The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE “SPLEN­DID KNIGHT”

On the steps of War­wick Cas­tle stood the Knight and his bride.

Their eyes still lin­gered on the arch­way through which the no­ble fig­ure of Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter, mount­ed up­on his black mare, Shu­lamite, had just dis­ap­peared from view.

The mar­riage had tak­en place in the Cas­tle chapel, half an hour be­fore, with an as­ton­ish­ing amount of pomp and cer­emo­ny. Priests and acolytes had ap­peared from un­ex­pect­ed places. Madon­na lilies, on grace­ful stem, gleamed white in the shad­ows of the sa­cred place. Solemn mu­sic rose and fell; the deep roll of the Gre­go­ri­an chants, be­gin­ning with a low hum as of gi­ant bees in a vast field of clover; swelling, in full-​throat­ed uni­son, a ma­jes­tic vol­ume of sound which rang against the rafters, wak­ing echoes in the cleresto­ry; then rum­bling back in­to si­lence.

Stand­ing be­neath the sa­cred canopy, the bridal pair lift­ed their eyes to the high al­tar and saw, amid a cloud of in­cense, the Bish­op, in gor­geous vest­ments, de­scend­ing the steps and com­ing to­ward them.

To Mo­ra, at the time, and af­ter­wards in most thank­ful re­mem­brance, the won­der of that which fol­lowed lay in the fact that where she had dread­ed an in­evitable sense of sac­ri­lege in giv­ing to an­oth­er that which had been al­ready con­se­crat­ed to God, the Bish­op so word­ed the ser­vice as to make her feel that she could still be spir­itu­al­ly the bride of Christ, even while ful­fill­ing her troth to Hugh; al­so that, in ac­cept­ing the call to this new Vo­ca­tion, she was not falling from her old es­tate, but rather ris­ing above it.

As the words were spo­ken which made her a wife, it seemed as if the Bish­op gen­tly wrapped her about with a fresh man­tle of dig­ni­ty--that dig­ni­ty which had fall­en from her in those mo­ments of hu­mil­ia­tion when, at Hugh's bid­ding she laid her­self down up­on the stretch­er.

The Bish­op voiced the Church with a pomp and pow­er which could not be with­stood; and when, in obe­di­ence to his com­mand Hugh grasped her right hand with his right hand, and the Bish­op laid his own on ei­ther side of their clasped hands, and pro­nounced them man and wife, it seemed in­deed as if a Di­vine touch unit­ed them, as if a Di­vine voice rat­ified their vows and sanc­ti­fied their union.

Mo­ra had nev­er be­fore seen the _man_ so com­plete­ly merged in his high of­fice.

And, when all was over, even as he mount­ed Shu­lamite and rode away, he rode out of the court­yard with the air of a Knight Tem­plar rid­ing forth-​to do bat­tle in a Holy War.

It seemed to Mo­ra that she had bid­den farewell to her old friend of the kind­ly smile, the mer­ry eye, and the ready jest, in the ear­ly hours of that morn­ing, as to­geth­er they left the ar­bour of the gold­en ros­es.

There re­mained there­fore but one man to be con­sid­ered: the “splen­did Knight” of old Antony's vi­sion; the lover who had pur­sued her in­to her Nun­nery; wooed her in her own cell, un­abashed by the dig­ni­ty of her of­fice; mas­tered her will; forced her numbed heart to awak­en, dis­turbed by the thrill of an un­will­ing ten­der­ness; moved her to pas­sion by the poignant an­guish of a part­ing, which she re­gard­ed as in­evitably fi­nal; won the Bish­op over, to his side, and, through him, the Pope; and fi­nal­ly, by the per­sis­tence of his plead­ings, moved our blessèd La­dy to vouch­safe a vi­sion on his be­half.

This was the “splen­did Knight” against whom the stars in their cours­es had most cer­tain­ly not fought. Prin­ci­pal­ities and pow­ers had all been for him; against him, just a wom­an and her con­science, and--he had won.

When, at their first in­ter­view in her cell, in re­ply to her de­mand: “Why are you not with your wife?” he had an­swered: “I _am_ with my wife; the on­ly wife I have ev­er want­ed, the on­ly wom­an I shall ev­er wed, is here”--she stood ready to strike with ivory and steel, at the first at­tempt up­on her in­vi­olable chasti­ty, and could af­ford to smile, in pity­ing de­ri­sion, at so emp­ty a boast.

