The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XLVIII

A STRANGE CHANCE

On the fourth day of her hus­band's ab­sence, Mo­ra climbed to the bat­tle­ments to watch the glo­ries of a most gor­geous sun­set.

Al­so she loved to find her­self again there where she and Hugh had spent that won­der­ful hour in the moon­light, when she had told him of the vi­sion, and af­ter­wards had giv­en him the promise that on the mor­row he should take her to his home.

She paused in the low arch­way at the top of the wind­ing stair, re­mem­ber­ing how she had turned a mo­ment there, to whis­per: “I love thee.” Ah, how of­ten she had said it since: “Dear man of mine, I love thee! Come back to me safe; come back to me soon; I love thee!”

That he should have had to leave her just as her love was ready to re­spond to his, had caused that love to grow im­mea­sur­ably in depth and in­ten­si­ty.

Al­so she now re­alised, more ful­ly, his fine self-​con­trol, his chival­rous con­sid­er­ation for her, his no­ble un­selfish­ness. From the first, he had been so per­fect to her; and now her one de­sire was that, if her love could give it, he should have his re­ward.

Ah, when would he come! When would he come!

She could not keep from shad­ing her eyes and look­ing along the road to the point where it left the fir wood, though this was but the fourth day since Hugh's de­par­ture--the day on which, by fast rid­ing and long hours, he might ar­rive at Worces­ter--and the ninth was the very ear­li­est she dared hope for his re­turn.

How slow­ly, slow­ly, passed the days. Yet they were full of a qui­et joy and peace.

From the mo­ment when she had stepped out in­to the sun­shine, re­solved to go steadi­ly for­ward with­out look­ing back, she had thrown her­self with zest and plea­sure in­to in­ves­ti­gat­ing and ar­rang­ing her house and es­tate.

Al­so, on the sec­ond day an idea had come to her with her first wak­ing thoughts, which she had prompt­ly put in­to ex­ecu­tion.

Tak­ing Mar­tin Good­fel­low with her she had rid­den over to Hugh's home; had found it, as she ex­pect­ed, great­ly need­ing a wom­an's hand and mind, and had set to work at once on those changes and ar­range­ments most need­ed, so that all should be in readi­ness when Hugh, re­turn­ing, would take her home.

Un­der her di­rec­tion the cham­ber which should be hers was put in­to per­fect or­der; her own things were trans­port­ed thith­er, and all was made so com­plete­ly ready, that at any mo­ment she and Hugh could start, with­out need of bag­gage or at­ten­dants, and ride to­geth­er home.

This cham­ber had two doors, the one lead­ing down a flight of steps on to a ter­race, the oth­er open­ing di­rect­ly in­to the great hall, the cen­tral cham­ber of the house.

Mo­ra loved to stand in this door­way, look­ing in­to the no­ble apart­ment, with its huge fire­place, mas­sive carved chairs on ei­ther side of the hearth, weapons on the walls, tro­phies of feats of arms, all those things which made it home to Hugh, and to re­mem­ber that of this place he had said in his pe­ti­tion to our La­dy: “Take pity on a lone­ly home, a des­olate hearth . . . and send her to me.”

No longer should it be lone­ly or des­olate. Aye, and no longer should his faith­ful heart be hun­gry.

On this day she had been over for the third time, rid­ing by the road, be­cause she and Mar­tin both car­ried pack­ages of gar­ments and oth­er things up­on their sad­dles; but re­turn­ing by a short­er way through the woods, silent and mossy, most heav­en­ly cool and green.

This jour­ney had served to com­plete her hap­py prepa­ra­tions. So now, should Hugh ar­rive, even at sun­set, and be wish­ful to ride on with­out de­lay, she could or­der the sad­dling of Icon, and say: “I am ready, dear Knight; let us go.”

She stood on the Cas­tle wall, gaz­ing at the blood-​red ban­ners of the sun­set, flam­ing from the bat­tle­ments of a ver­ita­ble city of gold; then, shad­ing her eyes, turned to look once again along the road.

And, at that mo­ment, out from the dark fir wood there rode a horse­man, alone.

For one mo­ment on­ly did her heart leap in the wild be­lief that Hugh had re­turned. The next in­stant she knew this could not be he; even be­fore her eyes made out a stranger.

