The path which the young clerk had now to follow lay through a magnificent forest of the very heaviest timber, where the giant bowls of oak and of beech1 formed long aisles2 in every direction, shooting up their huge branches to build the majestic3 arches of Nature's own cathedral. Beneath lay a broad carpet of the softest and greenest moss4, flecked over with fallen leaves, but yielding pleasantly to the foot of the traveller. The track which guided him was one so seldom used that in places it lost itself entirely5 among the grass, to reappear as a reddish rut between the distant tree trunks. It was very still here in the heart of the woodlands. The gentle rustle6 of the branches and the distant cooing of pigeons were the only sounds which broke in upon the silence, save that once Alleyne heard afar off a merry call upon a hunting bugle7 and the shrill8 yapping of the hounds.
It was not without some emotion that he looked upon the scene around him, for, in spite of his secluded9 life, he knew enough of the ancient greatness of his own family to be aware that the time had been when they had held undisputed and paramount10 sway over all that tract11 of country. His father could trace his pure Saxon lineage back to that Godfrey Malf who had held the manors12 of Bisterne and of Minstead at the time when the Norman first set mailed foot upon English soil. The afforestation of the district, however, and its conversion13 into a royal demesne14 had clipped off a large section of his estate, while other parts had been confiscated15 as a punishment for his supposed complicity in an abortive16 Saxon rising. The fate of the ancestor had been typical of that of his descendants. During three hundred years their domains17 had gradually contracted, sometimes through royal or feudal18 encroachment19, and sometimes through such gifts to the Church as that with which Alleyne's father had opened the doors of Beaulieu Abbey to his younger son. The importance of the family had thus dwindled20, but they still retained the old Saxon manor-house, with a couple of farms and a grove21 large enough to afford pannage to a hundred pigs—“sylva de centum porcis,” as the old family parchments describe it. Above all, the owner of the soil could still hold his head high as the veritable Socman of Minstead—that is, as holding the land in free socage, with no feudal superior, and answerable to no man lower than the king. Knowing this, Alleyne felt some little glow of worldly pride as he looked for the first time upon the land with which so many generations of his ancestors had been associated. He pushed on the quicker, twirling his staff merrily, and looking out at every turn of the path for some sign of the old Saxon residence. He was suddenly arrested, however, by the appearance of a wild-looking fellow armed with a club, who sprang out from behind a tree and barred his passage. He was a rough, powerful peasant, with cap and tunic23 of untanned sheepskin, leather breeches, and galligaskins round legs and feet.
“Stand!” he shouted, raising his heavy cudgel to enforce the order. “Who are you who walk so freely through the wood? Whither would you go, and what is your errand?”
“Why should I answer your questions, my friend?” said Alleyne, standing24 on his guard.
“Because your tongue may save your pate25. But where have I looked upon your face before?”
“No longer ago than last night at the 'Pied Merlin,'” the clerk answered, recognizing the escaped serf who had been so outspoken26 as to his wrongs.
“By the Virgin28! yes. You were the little clerk who sat so mum in the corner, and then cried fy on the gleeman. What hast in the scrip?”
“Naught of any price.”
“How can I tell that, clerk? Let me see.”
“Not I.”
“Fool! I could pull you limb from limb like a pullet. What would you have? Hast forgot that we are alone far from all men? How can your clerkship help you? Wouldst lose scrip and life too?”
“I will part with neither without fight.”
“A fight, quotha? A fight betwixt spurred cock and new hatched chicken! Thy fighting days may soon be over.”
“Hadst asked me in the name of charity I would have given freely,” cried Alleyne. “As it stands, not one farthing shall you have with my free will, and when I see my brother, the Socman of Minstead, he will raise hue30 and cry from vill to vill, from hundred to hundred, until you are taken as a common robber and a scourge31 to the country.”
The outlaw32 sank his club. “The Socman's brother!” he gasped33. “Now, by the keys of Peter! I had rather that hand withered34 and tongue was palsied ere I had struck or miscalled you. If you are the Socman's brother you are one of the right side, I warrant, for all your clerkly dress.”
“His brother I am,” said Alleyne. “But if I were not, is that reason why you should molest35 me on the king's ground?”
“I give not the pip of an apple for king or for noble,” cried the serf passionately36. “Ill have I had from them, and ill I shall repay them. I am a good friend to my friends, and, by the Virgin! an evil foeman to my foes39.”
