Mellis lay very still, the fronds4 of the fern arching over her and throwing little flecks5 of shadow on her face. But though her bosom6 hardly betrayed her breathing, and her hands lay motionless among the bracken stems, all that was quick and vital in her lived in her eyes. The pupils were big and black and sensitive with fear, wild, tremulous eyes in a white and anguished7 face.
For a great fear gripped her—the nameless, instinctive8 fear of the wild creature caught in a trap, where struggling is of no avail. She waited, listened, counted the beats of her own heart, closed her eyes at times so that she might not see the imbecile face of the man who guarded her. But even a moment’s blindness quickened her fear, her quivering dread9 of what might happen.
She was snared10, helpless, and felt a great hand ready to close over her. The violence of young Nigel’s death had shocked her horribly. She could not get the vision of the poor fool out of her head; he was still screaming and writhing11 on Rich’s spear. The patches of blue sky between the trees seemed hard as steel; there was no softness in the sunlight on the bracken.
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
She mouthed his name, but without sound. Her fingers quivered; she drew her breath with a deep, pleading misery12. Her hands and her soul reached out to him; he seemed the one strong and loyal thing left her in the beginnings of her despair. For her despair was very real and no piece of cowardice13; she had no illusions as to the temper of the men who served the Lord of Troy.
It was not death she feared so much as that other—nameless thing. She was herself as yet, clean, pure, virginal, and a man loved her. And even as her love reached out to him she clung with passionate14, hoarding15 tenderness to her own chastity. It was hers—and it was his. She wanted it because he was what he was—her man, her life’s mate. Such exaltations, such dear prejudices rise from the sacred deeps of the heart. Without them flesh is but flesh, and love mere16 gluttony.
Hours seemed to pass. The man who guarded her yawned, spat17 in the bracken, and slouched around like a tired cur. Sometimes Mellis found him staring at her with a hungry, gloating glint in his eyes, a look for which she loathed18 him as she would have loathed some slimy thing that had touched her hand.
Presently she heard voices in the beech wood, voices that seemed on the edge of a quarrel. They came nearer, like two birds sparring and scolding at each other; one was gay and insolent19 and swift, the other sullen20 and toneless.
“Have your way, then! Damnation, such drolleries are not part of my harness.”
“You are too gentle, good John Rich. What is life but a great hunting? And a plain, straight-forward gallop21 does not always please me. There is no wit, no cunning in it.”
“No devilry, you mean.”
“Have it that way. I like my wine well spiced, and a new spice tickles22 the palate. You dullards are content with rivers of beer.”
The man with the goat’s beard brisked up and stood stiffly on guard as Fulk de Lisle and John Rich came out from under the shade of the trees. Rich hung back, seeming to have no stomach for Fulk de Lisle’s spiced devilries.
“Stand away, Bannister.”
The guard saluted23 with his sword, and slunk off under the beeches24.
Mellis sat up. Fulk de Lisle was standing25 within two paces of her, his hands on his hips26, his red hat with its plume27 clapped on his head like a halo. His brown eyes stared at her boldly, and his red lips seemed on the point of smiling. She hated the man instantly, hated because she feared him.
“So this is the gentlewoman who turns quiet priests into turbulent traitors28! Mistress Dale, is not the thing heavy on your conscience?”
His bantering29 air made her shiver, for it was like the gliding30 of a snake through the fern. She did not answer him.
“By my chastity, I feel sorry for that young man. For three days to eat of the forbidden fruit, and then——”
He watched the hot blood stain her face.
“Assuredly it is a case for a rescue. Being a faithful son of the Church, I must take it upon myself to deliver the young man from this enchantment31, that his eyes may be opened before some good Christian32 hangs him. How does it feel, madam, to have made a man a murderer?”
To John Rich her eyes would have cried, “Have pity,” but Fulk de Lisle saw no more than a handsome wench whose pride struggled with her fear. Her pride won the victory. She remained mute before him, with a white stillness that refused to unbend.
Fulk de Lisle’s brown eyes were smiling.
“Madam is sullen; she does not repent33. Humility34 is good in a woman. It seems then that I must play the father to this poor fool of a
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
