Читать книгу The Leopard and the Lily - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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The door opened instantly. Yes, the place was an inn, the fat-faced Breton admitted, and this the village of Kormenk, some miles from the Rennes road.

"It's I will stay here to-night then," said Kristopher, and threw his wet cloak on the narrow bench in the hall.

With slow movements the man locked and bolted the door, then raised the lantern from the floor.

"St Kate, but I am wet and weary," sighed Kristopher.

The peasant muttered something under his breath, and opened a little door to his right.

Kristopher stepped in gladly; wringing the water from his cloak he went into the light, closing the door behind him.

The room was low, with great rafters and one window; the whole dimly lit and filled with the melody of old-world music, as faint as the perfume of dead flowers.

The musician sat with his back to the door, a slender, erect figure in blue velvet, playing a strange little lilting measure that seemed to bring shadowy shapes out of the dim corners to dance, the music of fairyland. Standing at the door, Kristopher looked at him—silent and startled.

The room had one other occupant, some one crouched in the great chair by the smouldering logs, the face buried in the hands. Neither moved at Kristopher's entrance, and he glanced with continued astonishment at the elegant player in blue, swaying slightly to and fro to the lilt of the tune, unheeding, and he remained silent, for the music lay like a charm over the old chamber. A soft light just touched some carved goblets on the table, and made them blink as if they were dancing; near them, in the shadow lay two swords, and close by a soiled, torn shoe, a lady's shoe, muddied and frayed, but once gold and white, not laid carelessly, but with a certain grace of arrangement, in keeping with the quaint measure, the little slender figure of the musician, the rapid movement of his delicate hands over the ivory keys, and the outlines of that other figure, huddled together in the faded crimson chair, motionless, with little fingers clutched in pale yellow curls.

It was all under a charm, as far removed from the wet forest and dark night as if it lay in another world, unreal and fantastic as a legend.

"Good even," said Kristopher suddenly, and coming forward he flung his wet gloves on the table.

Like a delicate picture in frost, shattered by a blow of a sword, the spell was broken. The musician stopped and turned with a reproachful face, the shadows danced away, Kristopher walked to the fireplace and with his foot stirred the logs into a blaze so that a strong red flare sprang up, lighting the farthest corner of the room, dispelling the last traces of the romance and mystery.

Kristopher began drying his wet clothes, looking et the other two, keenly, with smiling blue eyes.

"Good even," said the musician gravely, in a French that was not of Brittany, and he swung round on his seat to face the stranger.

He had a pointed face, with light yellow hair brushed out round it like a halo, and full lips that wore an expression of scorn.

Kristopher glanced from him to the other who by now sat up in the great chair staring.

In every form and feature the two were alike, as delicate as china, as small as children, French evidently, and of some station. Kristopher smiled tolerantly.

"I am English," he said. "Maybe you go to Rennes—Messires?"

He in the blue stepped from his bright stool, looking with some contempt at the other in the chair.

"I travel back to France, Monsieur," he said gravely, and his light-blue eyes were angry, though his voice was quiet.

"And I," cried the other excitedly, "I travel on—on—" he flung his head up proudly. "Even if alone—"

"Valerie, you will return with me," said his counter-part, speaking with much gesture. "Morbleu! and all the Holy Saints, but I am weary of it!" Then turning to Kristopher, who watched them amused. "Monsieur, he is mad, my brother here, we might be at the fairest court in Europe, instead of in this vile inn, were it not for his folly. Mon Dieu! Mad! and I mad to permit it, but—Monsieur—bear me witness—this is the end!"

The brother had sunk into the chair again in an attitude of despair.

"Oh, Amedée, Amedée, you will not forsake me—my brother Amedée—after so long—and me so near to goal!"

Amedée whirled on his heel:

"I have humoured thy madness long enough. An' thou will go, Valerie, go alone."

Valerie looked up at Kristopher, standing with smiling blue eyes, large and silent by the fire.

"I must be cooking my supper, it was morning when I last ate, and then it was but a sorry meal," he said, and drew up closer to the blaze, undoing his wallet calmly with a total disregard of the glances of the other two, who seemed to be forgetting their quarrels in observing him.

Presently the captain opened the door and looked out into the dark passage.

"A pot," he called, "and a bottle of wine." Then he returned to his cookery and his red cloak steaming over the chair.