“And therefore the worst of foemen to thyself,” said Alleyne. “But I pray you, since you seem to know him, to point out to me the shortest path to my brother's house.”
The serf was about to reply, when the clear ringing call of a bugle burst from the wood close behind them, and Alleyne caught sight for an instant of the dun side and white breast of a lordly stag glancing swiftly betwixt the distant tree trunks. A minute later came the shaggy deer-hounds, a dozen or fourteen of them, running on a hot scent40, with nose to earth and tail in air. As they streamed past the silent forest around broke suddenly into loud life, with galloping42 of hoofs43, crackling of brushwood, and the short, sharp cries of the hunters. Close behind the pack rode a fourrier and a yeoman-pricker, whooping44 on the laggards45 and encouraging the leaders, in the shrill half-French jargon46 which was the language of venery and woodcraft. Alleyne was still gazing after them, listening to the loud “Hyke-a-Bayard! Hyke-a-Pomers! Hyke-a-Lebryt!” with which they called upon their favorite hounds, when a group of horsemen crashed out through the underwood at the very spot where the serf and he were standing.
The one who led was a man between fifty and sixty years of age, war-worn and weather-beaten, with a broad, thoughtful forehead and eyes which shone brightly from under his fierce and overhung brows. His beard, streaked47 thickly with gray, bristled48 forward from his chin, and spoke27 of a passionate37 nature, while the long, finely cut face and firm mouth marked the leader of men. His figure was erect49 and soldierly, and he rode his horse with the careless grace of a man whose life had been spent in the saddle. In common garb50, his masterful face and flashing eye would have marked him as one who was born to rule; but now, with his silken tunic powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his velvet51 mantle52 lined with the royal minever, and the lions of England stamped in silver upon his harness, none could fail to recognize the noble Edward, most warlike and powerful of all the long line of fighting monarchs54 who had ruled the Anglo-Norman race. Alleyne doffed55 hat and bowed head at the sight of him, but the serf folded his hands and leaned them upon his cudgel, looking with little love at the knot of nobles and knights58-in-waiting who rode behind the king.
“Ha!” cried Edward, reining59 up for an instant his powerful black steed. “Le cerf est passe? Non? Ici, Brocas; tu parles Anglais.”
“The deer, clowns?” said a hard-visaged, swarthy-faced man, who rode at the king's elbow. “If ye have headed it back it is as much as your ears are worth.”
“It passed by the blighted60 beech there,” said Alleyne, pointing, “and the hounds were hard at its heels.”
“It is well,” cried Edward, still speaking in French: for, though he could understand English, he had never learned to express himself in so barbarous and unpolished a tongue. “By my faith, sirs,” he continued, half turning in his saddle to address his escort, “unless my woodcraft is sadly at fault, it is a stag of six tines and the finest that we have roused this journey. A golden St. Hubert to the man who is the first to sound the mort.” He shook his bridle61 as he spoke, and thundered away, his knights lying low upon their horses and galloping as hard as whip and spur would drive them, in the hope of winning the king's prize. Away they drove down the long green glade62—bay horses, black and gray, riders clad in every shade of velvet, fur, or silk, with glint of brazen63 horn and flash of knife and spear. One only lingered, the black-browed Baron64 Brocas, who, making a gambade which brought him within arm-sweep of the serf, slashed65 him across the face with his riding-whip. “Doff, dog, doff,” he hissed66, “when a monarch53 deigns67 to lower his eyes to such as you!”—then spurred through the underwood and was gone, with a gleam of steel shoes and flutter of dead leaves.
The villein took the cruel blow without wince68 or cry, as one to whom stripes are a birthright and an inheritance. His eyes flashed, however, and he shook his bony hand with a fierce wild gesture after the retreating figure.
“Black hound of Gascony,” he muttered, “evil the day that you and those like you set foot in free England! I know thy kennel69 of Rochecourt. The night will come when I may do to thee and thine what you and your class have wrought70 upon mine and me. May God smite71 me if I fail to smite thee, thou French robber, with thy wife and thy child and all that is under thy castle roof!”
“Forbear!” cried Alleyne. “Mix not God's name with these unhallowed threats! And yet it was a coward's blow, and one to stir the blood and loose the tongue of the most peaceful. Let me find some soothing72 simples and lay them on the weal to draw the sting.”
