The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LVII

“I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE”

Mo­ra es­caped from the re­strain­ing arms of old Deb­bie, and ap­peared at the top of the steps lead­ing down to the court­yard.

Framed in the door­way, in her green rid­ing dress, she stood for a mo­ment, sur­vey­ing the scene be­fore her.

The two men bound for Worces­ter, bear­ing her pack­et to the Bish­op, had just rid­den out at the great gates. Through the gates, still stand­ing open, she could see them guid­ing their hors­es down the hill and tak­ing the south­ward road.

The porter was at­tempt­ing to close the gates, but a sta­ble lad hin­dered him, point­ing to Icon, whom a groom was lead­ing, ready sad­dled, to and fro, be­fore the door; Icon, with proud­ly arched neck and swish­ing tail, as con­scious of his snowy beau­ty as when, in the riv­er mead­ow at Worces­ter, he found him­self the cen­tre of an ad­mir­ing crowd of nuns.

At sight of his flow­ing mane, pow­er­ful fore­quar­ters, and high step­ping ac­tion, Mo­ra was ir­re­sistibly re­mind­ed of the scene in the court­yard at the Nun­nery, when the Bish­op rode in on his favourite white pal­frey, she stand­ing at the top of the steps to re­ceive him. Nev­er again would she stand so, to re­ceive the Bish­op; nev­er again would Icon proud­ly car­ry him. The Bish­op had giv­en her to Hugh and Icon to her. A faint sense of com­punc­tion stirred with­in her. Per­haps at that mo­ment she came near to re­al­is­ing some­thing of what both gifts had cost the Bish­op.

Bend­ing her head, she looked across the court­yard and un­der the gate­way. The mes­sen­gers were rid­ing fast. Even as she looked, they dis­ap­peared in­to the pine wood.

Her let­ter to Symon was well on its way. She re­mem­bered with com­fort and glad­ness cer­tain things she had writ­ten in that let­ter.

Then--as the pine wood swal­lowed the mes­sen­gers--with a joy­ous bound of re­ac­tion her whole mind turned to Hugh.

Three steps be­low her, a page wait­ed, hold­ing a dag­ger which she had been wont to wear, when rid­ing in the forests. She had sent it out to be sharp­ened. She took it from him, test­ed its point, slipped it in­to the sheath at her belt, smiled up­on the boy, de­scend­ed the re­main­ing steps, and laid her hand up­on Icon's mane.

Then it was that Mis­tress Deb­orah's ag­itat­ed sig­nals from with­in the door­way, took ef­fect up­on old Zachary.

Com­ing for­ward, he bared his white head, and ad­ven­tured a hum­ble ex­pos­tu­la­tion.

“My la­dy,” he said, “it is not safe nor well that you should ride alone. A few mo­ments' de­lay will suf­fice Beau­mont to sad­dle a horse and be ready to at­tend you.”

She mount­ed be­fore she made an­swer.

She kept her im­pe­ri­ous tem­per well in hand, striv­ing to re­mem­ber that to old Deb­bie and Zachary she seemed but the child they had loved and watched over from in­fan­cy, of a sud­den grown old­er. They had not known the Pri­oress of the White Ladies.

Bend­ing from the sad­dle, her hand on Icon's mane:

“I go to my hus­band, Zachary,” she said, “and I choose to ride alone.”

Then gath­er­ing up the reins, she turned Icon to­ward the gates and so rode across the court­yard, look­ing, nei­ther back to where Mis­tress Deb­orah al­ter­nate­ly wrung her hands and shook her fist at Zachary; nor to right or left, where Mark and Beau­mont, stand­ing with doffed caps wait­ed till she should have passed, to yield to the full en­joy­ment of Mis­tress Deb­orah's ges­tures, and of Mas­ter Zachary's dis­com­fi­ture.

She rode forth look­ing straight be­fore her, over the point­ed ears of Icon. She was rid­ing to Hugh, and, they who stood by must not see the love-​light in her eyes.

Grave and serene, her head held high, she paced the white pal­frey through the gates. And if the porter marked a won­drous shin­ing in her eyes--well, the sun be­gan to slant its rays, and she rode straight to­ward the west.

Zachary mount­ed the steps and has­tened across the hall, fol­lowed by Deb­orah.

Mark there­upon en­act­ed Mis­tress Deb­orah, and Beau­mont, Mas­ter Zachary; while the page sat down on the steps to laugh.

The porter clanged to the gates.

The day's work was done.