She watched him leave the road, and turn up the wind­ing path which led to the Cas­tle gate; saw the porter go to the grat­ing in an­swer to a loud knock­ing with­out; saw him fetch old Zachary, who in his turn sent for Mar­tin Good­fel­low; up­on which the gates were opened wide, and the stranger rode in­to the court­yard.

Where­upon Mo­ra thought it time that she should de­scend from the bat­tle­ments and find out who this un­ex­pect­ed vis­itor might be.

At the head of the great stair­case, she met Mar­tin.

“La­dy,” he said, “there waits a man be­low who ur­gent­ly de­sires speech with Sir Hugh. Learn­ing from us that the Knight hath rid­den south, and is like to be away some days longer, he begs to have word with you, alone; yet re­fus­es to state his busi­ness or to give his name. Mas­ter Zachary great­ly hopeth that it may be your plea­sure that we bid the fel­low forth­with de­part, telling him--if he so will--to ride back in six days' time, when the wor­ship­ful Knight, whom he de­sires to see, will have re­turned.”

Mo­ra knit­ted her brows. It did not please her that Zachary and Mar­tin Good­fel­low should ar­range to­geth­er what she should do.

“De­scribe him, Mar­tin,” she said. “What man­ner of man is he?”

“Swarthy,” said Mar­tin, “and sol­dier­ly; some­what of a dare-​dev­il, but on his best be­haviour. Zachary and I would sug­gest----”

“I will see him,” said Mo­ra, be­gin­ning to de­scend the stairs. “I will see him in the ban­quet­ing hall, and alone. You, Mar­tin, can wait with­out, en­ter­ing on the in­stant if I call. Tell Zachary to bid them pre­pare a meal of bread and meat, with a flagon of wine, or a pot of good ale, which I may of­fer to this trav­eller, should he need re­fresh­ment.”

She was stand­ing in the ban­quet­ing hall, on the very spot where Hugh had kneeled at their part­ing, when the swarthy fel­low, sol­dier­ly, yet some­what of a dare-​dev­il, en­tered.

Most cer­tain­ly he was on his best be­haviour. He doffed his cap at first sight of her, ad­vanced a few paces, then stood still, bow­ing low; came for­ward a few more paces, then bowed again.

She spoke.

“You wished to see my hus­band, Friend, and speak with him? He is away and hard­ly can re­turn be­fore five days, at soon­est. Is your busi­ness with Sir Hugh such as I can pass on to him for you, by word of mouth?”

She hoped those bold, dark eyes did not per­ceive how she glowed to speak for the first time, to an­oth­er, of Hugh as her hus­band.

He an­swered, and his words were blunt; his man­ner, frank and sol­dier­ly.

"Most no­ble La­dy, fail­ing the Knight, whom I have rid­den far to find, my busi­ness may most read­ily be told to you.

"Years ago, on a Syr­ian bat­tle-​field it was my good for­tune, in the thick of the fray, to find my­self side by side with Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent. The In­fi­dels struck me down; and, sore­ly wound­ed, I should have been at their mer­cy, had not the no­ble Knight, see­ing me fall, wheeled his horse and, rid­ing back, hewn his way through to me, scat­ter­ing mine as­sailants right and left. Then, help­ing me to mount be­hind him, gal­loped with me back to camp. Where­upon I swore, by the holy Cross at Luc­ca, that if ev­er the chance came my way to do a ser­vice to Sir Hugh of the Sil­ver Shield, I would trav­el to the world's end to do it.

"Ten nights ago, I chanced to be rid­ing through a wood some­where be­twixt Worces­ter and War­wick. A band of law­less fel­lows com­ing by, I and my steed drew off the path, tak­ing cov­er in a thick­et. But a soli­tary horse­man, rid­ing from Worces­ter, failed to avoid them. With­in sight of my hid­ing-​place he was set up­on, made to dis­mount, stripped and bid­den to re­turn on foot to the place from whence he came. I could do naught to help him. We were two, to a round dozen. The rob­bers took the mon­ey from his wal­let. With­in it they found al­so a let­ter, which they flung away as worth­less. I marked where it fell, close to my hid­ing-​place.