“Nay73, there is but one thing that can draw the sting, and that the future may bring to me. But, clerk, if you would see your brother you must on, for there is a meeting to-day, and his merry men will await him ere the shadows turn from west to east. I pray you not to hold him back, for it would be an evil thing if all the stout74 lads were there and the leader a-missing. I would come with you, but sooth to say I am stationed here and may not move. The path over yonder, betwixt the oak and the thorn, should bring you out into his nether75 field.”
Alleyne lost no time in following the directions of the wild, masterless man, whom he left among the trees where he had found him. His heart was the heavier for the encounter, not only because all bitterness and wrath76 were abhorrent77 to his gentle nature, but also because it disturbed him to hear his brother spoken of as though he were a chief of outlaws78 or the leader of a party against the state. Indeed, of all the things which he had seen yet in the world to surprise him there was none more strange than the hate which class appeared to bear to class. The talk of laborer79, woodman and villein in the inn had all pointed80 to the wide-spread mutiny, and now his brother's name was spoken as though he were the very centre of the universal discontent. In good truth, the commons throughout the length and breadth of the land were heart-weary of this fine game of chivalry81 which had been played so long at their expense. So long as knight57 and baron were a strength and a guard to the kingdom they might be endured, but now, when all men knew that the great battles in France had been won by English yeomen and Welsh stabbers, warlike fame, the only fame to which his class had ever aspired82, appeared to have deserted83 the plate-clad horsemen. The sports of the lists had done much in days gone by to impress the minds of the people, but the plumed84 and unwieldy champion was no longer an object either of fear or of reverence85 to men whose fathers and brothers had shot into the press at Crecy or Poitiers, and seen the proudest chivalry in the world unable to make head against the weapons of disciplined peasants. Power had changed hands. The protector had become the protected, and the whole fabric86 of the feudal system was tottering87 to a fall. Hence the fierce mutterings of the lower classes and the constant discontent, breaking out into local tumult88 and outrage89, and culminating some years later in the great rising of Tyler. What Alleyne saw and wondered at in Hampshire would have appealed equally to the traveller in any other English county from the Channel to the marches of Scotland.
He was following the track, his misgivings90 increasing with every step which took him nearer to that home which he had never seen, when of a sudden the trees began to thin and the sward to spread out onto a broad, green lawn, where five cows lay in the sunshine and droves of black swine wandered unchecked. A brown forest stream swirled91 down the centre of this clearing, with a rude bridge flung across it, and on the other side was a second field sloping up to a long, low-lying wooden house, with thatched roof and open squares for windows. Alleyne gazed across at it with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes—for this, he knew, must be the home of his fathers. A wreath of blue smoke floated up through a hole in the thatch92, and was the only sign of life in the place, save a great black hound which lay sleeping chained to the door-post. In the yellow shimmer93 of the autumn sunshine it lay as peacefully and as still as he had oft pictured it to himself in his dreams.
He was roused, however, from his pleasant reverie by the sound of voices, and two people emerged from the forest some little way to his right and moved across the field in the direction of the bridge. The one was a man with yellow flowing beard and very long hair of the same tint94 drooping95 over his shoulders; his dress of good Norwich cloth and his assured bearing marked him as a man of position, while the sombre hue of his clothes and the absence of all ornament96 contrasted with the flash and glitter which had marked the king's retinue97. By his side walked a woman, tall and slight and dark, with lithe98, graceful99 figure and clear-cut, composed features. Her jet-black hair was gathered back under a light pink coif, her head poised100 proudly upon her neck, and her step long and springy, like that of some wild, tireless woodland creature. She held her left hand in front of her, covered with a red velvet glove, and on the wrist a little brown falcon101, very fluffy102 and bedraggled, which she smoothed and fondled as she walked. As she came out into the sunshine, Alleyne noticed that her light gown, slashed with pink, was all stained with earth and with moss upon one side from shoulder to hem38. He stood in the shadow of an oak staring at her with parted lips, for this woman seemed to him to be the most beautiful and graceful creature that mind could conceive of. Such had he imagined the angels, and such he had tried to paint them in the Beaulieu missals; but here there was something human, were it only in the battered103 hawk104 and discolored dress, which sent a tingle105 and thrill through his nerves such as no dream of radiant and stainless106 spirit had ever yet been able to conjure107 up. Good, quiet, uncomplaining mother Nature, long slighted and miscalled, still bides108 her time and draws to her bosom110 the most errant of her children.
