The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XI

THE YEARS ROLL BACK

“Hugh!” ex­claimed the Pri­oress.

And again, in ut­ter be­wil­der­ment: “Hugh?”

And yet a third time, in a low whis­per of hor­ror, pass­ing her left hand across her eyes, as if to clear from her out­er vi­sion some night­mare of the in­ner mind: “Hugh!”

The silent Knight still made no an­swer; but he flung aside the cling­ing robes, stepped from out them, and strode for­ward, both arms out­stretched.

“Back!” cried the Pri­oress. But her hand had left the hilt of the dag­ger. “Come no near­er,” she com­mand­ed.

Then she sank in­to her chair, spread­ing her trem­bling hands up­on the car­ven manes of the li­ons.

The Knight, still silent, fold­ed his arms across his breast.

Thus for a space they gazed on one an­oth­er--these two, who had part­ed, eight years be­fore, with cling­ing lips and strain­ing arms, a deep, pure pas­sion of love surg­ing with­in them; a union of heart, made clos­er by the wrench of out­ward sep­ara­tion.

The Knight looked at the lips of the no­ble wom­an be­fore him; and as he looked those firm lips quiv­ered, trem­bled, part­ed----

Then--the years rolled back----

* * * * * *

It was moon­light on the bat­tle­ments. The hors­es champed in the court­yard be­low. They two had climbed to the top­most tur­ret, that they might part as near the stars as pos­si­ble, and that, un­seen by oth­ers, she might watch him ride away.

How ra­di­ant she looked, in her robe of sap­phire vel­vet, jew­els at her breast and gir­dle, a man­tle of er­mine hang­ing from her shoul­ders. But brighter than any jew­els were the eyes full of love and tears; and soft­er than soft­est vel­vet, the beau­ti­ful hair which, cov­ered her, as with a gold­en veil. Stand­ing with his arms around her, it flowed over his hands. Silent he stood, look­ing deep in­to her eyes.

Be­low they could hear Mar­tin Good­fel­low call­ing to the men-​at-​arms.

Her lips be­ing free, she spoke.

“Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh,” she said. “The Sara­cens will not slay thee, will not wound thee, will not touch thee. My love will ev­er be around thee, as a sil­ver shield.”

She flung her strong young arms about him, long and sup­ple, en­fold­ing him close­ly, even as his en­fold­ed her.

He filled his hands with her soft hair, strain­ing her clos­er.

“I would I left thee wife, not maid. Could I have wed thee first, I would go with a lighter heart.”

“Wife or maid,” she an­swered, her face lift­ed to his, “I am all thine own. Go with a light heart, dear man of mine, for it makes no dif­fer­ence. Maid or wife, I am thine, and none oth­er's, for­ev­er.”

“Let those be the last words I hear thee say,” he mur­mured, as his lips sought hers.

So, a lit­tle lat­er, stand­ing above him on the tur­ret steps, she bent and clasped her hands about his head, push­ing her fin­gers in­to the thick­ness of his hair. Then: “Maid or wife,” she said, and her voice now steady, was deep and ten­der; “Maid or wife, God knows, I am all thine own.” Then she caught his face to her breast. “Thine and none oth­er's, for­ev­er,” she said; and he felt her bo­som heave with one deep sob.

Then turn­ing quick­ly he ran down the wind­ing stair, reached the court­yard, mount­ed, and rode out through the gates of Cas­tle Norelle, and in­to the fir wood; and so down south to fol­low the King, who al­ready had start­ed on the great Cru­sade.

And, as he rode, in moon­light or in shad­ow, al­ways he saw the sweet lips that trem­bled, al­ways he felt the soft heave of that sob, and the low voice so ten­der, said: “Thine and none oth­er's, for­ev­er.”

* * * * * *

And now----

The Pri­oress sat in her chair of state.

Each mo­ment her face grew calmer and more stern.

The Knight let his eyes dwell on the fin­gers which once crept so ten­der­ly in­to his hair.

She hid them be­neath her scapu­lary, as if his gaze scorched them.

He looked at the bo­som against which his head had been pressed.

A jew­elled cross gleamed, there where his face had laid hid­den.

Then the Knight lift­ed his eyes again to that stern, cold face. Yet still he kept si­lence.

At length the Pri­oress spoke.

“So it is you,” she said.

“Yes,” said the Knight, “it is I.”

Wroth with her own poor heart be­cause it thrilled at his voice, the Pri­oress spoke with anger.

“How did you dare to force your way in­to this sa­cred clois­ter?”

The Knight smiled. “I have yet to find the thing I dare not do.”