"When the af­fray was over, their vic­tim hav­ing fled and the law­less band rid­den off, I came forth, picked up the let­ter and slipped it in­to mine own wal­let. So soon as the sun rose I drew forth the let­ter, when, to my amaze, I found it ad­dressed to my brave res­cuer, the Knight of the Sil­ver Shield and Azure Pen­nant. It ap­peared to be of im­por­tance as, fail­ing War­wick Cas­tle, six halt­ing places, all on the north­ward road, were named on the out­side; al­so it was marked to be de­liv­ered with most ur­gent haste.

“It seemed to me that now had come my chance, to do this brave Knight ser­vice. There­fore have I rid­den from place to place, fol­low­ing; and, af­ter some de­lay, I find my­self at length at Cas­tle Norelle, on­ly to hear that he to whom I pur­posed to hand the let­ter has rid­den south by an­oth­er road. Thus is my en­deav­our to serve him ren­dered fruit­less.”

“Nay, Friend,” said Mo­ra, much moved by this recital. “Not fruit­less. Give me the let­ter you have thus res­cued and faith­ful­ly at­tempt­ed, to de­liv­er. My hus­band re­turns in five days. I will then hand him the let­ter and tell him your tale. Most grate­ful will he be for your good ser­vice, and moved by your loy­al re­mem­brance.”

The swarthy fel­low drew from his wal­let a let­ter, heav­ily sealed, and in­scribed at great length. He placed it in Mo­ra's hands.

Her clear eyes dwelt up­on his coun­te­nance with search­ing in­ter­est. It was won­der­ful to her to see be­fore her a man whose life Hugh had saved, so far away, on an East­ern bat­tle-​field.

“In my hus­band's name, I thank you, Friend,” she said. “And now my peo­ple will put be­fore you food and wine. You must have rest and re­fresh­ment be­fore you again set forth.”

“I thank you, no,” replied the stranger. “I must ride on, with­out de­lay. I bid you farewell, La­dy; and I do but wish the ser­vice, which a strange chance has en­abled me to ren­der to the Knight, had been of greater im­por­tance and had held more of risk or dan­ger.”

He bowed low, and de­part­ed. A few mo­ments lat­er he was rid­ing out at the gates, and mak­ing for the north­ward road.

Had Broth­er Philip chanced to be at hand, he could not have failed to note that the swarthy stranger was mount­ed up­on the fastest nag in the Bish­op's sta­ble.

For a life of law­less­ness, rap­ine, and rob­bery, does not de­bar a man from keep­ing an oath sworn, out of hon­est grat­itude, in clean­er, bet­ter days.

Left alone, Mo­ra passed on to the ter­race and, in the clear­er light, ex­am­ined this soiled and much in­scribed mis­sive.

To her amaze­ment she recog­nised the well-​known script of Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter. How many a let­ter had reached her hands ad­dressed in these neat char­ac­ters.

Yet Hugh had left her, and gone up­on this ride of many days to Worces­ter in or­der to see the Bish­op, be­cause he had re­ceived a let­ter telling him, with­out suf­fi­cient de­tail, a mat­ter of im­por­tance. Prob­ably the let­ter she now held in her hands should have reached him first. Doubt­less had he re­ceived it, he need not have gone.

Pon­der­ing this mat­ter, and al­most un­con­scious that she did so, Mo­ra broke the seals. Then paused, even as she be­gan to un­fold the parch­ment, ques­tion­ing whether to read it or to let it await Hugh's re­turn.

But not long did she hes­itate. It was up­on a mat­ter which close­ly con­cerned her. That much Hugh had ad­mit­ted. It might be im­per­ative to take im­me­di­ate ac­tion con­cern­ing this first let­ter, which by so strange a mishap had ar­rived af­ter the oth­er. Un­less she mas­tered its con­tents, she could not act.

As­cend­ing the tur­ret stair­way, Mo­ra stepped again on to the bat­tle­ments.

The gold­en ram­parts in the west had fad­ed; but a blood-​red ban­ner still float­ed above the hori­zon. The sky over­head was clear.

Sit­ting up­on the seat on which she had sat while telling Hugh of old Mary Antony's most blessèd and won­drous vi­sion, Mo­ra un­fold­ed and read the Bish­op's let­ter.