The two walked swiftly across the meadow to the narrow bridge, he in front and she a pace or two behind. There they paused, and stood for a few minutes face to face talking earnestly. Alleyne had read and had heard of love and of lovers. Such were these, doubtless—this golden-bearded man and the fair damsel with the cold, proud face. Why else should they wander together in the woods, or be so lost in talk by rustic111 streams? And yet as he watched, uncertain whether to advance from the cover or to choose some other path to the house, he soon came to doubt the truth of this first conjecture112. The man stood, tall and square, blocking the entrance to the bridge, and throwing out his hands as he spoke in a wild eager fashion, while the deep tones of his stormy voice rose at times into accents of menace and of anger. She stood fearlessly in front of him, still stroking her bird; but twice she threw a swift questioning glance over her shoulder, as one who is in search of aid. So moved was the young clerk by these mute appeals, that he came forth113 from the trees and crossed the meadow, uncertain what to do, and yet loth to hold back from one who might need his aid. So intent were they upon each other that neither took note of his approach; until, when he was close upon them, the man threw his arm roughly round the damsel's waist and drew her towards him, she straining her lithe, supple114 figure away and striking fiercely at him, while the hooded115 hawk screamed with ruffled116 wings and pecked blindly in its mistress's defence. Bird and maid, however, had but little chance against their assailant who, laughing loudly, caught her wrist in one hand while he drew her towards him with the other.
“The best rose has ever the longest thorns,” said he. “Quiet, little one, or you may do yourself a hurt. Must pay Saxon toll117 on Saxon land, my proud Maude, for all your airs and graces.”
“You boor118!” she hissed. “You base underbred clod! Is this your care and your hospitality? I would rather wed56 a branded serf from my father's fields. Leave go, I say——Ah! good youth, Heaven has sent you. Make him loose me! By the honor of your mother, I pray you to stand by me and to make this knave119 loose me.”
“Stand by you I will, and that blithely,” said Alleyne. “Surely, sir, you should take shame to hold the damsel against her will.”
The man turned a face upon him which was lion-like in its strength and in its wrath. With his tangle120 of golden hair, his fierce blue eyes, and his large, well-marked features, he was the most comely121 man whom Alleyne had ever seen, and yet there was something so sinister122 and so fell in his expression that child or beast might well have shrunk from him. His brows were drawn123, his cheek flushed, and there was a mad sparkle in his eyes which spoke of a wild, untamable nature.
“Young fool!” he cried, holding the woman still to his side, though every line of her shrinking figure spoke her abhorrence124. “Do you keep your spoon in your own broth29. I rede you to go on your way, lest worse befall you. This little wench has come with me and with me she shall bide109.”
“Liar!” cried the woman; and, stooping her head, she suddenly bit fiercely into the broad brown hand which held her. He whipped it back with an oath, while she tore herself free and slipped behind Alleyne, cowering125 up against him like the trembling leveret who sees the falcon poising126 for the swoop127 above him.
“Stand off my land!” the man said fiercely, heedless of the blood which trickled129 freely from his fingers. “What have you to do here? By your dress you should be one of those cursed clerks who overrun the land like vile130 rats, poking131 and prying132 into other men's concerns, too caitiff to fight and too lazy to work. By the rood! if I had my will upon ye, I should nail you upon the abbey doors, as they hang vermin before their holes. Art neither man nor woman, young shaveling. Get thee back to thy fellows ere I lay hands upon you: for your foot is on my land, and I may slay133 you as a common draw-latch.”
“Is this your land, then?” gasped Alleyne.
“Would you dispute it, dog? Would you wish by trick or quibble to juggle134 me out of these last acres? Know, base-born knave, that you have dared this day to stand in the path of one whose race have been the advisers135 of kings and the leaders of hosts, ere ever this vile crew of Norman robbers came into the land, or such half-blood hounds as you were let loose to preach that the thief should have his booty and the honest man should sin if he strove to win back his own.”
“You are the Socman of Minstead?”
