The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LVIII

THE WAR­RIOR HEART

As Mo­ra turned off the high­way, and pressed Icon deep in­to the glades, she cried over and over aloud, for there was none to hear: “I go to my hus­band, and I choose to ride alone.”

How won­drous it seemed, this go­ing to him; a sec­ond giv­ing, a deep­er sur­ren­der, a fuller yield­ing.

When she went to him in the crypt, her body had re­coiled, her spir­it had shrunk, shamed, hum­bled, and un­will­ing. Her mind alone, gov­erned by her will, had driv­en her along the path of her re­solve, hold­ing her up­on the stretch­er, un­til too late to cry out or to re­turn.

Now--how dif­fer­ent! Free as air, alone, un­co­erced, even un­ex­pect­ed, she left her own home, and her own peo­ple, to ride, unat­tend­ed, straight to the arms of the man who had won her.

A wild joy seized and shook her.

The soft, mys­te­ri­ous glades, be­neath vast, leafy domes, seemed en­chant­ed ground. The hoofs of Icon thud­ded soft­ly on the moss. The still­ness seemed alive with whis­per­ing life. Rab­bits sat still to peep, then whisked and ran. Great birds rose sud­den­ly, on whirring wings. Tiny birds, fear­less, stayed on their twigs and sang.

There was scur­ry­ing among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watch­ful eyes; of life, safe­guard­ing it­self, un­seen. Yet all these var­ied sounds, Na­ture dis­turbed in the shady haunts which were her right­ful home, did but em­pha­size the vast still­ness, the ut­ter soli­tude, the com­plete re­mote­ness from hu­man dwelling-​place.

Shin­ing through part­ed boughs and slow­ly mov­ing leaves, the sun­light fell, in gold­en bars or shift­ing yel­low patch­es, on the glade.

The joy which thrilled his rid­er, seemed to com­mu­ni­cate it­self to Icon. He gal­loped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be re­strained when pass­ing be­tween great rocks, or turn­ing sharply in­to an un­seen way.

Mo­ra rode as in a dream. “I ride to my hus­band,” she cried to the for­est, “and I choose to ride alone!” And once she sang, in an ir­re­press­ible burst of praise: “_Je­su dul­sis memo­ria_!” Then, when she fell silent: “_Dul­sis_! _Dul­sis_!” car­olled un­seen cho­ris­ters in leafy cleresto­ries over­head. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid back his ears and can­tered faster.

Not far from her jour­ney's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the very heart of the pine wood.

Here the sun's rays could scarce pen­etrate; the path be­came rough and slip­pery; a hid­den stream oozed up be­tween loose stones.

Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, re­cov­ered, and slipped again.

With a sud­den rush, some wild an­imal, huge and heavy, went crash­ing through the un­der­growth.

Stealthy foot­steps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the tree trunks.

Yet this val­ley of the shad­ow held no ter­rors for the wom­an whose heart was now so bliss­ful­ly at rest.

Hav­ing left be­hind for­ev­er the dark vale of doubt and in­de­ci­sion, she mount­ed tri­umphant on the wings of trust and cer­tain­ty.

“I ride to my hus­band,” she whis­pered, as if the words were a charm which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, “and I choose to ride alone.”

With a gen­tle ca­ress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words in the anx­ious­ly point­ing ears, she en­cour­aged the pal­frey to go for­ward.

At length they round­ed a great grey rock jut­ting out in­to the path, and the up­ward slope of a mossy glade came in­to view.

With a whin­ny of plea­sure, Icon laid back his ears and broke in­to a swift can­ter.

Up the glade they flew; out in­to the sun­shine; clear in­to the open.

Here was the moor! Here the high­road, at last! And there in the dis­tance, the grey walls of Hugh's cas­tle; the por­tals of home.

* * * * * *

It was the Knight's trust­ed fos­ter-​broth­er, Mar­tin Good­fel­low, amazed, yet smil­ing a glad wel­come, who held Icon's bri­dle as Mo­ra dis­mount­ed in the court­yard.

