Olivia, Aymery’s mother, alone had known Denise’s history, and Olivia was dead. Some had said that she was the “love child” of a great lady, others a “ward” who had fled from the King’s court rather than be married to some creature who had offered the King money. But Denise was Denise, and her past was of no account, though any hind8 could have sworn that she was no peasant’s child. The cell in the beech wood had been built for her by Dame9 Olivia, and the ground about it turned into a garden. Denise had become part of the woodland life, a tender and mysterious figure that threw a glamour10 over the hearts of all.
Her coming had been soon after the great famine, when the crops had failed after a wet summer. Death had passed over the land like a plague, and in the towns the dead had lain for days unburied. The famine had left sickness behind it, sick women, and sick babes at the breast, as though the whole countryside had grown feeble for lack of bread. Denise had come down from her cell in the beech wood, a veritable Lady of Compassion11. It was not the bread that she had given, but the pity and the tenderness that had enshrined her in the hearts of all the people. It was as though she had magic power, a glory given of God and the Virgin12. Men soon spoke13 of miracles. Sick children were brought to her, and water taken from her holy spring. The abbots and priors of the south heard of her, and more than one “house” considered the value that might be set upon a saint.
Perhaps Denise’s power lay largely in her youth, for she was no ulcerous14 and lean recluse15, but a woman in the morning of her beauty, a beauty that was strange and elfin-like, rich as an autumn in red leaf. She had but to look at men, and they felt an awe16 of her; at children, and they came to her like birds to a witch. The hair under the grey hood17 had the colour of copper18, with tinges19 of red and of gold. Her eyes were between amber20 and the brown of a woodland pool, her skin so clear and white, despite the sun and the wind, that men believed her heart could be seen shining like a red gem21 beneath. Denise was tall, and broad across the bosom22. Her fingers were so long, and slim, and white, that the superstitious23 believed that pearls might drop from them, and that not even the brown soil of her garden could cling to those miraculous hands.
Denise carried her pitcher24 to the spring the morning after they had brought Waleran’s boy to her with an arrow through his heart. She stripped herself at the pool, and washed her body, scooping25 up the water in her palms, her hair knotted over her neck. Denise’s naked figure might have stood as the symbol of her womanhood, clean, comely26, unshadowed by self-consciousness. It was part of the infinite mystery of things, a mystery that dwelt in Denise’s heart, and gave her power over women and over men.
Her brown eyes were sad that morning as she slipped on her white shift and her grey gown, and went back under the beech trees to her cell. With the fragrance27 of the wild flowers and the dew came the consciousness of the rougher world within that world of hers. She remembered the flames of the night before, Waleran’s dead boy, the savage28 anguish29 of the man breaking out into bitterness and laughter. What more might not happen in the deeps of the woods? Denise was no ignorant child, she had lived in another world before Olivia had built her the cell under the Goldspur beeches30.
Denise said her prayers, worked awhile in her garden, and then brought out her orfrays of gold, and sat in the doorway31 under the deep shade of the thatch32. But though her fingers were busy with the threads, her mind was full of a spirit of watchfulness33 and of unrest. She felt as it were the stir and movement of another world beyond the towering domes34 of the trees. She had a premonition that someone would come through the wood that morning. It would be a man, and yet not Grimbald. Denise’s hands were idle awhile, and her brown eyes looked thoughtfully into the deeps of the wood.
Nor was it very wonderful that Aymery’s thoughts should turn towards Denise as a man struggles through the thick of a crowd when he sees a beloved head in danger. He and Grimbald had been at the burying of Waleran’s boy, but Aymery had left Grimbald and the rest, and ridden back to Goldspur to see Denise.
The trampling35 of his horse’s hoofs36 through the dead beech leaves came as no surprise to the woman who sat with the orfrays work of gold in her lap. She had watched her own mind, till, like a crystal, it had been full of the man’s coming. Often in her life Denise had been able to foresee the faces of those dear to her, and to feel friends near while they were still far distant. She had the gift of inward vision, though the power became lost to her later when she had suffered many humiliations.
Aymery rode out into the sunlight of the glade, and Denise could see that he was armed. A surcoat of apple green covered the ringed hauberk, though the hood of mail was turned back between his shoulders. Aymery rode his big black destrier that day, and not the rough nag37 he used for hawking38 and cantering over his lands. He looped the bridle39 over the post at the gate, and came up the path with the air of a man who has more in his heart than his lips might utter.