“That am I; and the son of Edric the Socman, of the pure blood of Godfrey the thane, by the only daughter of the house of Aluric, whose forefathers136 held the white-horse banner at the fatal fight where our shield was broken and our sword shivered. I tell you, clerk, that my folk held this land from Bramshaw Wood to the Ringwood road; and, by the soul of my father! it will be a strange thing if I am to be bearded upon the little that is left of it. Begone, I say, and meddle137 not with my affair.”
“If you leave me now,” whispered the woman, “then shame forever upon your manhood.”
“Surely, sir,” said Alleyne, speaking in as persuasive138 and soothing a way as he could, “if your birth is gentle, there is the more reason that your manners should be gentle too. I am well persuaded that you did but jest with this lady, and that you will now permit her to leave your land either alone or with me as a guide, if she should need one, through the wood. As to birth, it does not become me to boast, and there is sooth in what you say as to the unworthiness of clerks, but it is none the less true that I am as well born as you.”
“Dog!” cried the furious Socman, “there is no man in the south who can say as much.”
“Yet can I,” said Alleyne smiling; “for indeed I also am the son of Edric the Socman, of the pure blood of Godfrey the thane, by the only daughter of Aluric of Brockenhurst. Surely, dear brother,” he continued, holding out his hand, “you have a warmer greeting than this for me. There are but two boughs139 left upon this old, old Saxon trunk.”
His elder brother dashed his hand aside with an oath, while an expression of malignant140 hatred141 passed over his passion-drawn features. “You are the young cub142 of Beaulieu, then,” said he. “I might have known it by the sleek143 face and the slavish manner too monk-ridden and craven in spirit to answer back a rough word. Thy father, shaveling, with all his faults, had a man's heart; and there were few who could look him in the eyes on the day of his anger. But you! Look there, rat, on yonder field where the cows graze, and on that other beyond, and on the orchard145 hard by the church. Do you know that all these were squeezed out of your dying father by greedy priests, to pay for your upbringing in the cloisters146? I, the Socman, am shorn of my lands that you may snivel Latin and eat bread for which you never did hand's turn. You rob me first, and now you would come preaching and whining147, in search mayhap of another field or two for your priestly friends. Knave! my dogs shall be set upon you; but, meanwhile, stand out of my path, and stop me at your peril148!” As he spoke he rushed forward, and, throwing the lad to one side, caught the woman's wrist. Alleyne, however, as active as a young deer-hound, sprang to her aid and seized her by the other arm, raising his iron-shod staff as he did so.
“You may say what you will to me,” he said between his clenched149 teeth—“it may be no better than I deserve; but, brother or no, I swear by my hopes of salvation150 that I will break your arm if you do not leave hold of the maid.”
There was a ring in his voice and a flash in his eyes which promised that the blow would follow quick at the heels of the word. For a moment the blood of the long line of hot-headed thanes was too strong for the soft whisperings of the doctrine151 of meekness152 and mercy. He was conscious of a fierce wild thrill through his nerves and a throb154 of mad gladness at his heart, as his real human self burst for an instant the bonds of custom and of teaching which had held it so long. The socman sprang back, looking to left and to right for some stick or stone which might serve him for weapon; but finding none, he turned and ran at the top of his speed for the house, blowing the while upon a shrill whistle.
“Come!” gasped the woman. “Fly, friend, ere he come back.”
“Nay, let him come!” cried Alleyne. “I shall not budge155 a foot for him or his dogs.”
“Come, come!” she cried, tugging156 at his arm. “I know the man: he will kill you. Come, for the Virgin's sake, or for my sake, for I cannot go and leave you here.”
“Come, then,” said he; and they ran together to the cover of the woods. As they gained the edge of the brushwood, Alleyne, looking back, saw his brother come running out of the house again, with the sun gleaming upon his hair and his beard. He held something which flashed in his right hand, and he stooped at the threshold to unloose the black hound.
“This way!” the woman whispered, in a low eager voice. “Through the bushes to that forked ash. Do not heed128 me; I can run as fast as you, I trow. Now into the stream—right in, over ankles, to throw the dog off, though I think it is but a common cur, like its master.” As she spoke, she sprang herself into the shallow stream and ran swiftly up the centre of it, with the brown water bubbling over her feet and her hand out-stretched toward the clinging branches of bramble or sapling. Alleyne followed close at her heels, with his mind in a whirl at this black welcome and sudden shifting of all his plans and hopes. Yet, grave as were his thoughts, they would still turn to wonder as he looked at the twinkling feet of his guide and saw her lithe figure bend this way and that, dipping under boughs, springing over stones, with a lightness and ease which made it no small task for him to keep up with her. At last, when he was almost out of breath, she suddenly threw herself down upon a mossy bank, between two holly-bushes, and looked ruefully at her own dripping feet and bedraggled skirt.