She fon­dled the pal­frey's nose, lay­ing her cheek against his neck. For the mo­ment it be­came im­per­ative that she should hide her hap­py eyes even from this faith­ful fel­low, in whom she had learned to place en­tire con­fi­dence.

“Icon, brave and beau­ti­ful!” she whis­pered. “Thou hast car­ried me here where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-​nigh as swift as my de­sire.”

Then she turned, speak­ing quick­ly and low.

“Mar­tin, where is my hus­band? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?”

“My la­dy,” said Mar­tin, “I saw him last in the ar­moury.”

“The ar­moury?” she ques­tioned.

“A cham­ber open­ing out of the great hall, fac­ing to­ward the west, with steps lead­ing down in­to the gar­den.”

“Even as my cham­ber?”

“The ar­moury door faces the door of your cham­ber, Count­ess. The width of the hall lies be­tween.”

“Can I reach my cham­ber with­out en­ter­ing the hall, or pass­ing the ar­moury win­dows? I would rid me of my trav­el-​stains, be­fore I make my pres­ence known to Sir Hugh.”

“Pass round to the right, and through the but­tery; then you reach the gar­den and the steps up to your cham­ber from the side be­yond the ar­moury.”

“Good. Tell no one of my pres­ence, Mar­tin. I have here the key of my cham­ber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?”

“Nay, my la­dy; nor guessed how of­ten we rode hith­er. We reached the cas­tle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty gar­ments; then dined alone. Af­ter which he went in­to the ar­moury.”

“When did you see him last, Mar­tin?”

“Two min­utes ago, la­dy. I come this mo­ment from the hall.”

“What was he do­ing, Mar­tin?”

Mar­tin Good­fel­low hes­itat­ed. He knew some­thing of love, and as much as an hon­est man may know, of wom­en. He shrewd­ly sus­pi­cioned what she would ex­pect the Knight to be do­ing. He was sore­ly tempt­ed to give a fan­cy pic­ture of Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent, in his lovelorn lone­li­ness.

He looked in­to the clear eyes bent up­on him; glanced at the firm hand, ar­rest­ed for a mo­ment in its ca­ress of Icon's neck; then de­cid­ed that, though the truth might prob­ably be un­ex­pect­ed, a lie would most cer­tain­ly be un­wise.

“Truth to tell,” said Mar­tin Good­fel­low, “Sir Hugh was test­ing his ar­mour, and sharp­en­ing his bat­tle-​axe.”

As Mo­ra passed in­to the dim cool­ness of the but­tery, she was con­scious of a very def­inite sense of sur­prise. She had pic­tured Hugh in his lone­ly home, nurs­ing his hun­gry heart, be­side his des­olate hearth. She had seen her­self com­ing soft­ly be­hind him, lay­ing a ten­der hand up­on those bowed shoul­ders; then, as he lift­ed eyes in which dull de­spair would quick­ly give place to won­der­ing joy, say­ing: “Hugh, I am come home.”

But now, as she passed through the but­tery, Mo­ra had to re­alise that yet again she had failed to un­der­stand the man she loved.

It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost hap­pi­ness. If she failed him fi­nal­ly, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man, go­ing straight on, un­hin­dered by vain re­gret.

Once again her pride in him, in that he was fin­er than her own con­cep­tions, quick­ened her love, even while it hum­bled her, in her own es­ti­ma­tion, to a place at his feet.

A glo­ry of joy was on her face as, mak­ing her way through to the ter­race, now bathed in sun­set light, she passed up to the cham­ber she had pre­pared dur­ing Hugh's ab­sence.

All was as she had left it.

Fas­ten­ing the door by which she had en­tered from the gar­den, she noise­less­ly opened that which gave on to the great hall.

The hall was dark and de­sert­ed, but the door in­to the ar­moury stood ajar.

A shaft of gold­en sun­shine streamed through the half-​open door.

She heard the clang of ar­mour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she stood in her own door­way, look­ing across the hall, she heard his voice, singing, as he worked, snatch­es of the lat­est song of Blon­del, the King's Min­strel.

With beat­ing heart, Mo­ra turned and closed her door, mak­ing it fast with­in.