But now? If he said: “My wife is here,” and chose to seize her with pos­ses­sive grasp, she must meek­ly fold her hands up­on her breast, and say: “Even so, my lord. I am yours. Deal with me as you will.”

As the Bish­op's pur­ple cloak and the hind quar­ters of his no­ble black mare, dis­ap­peared from view, the crowd which hith­er­to had sur­round­ed the bridal pair, al­so van­ished, as if at the wave of a mag­ic wand. Thus for the first time, since those tense mo­ments in the Cathe­dral crypt, Mo­ra found her­self alone with Hugh.

She was not young enough to be em­bar­rassed; but she was old enough to be afraid; afraid of him, and afraid of her­self; afraid of his mas­ter­ful na­ture and im­pe­ri­ous will, which had al­ways in­clined to break rather than bend any­thing which stood in his way; and afraid of some­thing in her­self which leapt up in re­sponse to this fierce strength in him, yearn­ing to be mas­tered, hun­gry to yield, wish­ful to obey; yet which, if yield­ed to, would lay her spir­it in the dust, and turn the awak­ened ten­der­ness in her heart to scorn of her­self, and anger against him.

So she feared as she stood in the sun­shine, watch­ing the now emp­ty arch­way through which her sole re­main­ing link with Con­vent life had van­ished; con­scious, with­out look­ing round, that Deb­bie, who had been curt­sey­ing be­hind her, was there no longer; that Mar­tin Good­fel­low, who had held Shu­lamite's bri­dle while the Bish­op mount­ed, had dis­ap­peared in one di­rec­tion, the rest of the men in an­oth­er; in­tense­ly con­scious that she and Hugh were now alone; and fear­ing, she shiv­ered again, as she had shiv­ered in the crypt; then, of a sud­den, knew that she had done so, and, with a swift im­pulse of shame and con­tri­tion, turned and looked at Hugh.

He was in­deed the “splen­did Knight” of Mary Antony's vi­sion! He had donned for his bridal the dress of white and sil­ver, which he had last put on when he supped at the Palace with the Bish­op. This set off, with strik­ing ef­fect, his dark head and the no­ble beau­ty of his coun­te­nance; and Mo­ra, who chiefly re­mem­bered him as a hand­some youth, grace­ful and gay, re­alised for the first time his splen­dour as a man, and the change wrought in him by all he had faced, en­dured, and over­come.

In the crypt, the day be­fore, and dur­ing the hours which fol­lowed, she had scarce let her­self look at him; and he, though al­ways close be­side her, had kept out of her im­me­di­ate range of vi­sion.

Since that in­fold­ing clasp in the crypt when he had flung the cloak about her, not once had he touched her, un­til the Church just now bade him, with au­thor­ity, to take her right hand, with his.

Her mind flew back to the hap­pen­ings of the pre­vi­ous day. With the light­ning ra­pid­ity of ret­ro­spec­tive thought, she passed again through each ex­pe­ri­ence from the mo­ment when the call of the black­bird sound­ed in the crypt. The help­less hor­ror of be­ing lift­ed by un­seen hands; the slow, swing­ing progress, to the ac­com­pa­ni­ment of the mea­sured tread of the men-​at-​arms; the sti­fling dark­ness, air and light shut out by the heavy cloak, and yet the clear con­scious­ness of the mo­ment when the stretch­er passed from the Cathe­dral in­to the sun­shine with­out; the sud­den pause, as the Bish­op met the stretch­er, and then--as she lay help­less be­tween them--Symon's ques­tion and Hugh's re­ply, with their sub­tle­ty of hid­den mean­ing, which filled her with im­po­tent anger, shew­ing as it did the com­plete­ness of the Bish­op's con­nivance at Hugh's con­spir­acy. Then Hugh's re­quest, and the Bish­op's hand laid up­on her, the Bish­op's voice up­lift­ed in bless­ing. Then once again the mea­sured tramp, tramp, and the steady swing of the stretch­er; but now the men's heels rang on cob­bles, and voic­es seemed ev­ery­where; cheery greet­ings, snatch­es of song, chance words con­cern­ing a bar­gain or a meet­ing, a light jest, a coarse oath; and, all the while, the steady, tramp, tramp, and the ring of Hugh's spurs.

She grew faint and it seemed to her she was about to die be­neath the cloak, and that when at length Hugh re­moved it, it would prove a pall be­neath which he would find a dead bride.