“Holy Mary!” said she, “what shall I do? Mother will keep me to my chamber157 for a month, and make me work at the tapestry158 of the nine bold knights. She promised as much last week, when I fell into Wilverley bog159, and yet she knows that I cannot abide160 needle-work.”
Alleyne, still standing in the stream, glanced down at the graceful pink-and-white figure, the curve of raven-black hair, and the proud, sensitive face which looked up frankly161 and confidingly162 at his own.
“We had best on,” he said. “He may yet overtake us.”
“Not so. We are well off his land now, nor can he tell in this great wood which way we have taken. But you—you had him at your mercy. Why did you not kill him?”
“Kill him! My brother!”
“And why not?”—with a quick gleam of her white teeth. “He would have killed you. I know him, and I read it in his eyes. Had I had your staff I would have tried—aye, and done it, too.” She shook her clenched white hand as she spoke, and her lips tightened163 ominously164.
“I am already sad in heart for what I have done,” said he, sitting down on the bank, and sinking his face into his hands. “God help me!—all that is worst in me seemed to come uppermost. Another instant, and I had smitten165 him: the son of my own mother, the man whom I have longed to take to my heart. Alas166! that I should still be so weak.”
“Weak!” she exclaimed, raising her black eyebrows167. “I do not think that even my father himself, who is a hard judge of manhood, would call you that. But it is, as you may think, sir, a very pleasant thing for me to hear that you are grieved at what you have done, and I can but rede that we should go back together, and you should make your peace with the Socman by handing back your prisoner. It is a sad thing that so small a thing as a woman should come between two who are of one blood.”
Simple Alleyne opened his eyes at this little spurt168 of feminine bitterness. “Nay, lady,” said he, “that were worst of all. What man would be so caitiff and thrall169 as to fail you at your need? I have turned my brother against me, and now, alas! I appear to have given you offence also with my clumsy tongue. But, indeed, lady, I am torn both ways, and can scarce grasp in my mind what it is that has befallen.”
“Nor can I marvel170 at that,” said she, with a little tinkling171 laugh. “You came in as the knight does in the jongleur's romances, between dragon and damsel, with small time for the asking of questions. Come,” she went on, springing to her feet, and smoothing down her rumpled172 frock, “let us walk through the shaw together, and we may come upon Bertrand with the horses. If poor Troubadour had not cast a shoe, we should not have had this trouble. Nay, I must have your arm: for, though I speak lightly, now that all is happily over I am as frightened as my brave Roland. See how his chest heaves, and his dear feathers all awry—the little knight who would not have his lady mishandled.” So she prattled173 on to her hawk, while Alleyne walked by her side, stealing a glance from time to time at this queenly and wayward woman. In silence they wandered together over the velvet turf and on through the broad Minstead woods, where the old lichen-draped beeches174 threw their circles of black shadow upon the sunlit sward.
“You have no wish, then, to hear my story?” said she, at last.
“If it pleases you to tell it me,” he answered.
“Oh!” she cried tossing her head, “if it is of so little interest to you, we had best let it bide.”
“Nay,” said he eagerly, “I would fain hear it.”
“You have a right to know it, if you have lost a brother's favor through it. And yet——Ah well, you are, as I understand, a clerk, so I must think of you as one step further in orders, and make you my father-confessor. Know then that this man has been a suitor for my hand, less as I think for my own sweet sake than because he hath ambition and had it on his mind that he might improve his fortunes by dipping into my father's strong box—though the Virgin knows that he would have found little enough therein. My father, however, is a proud man, a gallant175 knight and tried soldier of the oldest blood, to whom this man's churlish birth and low descent——Oh, lackaday! I had forgot that he was of the same strain as yourself.”
“Nay, trouble not for that,” said Alleyne, “we are all from good mother Eve.”