“Why are you not with your wife?” de­mand­ed the Pri­oress; and her tone was ter­ri­ble.

“I am with my wife,” replied the Knight. “The on­ly wife I have ev­er want­ed, the on­ly wom­an I shall ev­er wed, is here.”

“Cow­ard!” cried the Pri­oress, white with anger. “Traitor!” She leaned for­ward, clench­ing her hands up­on the li­ons' heads. “Liar! You wed­ded your cousin, Al­fri­da, less than one year af­ter you went from me.”

“Cease to be an­gry,” said the Knight. "Thine anger af­frights me not, yet it hurts thy­self. Lis­ten, mine own belovèd, and I will tell thee the cru­el, and yet blessèd, truth.

"Sev­en months af­ter I left thee, a mes­sen­ger reached our camp, bear­ing let­ters from Eng­land; no word for me from thee; but a long mis­sive from thy half-​sis­ter Eleanor, break­ing to me the news that, be­ing weary of my ab­sence, and some­what over-​per­suad­ed, thou hadst wed­ded Humphry; Earl of Carn­forth.

"It was no news to me, that Humphry sought to win thee; but, that thou hadst let thy­self be won away from thy vow to me, was hell's own tid­ings.

"In my first rage of grief I would have speech with none. But, by-​and-​by, I sought the mes­sen­ger, and asked him ca­su­al­ly of things at home. He told me he had seen thy splen­did nup­tials with the lord of Carn­forth, had been present at the mar­riage, and joined in the af­ter rev­els and fes­tiv­ities. He said thou didst make a love­ly bride, but some­what sad, as if thy mind strayed else­where. The fel­low was a kind of lawyer's clerk, but lean, and out at el­bow.

"Then I sought 'Fri­da, my cousin. She too had had a let­ter, giv­ing the news. She told me she long had feared this thing for me, know­ing the heart of Humphry to be set on win­ning thee, and that Eleanor ap­proved his suit, and hav­ing al­ready heard that of late thou hadst in­clined to smile on him. She begged me to do noth­ing rash or hasty.

"'What good were it,' she said, 'to beg the King for leave to has­ten home? If you kill Humphry, Hugh, you do but make a wid­ow of the wom­an you have loved; nor could you wed the wid­ow of a man your­self had slain. If Humphry kills you--well, a valiant arm is lost to the Holy Cause, and oth­er hearts, more faith­ful than hers, may come nigh to break­ing. Stay here, and play the man.'

"So, by the mes­sen­ger, I sent thee back a let­ter, ask­ing thee to write me word how it was that thou, be­ing my be­trothed, hadst come to do this thing; and whether Humphry was good to thee, and mak­ing thy life pleas­ant. To Humphry I sent a let­ter say­ing that, thy love be­ing round him as a sil­ver shield, I would not slay him, wound him, or touch him! But--if he used thee ill, or gave thee any grief or sor­row, then would I come, forth­with, and send him straight to hell.

"These let­ters, with oth­ers from the camp, went back to Eng­land by that clerk­ly mes­sen­ger. No an­swers were re­turned to mine.

"Mean­while I went, with my de­spair, out to the bat­tle­field.

"No ten­der shield was round me any more. I fought, like a mad wild beast. So of­ten was I wound­ed, that they dubbed me 'The Knight of the Bloody Vest.'

"At last they brought me back to camp, deliri­ous and dy­ing. My cousin 'Fri­da, there bid­ing her time, nursed me back to life, and sought to win for her­self (I shame to say it) the love which thou hadst flout­ed. I need not tell thee, my cousin 'Fri­da failed. The Queen her­self as good as bid me wed her favourite La­dy. The Queen her­self had to dis­cov­er that she could com­mand an En­glish sol­dier's life, but not his love.

"Back in the field again, I found my­self one day, cut off, sur­round­ed, hewn down, tak­en pris­on­er; but by a gen­er­ous foe.

"There­after fol­lowed years of much ad­ven­ture; es­capes, far dis­tant wan­der­ings, strange com­pa­ny. Many months I spent in a moun­tain fast­ness with a wise He­brew Rab­bi, who taught me his sa­cred Scrip­tures; go­ing back to the be­gin­ning of all things, be­fore the world was; yet shrewd in judg­ment of the present, and throw­ing a weird light for­ward up­on the fu­ture. A strange man; wise, as are all of that Cho­sen Race; and a faith­ful friend. He did much to heal my hurt and woo me back to san­ity.