“Dead bride! Dead bride!” sound­ed the tramp­ing foot­steps. And all the way she was haunt­ed by the be­lief, as­sail­ing her con­fused sens­es in the dark­ness, that the spir­it of Fa­ther Ger­vaise had met the stretch­er; that his was the voice which mur­mured low and ten­der­ly; “Be not afraid, nei­ther be thou dis­mayed. Go in peace.”

With this had come a hor­ror of the out­er world, a wild de­sire for the safe­ty and shel­ter of the Clois­ter, and an ab­so­lute phys­ical dread of the mo­ment when the cov­er­ing cloak should be re­moved, and she would find her­self alone with her lover; and, on ris­ing from the stretch­er, be seized by his arms.

Yet when, hav­ing been tilt­ed up steps, she was con­scious of the si­lence of pas­sages and soon the even more com­plete qui­et of a room; when the stretch­er was set down, and the bear­ers' feet died away, Hugh's deep voice said gen­tly: “Change thy gar­ments quick­ly, my belovèd. There is no time to lose.” But he laid no hand up­on the cloak, and his foot­steps, al­so, died away.

Then push­ing back the heavy folds and sit­ting up, she had found her­self alone in a bed­cham­ber, ev­ery­thing she could need laid ready to her hand; while, up­on the bed, lay her green rid­ing-​dress, dis­card­ed for­ev­er, eight years be­fore!

Her mind re­fused to look back up­on the half-​hour that fol­lowed.

She saw her­self next ap­pear­ing in the door­way at the top of a flight of eight steps, lead­ing down in­to the yard of the hostel­ry, where a cav­al­cade of men and hors­es wait­ed; while Icon, the Bish­op's beau­ti­ful white pal­frey, was be­ing led to and fro, and Hugh stood with an open let­ter in his hand.

As she hes­itat­ed in the door­way, gaz­ing down up­on the wait­ing, restive crowd, Hugh looked up and saw her. In­to his eyes flashed a light of tri­umphant joy, of ador­ing love and ad­mi­ra­tion. She had avoid­ed look­ing at her own re­flec­tion; but his face, as he came up the steps, mir­rored her love­li­ness. It had cost her such an­guish of soul to di­vest her­self of her sa­cred habit and don these gay gar­ments be­long­ing to a life long left be­hind, that his ev­ident de­light in the change, moved her to an un­rea­son­able re­sent­ment. Al­so that sud­den blaze of love in his dark eyes, daz­zled her heart, even as a burst of sun­shine might daz­zle one used to per­pet­ual twi­light.

She took the Bish­op's let­ter, with avert­ed eyes; read it; then moved swift­ly down the steps to where Icon wait­ed.

“Mount me,” she said to Mar­tin Good­fel­low, as she passed him; and it was Mar­tin who swung her in­to the sad­dle.

Then she trem­bled at what she had done, in yield­ing to this im­pulse which made her shrink from Hugh.

As the black mane of his horse drew lev­el with Icon's head, and side by side they rode out from the court­yard, she feared a thun­der-​cloud on the Knight's brow, and a sullen si­lence, as the best she could ex­pect. But calm and cheer­ful, his voice fell on her ear; and glanc­ing at him furtive­ly, she still saw on his face that light which daz­zled her heart. Yet no word did he speak which all might not have heard, and not once did he lay his hand on hers. Each time they dis­mount­ed, she saw him sign to Mar­tin Good­fel­low, and it was Mar­tin who helped her to alight.

All this, in rapid ret­ro­spect, passed through Mo­ra's mind as she stood alone be­side her splen­did Knight, mis­er­ably con­scious that she had shiv­ered, and that he knew it; and fear­ful lest he di­vined the shrink­ing of her soul away from him, away from love, away from all for which love stood. Alas, alas! Why did this man--this most hu­man, ar­dent, lov­ing man--hang all his hopes of hap­pi­ness up­on the heart of a nun? Would it be pos­si­ble that he should un­der­stand, that eight years of clois­tered life can­not be re­nounced in a day?

Mo­ra looked at him again.

The stern pro­file might well be about to say: “Shud­der again, and I will do to thee that which shall give thee cause to shud­der in­deed!”

Yet, at that mo­ment he spoke, and his voice was in­finite­ly gen­tle.

“Yon­der rides a true friend,” he said. “One who has learned love's deep­est les­son.”

“What is love's deep­est les­son?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her, and the fire of his dark eyes was drowned in ten­der­ness.

“That true love means self-​sac­ri­fice,” he said. “Come, my belovèd. Let us walk in the gar­dens, where we can talk at ease of our plans for the days to come.”