“Streams may spring from one source, and yet some be clear and some be foul,” quoth she quickly. “But, to be brief over the matter, my father would have none of his wooing, nor in sooth would I. On that he swore a vow176 against us, and as he is known to be a perilous177 man, with many outlaws and others at his back, my father forbade that I should hawk or hunt in any part of the wood to the north of the Christchurch road. As it chanced, however, this morning my little Roland here was loosed at a strong-winged heron, and page Bertrand and I rode on, with no thoughts but for the sport, until we found ourselves in Minstead woods. Small harm then, but that my horse Troubadour trod with a tender foot upon a sharp stick, rearing and throwing me to the ground. See to my gown, the third that I have befouled within the week. Woe178 worth me when Agatha the tire-woman sets eyes upon it!”
“And what then, lady?” asked Alleyne.
“Why, then away ran Troubadour, for belike I spurred him in falling, and Bertrand rode after him as hard as hoofs could bear him. When I rose there was the Socman himself by my side, with the news that I was on his land, but with so many courteous179 words besides, and such gallant bearing, that he prevailed upon me to come to his house for shelter, there to wait until the page return. By the grace of the Virgin and the help of my patron St. Magdalen, I stopped short ere I reached his door, though, as you saw, he strove to hale me up to it. And then—ah-h-h-h!”—she shivered and chattered180 like one in an ague-fit.
“What is it?” cried Alleyne, looking about in alarm.
“Nothing, friend, nothing! I was but thinking how I bit into his hand. Sooner would I bite living toad181 or poisoned snake. Oh, I shall loathe182 my lips forever! But you—how brave you were, and how quick! How meek153 for yourself, and how bold for a stranger! If I were a man, I should wish to do what you have done.”
“It was a small thing,” he answered, with a tingle of pleasure at these sweet words of praise. “But you—what will you do?”
“There is a great oak near here, and I think that Bertrand will bring the horses there, for it is an old hunting-tryst of ours. Then hey for home, and no more hawking183 to-day! A twelve-mile gallop41 will dry feet and skirt.”
“But your father?”
“Not one word shall I tell him. You do not know him; but I can tell you he is not a man to disobey as I have disobeyed him. He would avenge184 me, it is true, but it is not to him that I shall look for vengeance185. Some day, perchance, in joust186 or in tourney, knight may wish to wear my colors, and then I shall tell him that if he does indeed crave144 my favor there is wrong unredressed, and the wronger the Socman of Minstead. So my knight shall find a venture such as bold knights love, and my debt shall be paid, and my father none the wiser, and one rogue187 the less in the world. Say, is not that a brave plan?”
“Nay, lady, it is a thought which is unworthy of you. How can such as you speak of violence and of vengeance. Are none to be gentle and kind, none to be piteous and forgiving? Alas! it is a hard, cruel world, and I would that I had never left my abbey cell. To hear such words from your lips is as though I heard an angel of grace preaching the devil's own creed188.”
She started from him as a young colt who first feels the bit. “Gramercy for your rede, young sir!” she said, with a little curtsey. “As I understand your words, you are grieved that you ever met me, and look upon me as a preaching devil. Why, my father is a bitter man when he is wroth, but hath never called me such a name as that. It may be his right and duty, but certes it is none of thine. So it would be best, since you think so lowly of me, that you should take this path to the left while I keep on upon this one; for it is clear that I can be no fit companion for you.” So saying, with downcast lids and a dignity which was somewhat marred189 by her bedraggled skirt, she swept off down the muddy track, leaving Alleyne standing staring ruefully after her. He waited in vain for some backward glance or sign of relenting, but she walked on with a rigid190 neck until her dress was only a white flutter among the leaves. Then, with a sunken head and a heavy heart, he plodded191 wearily down the other path, wroth with himself for the rude and uncouth192 tongue which had given offence where so little was intended.
He had gone some way, lost in doubt and in self-reproach, his mind all tremulous with a thousand new-found thoughts and fears and wonderments, when of a sudden there was a light rustle of the leaves behind him, and, glancing round, there was this graceful, swift-footed creature, treading in his very shadow, with her proud head bowed, even as his was—the picture of humility193 and repentance194.
“I shall not vex195 you, nor even speak,” she said; “but I would fain keep with you while we are in the wood.”
“Nay, you cannot vex me,” he answered, all warm again at the very sight of her. “It was my rough words which vexed196 you; but I have been thrown among men all my life, and indeed, with all the will, I scarce know how to temper my speech to a lady's ear.”
“Then unsay it,” cried she quickly; “say that I was right to wish to have vengeance on the Socman.”