Denise let her work lie idle in her lap. She had had no fear of Aymery from the first, his face had become so familiar that it seemed part of the life round her, like the trees, or the hills, or the distant sea. Yet from the instant that he opened the wattle gate that morning, a sense of strangeness took hold of both of them. Each felt the change and wondered at it, so simple in its significance, and yet so strange. The shadow of a cloud lay over them for the first time. The more intimate hour had come when the man looked into the woman’s eyes and thought that thought which opens the eyes of the soul—“if any harm should befall her! If that dear head should suffer shame!”
“We have buried the boy,” he said. “That will be the beginning of a long tale.”
There was something satisfying about Aymery, a man who carried his head high, and looked fearlessly at the horizon. He had a quick yet quiet way with him had Aymery of Goldspur. Shirkers and cowards were afraid of those grey eyes of his, for they were not the eyes of a man to be trifled with or fooled.
He spoke to Denise, resting his hands on his sword, and looking at the golden orfrays work in her lap. She was leaning against the door-post, her face in the shadow, thought and feeling as intimately one as the rose and the scent40 of the rose.
“The woods are no longer safe. Peter of Savoy’s riders will be with us again. Waleran will see to that.”
“Have you proved me a coward?”
“We are cowards, Denise, where others are concerned. What do the days promise us? Waleran could not hold his house against those hired swarthies, nor can I mine; I am not fool enough to doubt it. A few arrows bearded with burning tow, the thatch alight, and the smoke and the flames would make us run like rats. It will be war in the woods where our bows can serve us, and where their men-at-arms cannot ride our peasants down.”
Denise did not answer him for a moment. Her hands were turning over the embroidery in her lap.
“I have lived with you all in the sunshine,” she said. “And now that trouble comes you would have me run away!”
“What man would not wish it?”
“But you——”
“I—I am the worst of all.”
She dropped her head suddenly as though hiding the light and colour that had rushed into her eyes and face.
“I am not afraid,” she said.
“I am”—and he shut his lips on the words—“it is human to be afraid. If you knew this scum of Gascons, Flemings, and what not, you would wish them well beyond the sea. Would to God that we could whip them out of the land. But what would you! We cannot pull down such a rock as Pevensey with our hands. These castles that the King’s men hold for him are too strong for us to meddle42 with. It is they who will do the meddling43, and what do these hired men care for what we honour? You will be on the edge of a pit here. Women are best away when swords are out.”
He bent44 towards her, looking down into her face, his manhood shining out on her, strong and honest, denying itself the right of a romantic beast.
“Come with me, and I will guard you against all Christendom.” A weaker and vainer man might have spoken in such heroics. Aymery knew what he knew. Denise would be safer away from him when such men as Waleran were to be his brethren-in-arms.
“I tell you the truth, Denise, because——”
She looked up at him suddenly, and their eyes met. Denise saw the deeper truth, that great mystery of life that cannot hide itself from the eyes of a woman.
“Lord, what shall I say to you?”
He spread his arms.
“Say nothing. Do what I, Grimbald, all, desire. I have good friends at Winchelsea. You will be safe there. The King wishes to win the Cinque Ports over. He will not be rough with them, as yet. They are too precious to be ravaged45.”
Denise looked at the sky beyond the boughs46 of the beech trees, letting her hands hang over her knees.
“Denise, I also am obstinate.”
“I would not have you otherwise. And yet, how can I shirk the truth that I shall be deserting you all the moment trouble comes?”
He smiled at her, and shook his head.
“Should we be the happier if you fell into the hands of Peter of Savoy? No. That is unthinkable! I would rather see you—dead like Waleran’s boy—before they carried you into Pevensey! Good God, you, to be touched by such hands!”
Denise understood all that was in his heart. She crossed herself as though against the evil things of the world.
“Lord,” she said, “let there be this promise between us. If Goldspur is threatened, then—I will do what you desire. When the people take to the woods, I shall feel less of a coward. They shall not say that I fled from a shadow.”
And thus it was agreed between them, Aymery riding back through the woods towards Goldspur, the face of Denise more wonderful to him than it had ever seemed before. Aymery had come by the truth that morning, and the world had a mystery—the mystery of the tenderness of spring.
Close by Goldspur village, on the edge of the manor48 ploughlands, he met Grimbald, who had come in search of him. The priest’s face had the look of a stormy and ominous49 sky. He took Aymery’s bridle, and turned back with him towards the village.
“Waleran has gone towards Pevensey,” he said. “We must be ready for a whirlwind when such storm-cocks are on the wing.”
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1
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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scythed
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| v.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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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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ulcerous
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| adj.溃疡性的，患溃疡的 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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scooping
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| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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26
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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32
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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33
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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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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37
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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38
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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39
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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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
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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42
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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43
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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45
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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46
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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47
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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48
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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49
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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