is not an illness
that kills,” quoth she.
“Pray God not!” he cried. “But tell me, Agatha, what it is that ails
her?”
“Methinks that I could lay my hand upon another who is smitten with the
same trouble,” said she, with the same sidelong look. “Canst not give a
name to it, and thou so skilled in leech-craft?”
“Nay, save that she seems aweary.”
“Well, bethink you that it is but three days ere you will all be gone,
and Castle Twynham be as dull as the Priory. Is there not enough there
to cloud a lady's brow?”
“In sooth, yes,” he answered; “I had forgot that she is about to lose
her father.”
“Her father!” cried the tire-woman, with a little trill of laughter. “Oh
simple, simple!” And she was off down the passage like arrow from bow,
while Alleyne stood gazing after her, betwixt hope and doubt, scarce
daring to put faith in the meaning which seemed to underlie her words.
CHAPTER XIII. HOW THE WHITE COMPANY SET FORTH TO THE WARS.
St. Luke's day had come and had gone, and it was in the season of
Martinmas, when the oxen are driven in to the slaughter, that the White
Company was ready for its journey. Loud shrieked the brazen bugles from
keep and from gateway, and merry was the rattle of the war-drum, as the
men gathered in the outer bailey, with torches to light them, for the
morn had not yet broken. Alleyne, from the window of the armory, looked
down upon the strange scene--the circles of yellow flickering light,
the lines of stern and bearded faces, the quick shimmer of arms, and the
lean heads of the horses. In front stood the bow-men, ten deep, with a
fringe of under-officers, who paced hither and thither marshalling the
ranks with curt precept or short rebuke. Behind were the little clump
of steel-clad horsemen, their lances raised, with long pensils drooping
down the oaken shafts. So silent and still were they, that they might
have been metal-sheathed statues, were it not for the occasional quick,
impatient stamp of their chargers, or the rattle of chamfron against
neck-plates as they tossed and strained. A spear's length in front of
them sat the spare and long-limbed figure of Black Simon, the Norwich
fighting man, his fierce, deep-lined face framed in steel, and the
silk guidon marked with the five scarlet roses slanting over his right
shoulder. All round, in the edge of the circle of the light, stood the
castle servants, the soldiers who were to form the garrison, and little
knots of women, who sobbed in their aprons and called shrilly to their
name-saints to watch over the Wat, or Will, or Peterkin who had turned
his hand to the work of war.
The young squire was leaning forward, gazing at the stirring and martial
scene, when he heard a short, quick gasp at his shoulder, and there was
the Lady Maude, with her hand to her heart, leaning up against the wall,
slender and fair, like a half-plucked lily. Her face was turned away
from him, but he could see, by the sharp intake of her breath, that she
was weeping bitterly.
“Alas! alas!” he cried, all unnerved at the sight, “why is it that you
are so sad, lady?”
“It is the sight of these brave men,” she answered; “and to think how
many of them go and how few are like to find their way back. I have seen
it before, when I was a little maid, in the year of the Prince's great
battle. I remember then how they mustered in the bailey, even as they do
now, and my lady-mother holding me in her arms at this very window that
I might see the show.”
“Please God, you will see them all back ere another year be out,” said
he.
She shook her head, looking round at him with flushed cheeks and eyes
that sparkled in the lamp-light. “Oh, but I hate myself for being a
woman!” she cried, with a stamp of her little foot. “What can I do that
is good? Here I must bide, and talk and sew and spin, and spin and sew
and talk. Ever the same dull round, with nothing at the end of it. And
now you are going too, who could carry my thoughts out of these gray
walls, and raise my mind above tapestry and distaffs. What can I do? I
am of no more use or value than that broken bowstave.”
“You are of such value to me,” he cried, in a whirl of hot, passionate
words, “that all else has become nought. You are my heart, my life, my
one and only thought. Oh, Maude, I cannot live without you, I cannot
leave you without a word of love. All is changed to me since I have
known you. I am poor and lowly and all unworthy of you; but if great
love may weigh down such defects, then mine may do it. Give me but one
word of hope to take to the wars with me--but one. Ah, you shrink, you
shudder! My wild words have frightened you.”
Twice she opened her lips, and twice no sound came from them. At last
she spoke in a hard and measured voice, as one who dare not trust
herself to speak too freely.
“This is over sudden,” she said; “it is not so long since the world was
nothing to you. You have changed once; perchance you may change again.”
“Cruel!” he cried, “who hath changed me?”
“And then your brother,” she continued with a little laugh, disregarding
his question. “Methinks this hath become a family custom amongst the
Edricsons. Nay, I am sorry; I did not mean a jibe. But, indeed, Alleyne,
this hath come suddenly upon me, and I scarce know what to say.”
“Say some word of hope, however distant--some kind word that I may
cherish in my heart.”
“Nay, Alleyne, it were a cruel kindness, and you have been too good and
true a friend to me that I should use you despitefully. There cannot be
a closer link between us. It is madness to think of it. Were there no
other reasons, it is enough that my father and your brother would both
cry out against it.”
“My brother, what has he to do with it? And your father----”
“Come, Alleyne, was it not you who would have me act fairly to all men,
and, certes, to my father amongst them?”
“You say truly,” he cried, “you say truly. But you do not reject me,
Maude? You give me some ray of hope? I do not ask pledge or promise. Say
only that I am not hateful to you--that on some happier day I may hear
kinder words from you.”
Her eyes softened upon him, and a kind answer was on her lips, when a
hoarse shout, with the clatter of arms and stamping of steeds, rose up
from the bailey below. At the sound her face set her eyes sparkled, and
she stood with flushed cheek and head thrown back--a woman's body, with
a soul of fire.
“My father hath gone down,” she cried. “Your place is by his side. Nay,
look not at me, Alleyne. It is no time for dallying. Win my father's
love, and all may follow. It is when the brave soldier hath done his
devoir that he hopes for his reward. Farewell, and may God be with you!”
She held out her white, slim hand to him, but as he bent his lips over
it she whisked away and was gone, leaving in his outstretched hand the