“Madame,” said he, looking her coolly in the face, “it is every man’s privilege to see that he is not fooled. Let us be merciful to one another. You will find a horse at the gate.”
Now Etoile might have persuaded most men with her beauty, but in my Lord Peter’s eyes there was a look that told her that he would use steel if she made a mocking of his pride. She smothered4 her words, and dissembled her wrath5 before him, for he was too cold and clever a man to be treated as she would have treated Gaillard. “Go,” his eyes said to her, “and be thankful in the going.” And Etoile hid her rage, and went, half wondering the while whether some man had orders to stab her in the back.
Then Peter of Savoy sent for Messire Gaillard, but the Gascon had become suddenly discreet6, and betaken himself early to the stable.
His master snapped his fingers.
“Let the fool go,” he said. “Madame will need company on the road to the devil.”
One of his gentlemen, a very young man, showed some concern for the Lady of the Peacocks.
“Will you turn her out next to naked, sire?”
Peter of Savoy laughed in his face.
“Are you a fool, also, Raymond? Go with her if it pleases you, you will have to fight the Gascon. God knows, I would prevent no man drinking green wine.”
So they turned Etoile out of Pevensey, suffering her to take nothing with her but the horse, the clothes she rode in, a little money, and such jewels as were hers.
Peter of Savoy had not judged the case amiss, for if Raymond of the Easy Heart had followed Dame3 Etoile some miles that morning, he would have found Gaillard waiting for her under the shade of a beech8 wood near the road. But at first Etoile would not look at the man, for her anger was still hot in her because of all that had passed. She reviled9 Gaillard without mercy, letting the whip of her tongue flay10 him as he rode along beside her horse, half loving her and half hating her for her taunts11 and for her fury.
Whether Gaillard spoke12 up well for himself, or whether Etoile began to consider her necessity, it came about that she gave up mocking him, and let him ride more peaceably beside her. Probably it was not what Gaillard said, but what Etoile thought that brought them to softer speaking. The woman looked at once to the future, and the future to her was a forecasting of the importunities of self. Here was she, worse off in pride than any beggar woman, she whom Peter of Savoy had brought with pomp and homage13 out of the South. Gaillard had brought all this upon her, and Gaillard seemed her necessity since she was set adrift in a strange land. Perhaps she loved him a very little, with the treacherous14, transient love of a leopardess. For the present he must serve her. The husk of to-day might be the gold shoe of the morrow.
Matters were so well mended between them that they halted to rest under the shade of a tree. And there Gaillard knelt in his foolish, passionate way, and swore many oaths on the cross of his sword. Etoile curled her lip at him, and bade him save his breath. She was in no mood for such philanderings, and had other thoughts in her head.
“Come, Messire Gaillard,” said she, “you and I must understand each other if we are to travel the road together. Those who are turned out of doors must learn to face rough weather.”
Gaillard showed his temper by pulling out a purse, and pouring the gold in it at her feet.
“Such stuff is to be won. I will fight to win pay for you, my desire, as never man fought before.”
Etoile touched the money contemptuously with her foot.
“Put it back again, you may need it.”
Gaillard shrugged15, and humoured her. He spun16 one of the coins, caught it, and balanced it on his thumb.
“A woman is made a wife for less,” he said.
“And kept, for less. Listen, fool, we are not a girl and a boy.”
She spoke to Gaillard a long while, looking in his eyes as she spoke. At first Gaillard carried his head sulkily, but little pleased with what she said. Presently his eyes began to glitter, he protruded17 his chin, and once more his shoulders seemed ready to swagger. Before Etoile had ended she had made him her man, ready to skip to the tune18 she piped.
“Splendour of God!” and he began to laugh. “That is a game after my own heart. In a year the King shall give us the best of his castles. What Fulk de Brauté did, I can do even better.”
He sprang up, happy, vain, and audacious, not thinking to read into the deeps of Etoile’s eyes.
“You are a great man, my Gaillard,” she said. “You and I shall make our fortunes without waiting for Peter’s pence.”
Hardly three leagues away from these two worldlings the Church took cognizance of holier things, and sought to boast of a miracle at the hands of Denise. More than a month had passed since the Lady of Healing, as the folk called her, had knelt at midnight before the altar, and offered her body to the glory of God. Dom Silvius, dreaming his dreams, and chaffering over his ambitions, thought the time ripe for Denise to prove her sanctity. For a month she had been left in solitude19 to commune with the saints, save that an Abbey servant had daily brought her food and drink. The thoughts of all the people turned to the thorn hedge and the brown thatched cell that stood on the northern slope of Mountjoye Hill; and human nature being self-seeking, especially in its prayers, each soul had some hope of profiting by the miraculous20 hands of Denise.
While Etoile and Gaillard rode together in the course of adventure, Dom Silvius came to Virgin’s Croft, and a servant with him bearing a young child in his arms. Several women followed devoutly21 at the almoner’s heels, keeping their distance because of Dom Silvius’s carefulness towards the sex. The child was said to be possessed22 by a devil, and when a fit took him he would fall down foaming23, struggle awhile, and then lie like one dead. The devil had brought him to such a pass, that he seemed frailer24 and feebler after each seizure25. The boy was the only son of his mother, the brawny26 wife of a still more brawny smith, and they had great hopes for the child now that Denise had come.
Silvius had the child laid before her door.