"Lat­er, more than a year with a band of holy monks in a desert monastery, high among the rocks; good Fa­thers who be­lieved in Greek and Latin as surest of all bal­sams for a wound­ed spir­it, and who made me to be­come deeply learned in Apos­tolic writ­ings, and in the teach­ings of the Church. But, for all their best en­deav­ours, I could not feel called to the per­pet­ual calm of the Clois­ter. We are a line of fight­ers and hunters, men to whom pride of race and love of hearth and home, are pri­mal in­stincts.

"Thus, af­ter many fur­ther wan­der­ings and much vary­ing ad­ven­ture, hav­ing by a strange chance heard news of the death of my fa­ther, and that my moth­er mourned. In soli­tude, the open­ing of this year found me land­ed in Eng­land--I who, by most, had long been giv­en up for dead; though Mar­tin Good­fel­low, fail­ing to find trace of me in Pales­tine, had gone back to Cum­ber­land, and staunch­ly main­tained his be­lief that I lived, a cap­tive, and should some day make my es­cape, and re­turn.

"I passed with all speed to our Cas­tle on the moors, know­ing a moth­er's heart wait­ed here, for moth­ers nev­er cease to watch and hope. And, sure enough, as I rode up, the great doors flew wide; the house wait­ed its mas­ter; the moth­er was on the thresh­old to greet her son. Aye! It was good to be at home once more--even in the land where _my_ wom­an was bear­ing chil­dren to an­oth­er man.

"We spent a few hap­py days, I and my moth­er, to­geth­er. Then--the joy of hope ful­filled be­ing some­times a swifter harbinger to an­oth­er world than the heav­iest load of sor­row--she passed, with­out pain or sick­ness, smil­ing, in her sleep; she passed--leav­ing my home des­olate in­deed.

“Not hav­ing known of my be­trothal to thee, be­cause of the old feud be­tween our fam­ilies, and my re­luc­tance to cross her wish that I should wed Al­fri­da, thy name was not spo­ken be­tween us; but I learned from her that my cousin 'Fri­da lay dy­ing at her manor, nigh to Chester, of some lin­ger­ing dis­ease con­tract­ed in east­ern lands.”

"With the first stir­rings of Spring in for­est and pas­ture, I felt moved to ride south to the Court, and re­port my re­turn to the King; yet wait­ed, strange­ly loath to go abroad where any turn of the road might bring me face to face with Humphry. I doubt­ed, should we meet, if I could pass, with­out slay­ing him, the man who had stolen my be­trothed from me. So I stayed in my own do­main, bring­ing things in­to or­der, work­ing in the ar­moury, and striv­ing by hard ex­er­cise to throt­tle the grim de­mon of de­spair.

"April brought a burst of ear­ly sum­mer; and, on the first day of May, I set off for Wind­sor.

"Pass­ing through Carn­forth on my way, I found the town keep­ing high hol­iday. I asked the rea­son, and was told of a Tour­ney now in progress in the neigh­bour­hood, to which the Earl had that morn­ing rid­den in state, ac­com­pa­nied by his Count­ess, who in­deed was cho­sen Queen of Beau­ty, and was to sit en­throned, at­tend­ed by her lit­tle daugh­ter, two tiny sons act­ing as pages.

"A sud­den mad de­sire came on me, to look up­on thy face again; to see thee with the man who stole thee from me; with the chil­dren, who should have been mine own.

"Ten min­utes lat­er, I rode on to the field. Push­ing in amid the gay crowd, I seemed al­most at once to find my­self right in front of the throne.

"I saw the Queen of Beau­ty, in cloth of gold. I saw the lit­tle maid­en and the pages in at­ten­dance. I saw Humphry, proud hus­band and fa­ther, be­side them. All this I saw, which I had come to see. But--the face of Humphry's Count­ess was not thy face! In that mo­ment I knew that, for sev­en long years, I had been fooled!

"I start­ed on a fren­zied quest af­ter the truth, and news of thee.

"Thy sis­ter Eleanor had died the year be­fore. To thy beau­ti­ful cas­tle and lands, so near mine own, Eleanor's son had suc­ceed­ed, and ruled there in thy stead. He be­ing at Court just then, I saw him not, nor could I hear di­rect news of thee, though ru­mour said a con­vent.

"Then I re­mem­bered my cousin, Al­fri­da, ly­ing sick at her manor in Chester. To her I went; and, walk­ing in unan­nounced--I, whom she had long thought dead--I forced the truth from her. The whole plot stood re­vealed. She and Eleanor had hatched it be­tween them. Eleanor de­sir­ing thy lands for her­self and her boy, and know­ing chil­dren of thine would put hers out of suc­ces­sion; Al­fri­da--it shames me to say it--de­sir­ing for her­self, thy lover.