“Nay, I cannot do that,” he answered gravely.
“Then who is ungentle and unkind now?” she cried in triumph. “How stern and cold you are for one so young! Art surely no mere197 clerk, but bishop198 or cardinal199 at the least. Shouldst have crozier for staff and mitre for cap. Well, well, for your sake I will forgive the Socman and take vengeance on none but on my own wilful200 self who must needs run into danger's path. So will that please you, sir?”
“There spoke your true self,” said he; “and you will find more pleasure in such forgiveness than in any vengeance.”
She shook her head, as if by no means assured of it, and then with a sudden little cry, which had more of surprise than of joy in it, “Here is Bertrand with the horses!”
Down the glade there came a little green-clad page with laughing eyes, and long curls floating behind him. He sat perched on a high bay horse, and held on to the bridle of a spirited black palfrey, the hides of both glistening201 from a long run.
“I have sought you everywhere, dear Lady Maude,” said he in a piping voice, springing down from his horse and holding the stirrup. “Troubadour galloped202 as far as Holmhill ere I could catch him. I trust that you have had no hurt or scath?” He shot a questioning glance at Alleyne as he spoke.
“No, Bertrand,” said she, “thanks to this courteous stranger. And now, sir,” she continued, springing into her saddle, “it is not fit that I leave you without a word more. Clerk or no, you have acted this day as becomes a true knight. King Arthur and all his table could not have done more. It may be that, as some small return, my father or his kin22 may have power to advance your interest. He is not rich, but he is honored and hath great friends. Tell me what is your purpose, and see if he may not aid it.”
“Alas! lady, I have now no purpose. I have but two friends in the world, and they have gone to Christchurch, where it is likely I shall join them.”
“And where is Christchurch?”
“At the castle which is held by the brave knight, Sir Nigel Loring, constable203 to the Earl of Salisbury.”
To his surprise she burst out a-laughing, and, spurring her palfrey, dashed off down the glade, with her page riding behind her. Not one word did she say, but as she vanished amid the trees she half turned in her saddle and waved a last greeting. Long time he stood, half hoping that she might again come back to him; but the thud of the hoofs had died away, and there was no sound in all the woods but the gentle rustle and dropping of the leaves. At last he turned away and made his way back to the high-road—another person from the light-hearted boy who had left it a short three hours before.
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1
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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2
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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3
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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5
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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6
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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8
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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10
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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11
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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14
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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15
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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17
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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18
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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19
encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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20
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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22
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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23
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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24
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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25
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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26
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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27
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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28
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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29
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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30
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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31
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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32
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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33
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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34
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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35
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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36
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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38
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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39
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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40
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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41
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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42
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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43
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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45
laggards
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| n.落后者( laggard的名词复数 ) | |
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46
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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47
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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48
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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50
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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51
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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52
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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53
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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54
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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55
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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57
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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58
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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59
reining
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的现在分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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60
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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61
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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62
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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63
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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64
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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65
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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66
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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67
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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69
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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70
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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71
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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72
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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73
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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75
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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76
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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77
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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78
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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79
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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80
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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81
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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82
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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84
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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85
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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86
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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87
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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88
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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89
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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90
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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91
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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93
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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94
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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95
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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96
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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97
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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98
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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99
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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100
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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101
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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102
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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103
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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104
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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105
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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106
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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107
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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108
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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109
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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110
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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111
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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112
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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115
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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116
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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117
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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118
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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119
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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120
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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121
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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122
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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123
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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124
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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125
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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126
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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127
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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128
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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129
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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130
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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131
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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132
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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133
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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134
juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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135
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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136
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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137
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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138
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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139
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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140
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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141
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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142
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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143
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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144
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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145
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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146
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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148
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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149
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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151
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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152
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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153
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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154
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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155
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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156
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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157
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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158
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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159
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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160
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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161
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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162
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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163
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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164
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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165
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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166
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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167
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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168
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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169
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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170
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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171
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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172
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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174
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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175
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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176
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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177
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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178
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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179
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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180
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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181
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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182
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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183
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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184
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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185
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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186
joust
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| v.马上长枪比武，竞争 | |
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187
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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188
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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189
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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190
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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191
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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192
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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193
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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194
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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195
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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196
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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197
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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198
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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199
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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200
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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201
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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202
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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203
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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