“A devil teareth him, Sister,” said he. “Your purity shall drive the devil out.”
And they left the child with her, and went their way.
Now Denise was very miserable27 that day because of something in herself that she had begun to fear, and she needed her own heart healing before she might dream of healing others. The world remained with her, though she was shut up as a saint, and the solitude and the loneliness had preyed28 the more upon her mind. At Goldspur the wild woodland life and the life of the people had been hers. Here she had only her own haunting thoughts, and a voice that whispered that the virtue29 had gone out of her, and that she no longer had the power to help and to heal.
It was with a kind of anguish30 that she watched over the child, taking him to her bed, and praying that the devil of epilepsy might go forth31. All that day she watched and prayed, the boy lying in a stupor32 with wide eyes and open mouth. So the night came, and Denise lit her taper33, and knelt down again beside the child. All that night she pleaded and strove with God, beseeching34 Him to show His grace to her for her own sake and the child’s.
Just before dawn the boy was taken with a strong seizure, crying out at first, and then lying stiff and straight and silent as a stone image. Denise took him into her lap, put her mouth to his mouth, and held him against her bosom35. As the dawn came, so the truth dawned also that the boy was dead, dead in her lap despite her prayers. And a great horror came upon her, as though God had deserted36 her, nor had the saints listened to her prayers. A new shame chilled her heart. The virtue had gone out of her, she felt alone with her own thoughts, and the dead.
When Dom Silvius and the women came some two hours after dawn they found Denise seated upon the bed with the dead child in her lap. A kind of stupor seemed upon her. She did not so much as move, but sat there with vacant face.
“He is dead. Take him.”
That was all she said to Dom Silvius. The almoner took the boy, not able to hide the mortification37 on his face as he carried the dead child to his mother. Denise heard the woman’s cry, though the cry seemed far away like a voice in a dream. Dom Silvius sought to comfort her, but comfort her he could not, because she had hoped so much from Denise’s prayers. And as is the way so often with the human heart, the woman went home in bitterness and anger, holding the dead child to her breast, and murmuring against Denise.
If Denise felt herself deserted of God, there was one Sussex man who did not lack for inspiration, and whose heart was possessed by both God and the devil. Aymery of Goldspur had ridden from the Thames to the Severn, to join Earl Simon’s army that was on the march from the Welsh borders. The great Earl was like a rock in a troubled sea, or a beacon38 that drew all those who loved their land, and who strove for better things. The King might call him a “turbulent schemer”; sneers39 never killed a man like De Montfort. For the heart of England was full of turbulence40, and it seemed that England’s heart beat in Earl Simon’s breast.
Aymery, wild as a hawk41, borne along by the storm-wind of his restless manhood, grieving, exulting42, torn by a great tenderness that could have no hope, came within the ken7 of the People’s Earl. For it was Aymery’s need that month to throw himself at the gallop43 into some cause, to live in the midst of tumult44, to let his face burn wherever the banners blew. Perhaps fortune set her seal on him because he was ready to hazard his life with the fierce carelessness of a man who had no traffic with the future. Be that as it may, Simon’s host marched down from the West, taking Hereford and Gloucester on its way, and Aymery had caught the great Earl’s eye before they came to Reading Town.
Moreover, on the march from Reading to Guildford, over the heathlands and wild wastes, there were skirmishes with the King’s men who had pushed out from Windsor. Sharp tussles45 these, horsemen galloping46 each other down, spear breaking on the hillsides, men slain47 on the purple heather. Here the fiercer, bolder spirits were to be found, the young eagles who would redden their talons48. In one such skirmish Aymery charged in, and rescued young John de Montfort who had been taken prisoner through too much zeal49 and daring. At Reigate again there was more fighting, though the place soon fell, yet Fortune pushed Aymery into a lucky chance. Certain of the King’s men, hired ruffians most of them, had barricaded50 themselves in a church, nor would they budge51, though an assault was given under the eyes of the Earl himself. Fortune helped Aymery as she so often helps the man who is careless as to his own end. He found the window of a side chapel52 unguarded, broke in, and held his ground desperately53 till others followed, and the place was won.
Earl Simon himself came into the church, and knelt there before the altar, close to where two of the King’s men lay dead in their blood. When he had finished his prayer, he stood on the altar steps and called for the man who had leaped down first into the church. And they put Aymery forward, finding him standing54 behind a pillar, and so gave him the glory.
Simon made ready to knight55 him there in the church, but Aymery begged seven days to chasten himself, keep vigils, and be blessed with his sword and shield. Simon looked at him steadily56, for he was a man after his own heart, grim, resourceful, dangerously quiet, and no boaster. He granted Aymery the seven days, telling him to come to Tonbridge whither the host went towards the siege of Dover.
“God first, man afterwards,” he said. “You have chosen as I would have you choose.”
So Aymery slept that night at Guildford before the altar of the church. When the dawn came he mounted his horse, and rode southwards, alone.
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1
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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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flay
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| vt.剥皮；痛骂 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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12
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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13
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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19
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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21
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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23
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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25
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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28
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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29
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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31
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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32
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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33
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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34
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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35
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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36
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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39
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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40
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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41
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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42
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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43
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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44
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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45
tussles
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| n.扭打，争斗( tussle的名词复数 ) | |
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46
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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47
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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48
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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49
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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50
barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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51
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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52
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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53
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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54
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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55
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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56
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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