第28章 THE MAID(2)

"Enough of your maid!" she cried."Maid, forsooth! The shame of her has gone throughout the land.She is no maid, but a witch, a light-of-love, a blasphemer.By the Rood, Sir Guy, you choose this instant between me and your foul peasant.A daughter of Beaumanoir does not share her lover with a crack-brained virago."The young man had also gone pale beneath his sunburn."I will not listen,"he cried."You blaspheme a holy angel."

"But listen you shall," and her voice quivered with passion.She marched up to him and faced him, her slim figure as stiff as a spear."This very hour you break this mad allegiance and conduct me home to Beaumanoir.Or, by the Sorrows of Mary, you and I will never meet again."De Laval did not speak, but stood gazing sadly at the angry loveliness before him.His own face had grown as stubborn as hers.

"You do not know what you ask," he said at length."You would have me forswear my God, and my King, and my manhood.""A fig for such manhood," she cried with ringing scorn."If that is a man's devotion, I will end my days in a nunnery.I will have none of it, I tell you.Choose, my fine lover choose between me and your peasant."The young man looked again at the blazing eyes and then without a word turned slowly and left the room.A moment later the sound of horses told that a company had taken the road The girl stood listening till the noise died away.Then she sank all limp in a chair and began to cry.There was wrath in her sobs, and bitter self-pity.She had made a fine tragedy scene, but the glory of it was short.She did not regret it, but an immense dreariness had followed on her heroics.Was there ever, she asked herself, a more unfortunate lady?

And she had been so happy.Her lover was the bravest gallant that ever came out of Brittany; rich too, and well beloved, and kin to de Richemont, the Constable.In the happy days at Beaumanoir he was the leader in jousts and valiances, the soul of hunting parties, the lightest foot in the dance.The Beaumanoirs had been a sleepy stock, ever since that Sir Aimery, long ago, who had gone crusading with Saint Louis and ridden out of the ken of mortals.Their wealth had bought them peace, and they had kept on good terms alike with France and Burgundy, and even with the unruly captains of England.Wars might sweep round their marches, but their fields were unravaged.Shrewd, peaceable folk they were, at least the males of the house.The women had been different, for the daughters of Beaumanoir had been notable for beauty and wit and had married proudly, till the family was kin to half the nobleness of Artois and Picardy and Champagne.There was that terrible great-aunt at Coucy, and the aunts at Beaulieu and Avranches, and the endless cousinhood stretching as far south as the Nivernais....And now the main stock had flowered in her, the sole child of her father, and the best match to be found that side of the Loire.

She sobbed in the chagrin of a new experience.No one in her soft cushioned life had ever dared to gainsay her.At Beaumanoir her word was law.She had loved its rich idleness for the power it gave her.Luxurious as she was, it was no passive luxury that she craved, but the sense of mastery, of being a rare thing set apart.The spirit of the women of Beaumanoir burned fiercely in her...She longed to set her lover in the forefront of the world.Let him crusade if he chose, but not in a beggars' quarrel.And now the palace of glass was shivered, and she was forsaken for a peasant beguine.The thought set her pacing to the window.

There seemed to be a great to-do without.A dozen lanterns lit up the forecourt, and there was a tramping of many horses.A shouting, too, as if a king were on the move.She hurriedly dried her eyes and arranged her dress, tossing the reliquary and its broken chain on the table.Some new guests; and the inn was none too large.She would have the landlord flayed if he dared to intrude on the privacy which she had commanded.Nay, she would summon her people that instant and set off for home, for her company was strong enough to give security in the midnight forests.

She was about to blow a little silver whistle to call her steward when a step at the door halted her.A figure entered, a stranger.It was a tall stripling, half armed like one who is not for battle but expects a brush at any corner of the road.A long surcoat of dark green and crimson fell stiffy as if it covered metal, and the boots were spurred and defended in front with thin plates of steel.The light helm was open and showed a young face.The stranger moved wearily as if from a long journey.

"Good even to you, sister," said the voice, a musical voice with the broad accent of Lorraine."Help me to get rid of this weariful harness."Catherine's annoyance was forgotten in amazement.Before she knew what she did her fingers were helping the bold youth to disarm.The helm was removed, the surcoat was stripped, and the steel corslet beneath it.With a merry laugh the stranger kicked off the great boots which were too wide for his slim legs.

He stretched himself, yawning, and then laughed again."By my staff," he said, "but I am the weary one." He stood now in the full glow of the lantern, and Catherine saw that he wore close-fitting breeches of fine linen, a dark pourrpoint, and a tunic of blue.The black hair was cut short like a soldier's, and the small secret face had the clear tan of one much abroad in wind and sun.The eyes were tired and yet merry, great grey eyes as clear and deep as a moorland lake....Suddenly she understood.

It may have been the sight of the full laughing lips, or the small maidenly breasts outlined by the close-fitting linen.At any rate she did not draw back when the stranger kissed her cheek.