"The mes­sen­ger who brought the let­ters was bribed to give de­tails of thy sup­posed mar­riage. On his re­turn to Eng­land, my let­ters to thee and to Humphry he hand­ed to Eleanor; al­so a ly­ing let­ter from 'Fri­da, telling of her mar­riage with me, with the Queen's con­sent and ap­proval, and ask­ing Eleanor to break the news to thee. The mes­sen­ger then min­gled with thy house­hold, de­scrib­ing my nup­tials in de­tail, as, when abroad, he had done thine. Hear­ing of this, my poor Love did even as I had done, sent for him, ques­tioned him, heard the full tale he had to tell, and saw, alas! no rea­son to mis­doubt him.

"By the way, my cousin 'Fri­da knew where to lay her hand up­on that clerk­ly fel­low. There­fore we sent for him. He came in haste to see the La­dy Al­fri­da, from whom, dur­ing all the years, he had ex­tort­ed end­less hush-​mon­ey.

"I and my men await­ed him.

"He had fat­tened on his hush-​mon­ey! He was no longer lean and out at el­bow.

"He screeched at sight of me, think­ing me risen from the dead.

"He screeched still loud­er when he saw the noose, flung over a strong bough.

"We left him hang­ing, when we rode away. That Ju­das kind will do the dark­est deeds for greed of gain. The first of the tribe him­self shewed the way by which it was most fit­ting to speed them from a world in­to which it had been good for them nev­er to have been born.

"From Al­fri­da I learned that, as Eleanor had fore­seen, thy grief at my per­fidy drove thee to the Clois­ter. Al­so that thy Con­vent was near Worces­ter.

"To Worces­ter I came, and made my­self known to the Lord Bish­op, with whom I supped; and find­ing him most pleas­ant to talk with, and ready to un­der­stand, deemed it best, in per­fect frank­ness, to tell him the whole mat­ter; be­ing care­ful not to men­tion thy name, nor to give any clue to thy per­son.

"Through chance re­marks let fall by the Bish­op while giv­ing me the his­to­ry of the Or­der, I learned that al­ready thou wert Pri­oress of the White Ladies. 'The youngest Pri­oress in the king­dom,' said the Bish­op, 'yet none could be wis­er or bet­ter fit­ted to hold high au­thor­ity.' Lit­tle did he dream that any men­tion of thee was as wa­ter to the parched desert; yet he talked on, for love of speak­ing of thee, while I sat pray­ing he might tell me more; yet bare­ly an­swer­ing yea or nay, seem­ing to be ab­sorbed in mine own melan­choly thoughts.

"From the Bish­op I learned that the Or­der was a strict­ly close one, and that no man could, on any pre­text what­so­ev­er, gain speech alone with one of the White Ladies.

"But I al­so heard of the un­der­ground way lead­ing from the Cathe­dral to the Con­vent, and of the dai­ly walk to and from Ves­pers.

"I went to the crypt, and saw the door­way through which the White Ladies pass. Stand­ing un­seen amid the many pil­lars, I dai­ly watched the long line of silent fig­ures, not­ed that they all walked veiled, with faces hid­den, keep­ing a mea­sured dis­tance apart. Al­so that sev­er­al were above usu­al height. Then I con­ceived the plan of wear­ing the out­er dress, and of step­ping in amongst those veiled fig­ures just at the foot of the wind­ing stair in the wall, lead­ing down from the cleresto­ry to the crypt. I marked that the nun de­scend­ing, could not keep in view the nun in front who had just stepped forth in­to the crypt; while she, mov­ing for­ward, would not per­ceive it if, slip­ping from be­hind a pil­lar, an­oth­er white fig­ure silent­ly joined the pro­ces­sion be­hind her. Once with­in the Con­vent, I trust­ed to our La­dy to help me to speech alone with thee; and our blessèd La­dy hath not failed me.

“Now I have told thee all.”

With that the Knight left speak­ing; and, af­ter the long steady recita­tion, the ceas­ing of his voice caused a si­lence which, seemed, to hold the very air sus­pend­ed.

Not once had the Pri­oress made in­ter­rup­tion. She had sat im­mov­able, her eyes up­on his face, her hands grip­ping the arms of her chair. Long be­fore the tale was fin­ished her sad eyes had over­flowed, the tears rain­ing down her cheeks, and falling up­on the cross at her breast.

When he had told all, when the deep, man­ly voice--now res­olute, now ea­ger, now vi­brant with fierce in­dig­na­tion, yet ten­der al­ways when speak­ing of her--at last fell silent, the Pri­oress fought with her emo­tion, and mas­tered it; then, so soon as she could safe­ly trust her voice, she spoke.