"Morbleu!" murmured Valerie Estercel, shrinking away to the other end of the room, where he and his brother fell arguing anew in lowered tones.

The landlord entered, clapping down an iron frying-pan and a stone bottle of wine.

Kristopher seized them with a pleasant smile.

"Save our souls!" he cried, "but it's wet and cold outside—" he stopped and looked around.

"Who is Enguerrand?"

The peasant had shuffled to the door, he paused there, looking back.

"Enguerrand is La Rose Rouge," he said, and laughed hoarsely.

"And who—" said Kristopher, "is La Rose Rouge?"

But the man had gone, and Kristopher fell to his cooking, listening amused to the Frenchmen, who were talking in high, thin, excited voices.

Amedée had drawn himself up to his full height, with many scornful glances at his brother: "A strolling player!" he cried. "A dancing woman!"

"The lady I love!" flashed Valerie. "The lady I have sworn to adore till death. Monsieur—" he turned excitedly to Kristopher, "I have vowed to find her—her image is graven in my heart—more fair is she than dawning day—all the love in Ovid cannot express my passion!"

"Bah!" cried his brother, interrupting angrily, "thou hast seen her once—from a distance, Valerie, and we have sought for her for a year and a half—Valerie—I have no more to say, I start at daybreak for France—knight-errantry may go too far—and fantasy—"

With a flourish he clapped his feathered cap upon his head, and bowing low, strode from the room, his head high, his face flushed with indignation and resolve.

Kristopher, eating his supper, had given them only half his attention, but he looked up amused at Amedée's sudden exit and glanced with something like pity at the other who, after standing with an air of mighty resolution, took one of the swords from the table.

"I have sworn to Our Lady, the pheasant and the peacock," he said, his eyes large and eager, his face pale with excitement, "that I will go upon this quest I am vowed to—facing all the ill that may offer for one more sight of her! I will go alone—Amedée shall return to France—I have chosen."

There was an air of great bravery about him, a defiance as of a man facing a great misfortune.

Kristopher looked up from his plate and held out his hand with a sudden pleasant laugh'.

"If I can aid you, Sieur, I travel to Rennes—Captain Kristopher, of the English mercenaries—perchance your quest may lead you that way."

Valerie grasped his hand.

"Do not think I feel fear or doubt, do not dream I falter or that my footsteps turn aside—to Our Lady I have sworn. Monsieur—could you go on—even if you had lost your comrade? Wonder not I ask you, Monsieur, seeing I am forsaken." And he clasped his jewelled hands to his forehead, staring with a white face at Kristopher, who answered instantly, lifting his brilliant eyes:

"I would be going alone," he said, "had I sworn it—save our souls—an' all the world turned their backs!"

The little French stranger seemed to dilate with delight.

"Would you! would you!" he cried. "Oh. Mon Dieu! so will I, Monsieur! Monsieur! I love her so—into my heart no doubt can enter while that great love is there!"

Kristopher looked up at him in amusement.

"I' faith, you're a very knight of romance," he said. And he fell to his supper again, calmly, till Sir Valerie seized his hand between his two slender ones and put it to his lips passionately.

"Sure, it's none too much sense the good saints blessed you with," said Kristopher amazed.

Valerie fell again to fondling the shoe, murmuring to himself, and Kristopher began clearing away his supper, stifling yawns.

"Her slipper! Mon Dieu, her slipper!" And the small, frayed, white thing, hung with broken bells, was pressed close to Valerie's heart.

"St Kate!" groaned Kristopher. "But rain will make a man's bones ache, also a sitting horseback all day, an' a being sick with passion."

He laid his head against the back of his chair, stretching out his legs to the fire, while Valerie, clasping the shoe, was gazing upward, with parted lips.

"Yea, it must be I shall find her I soon, Mon Dieu! soon!"

"An' I am wondering what you're going to do then," murmured Kristopher sleepily.

"Then—ah, then—all my life will be golden light. I shall return to France with her. Oh, my lady! Mon Dieu! the sweetest lady on earth!"

"We're wanting another log," said Kristopher, suddenly noticing the fire was low, "an' you might be getting it, Sir Valerie." And he yawned again, blinking at the other with sleepy blue eyes.

Valerie flung himself on the bench opposite, unheeding, and leaned forward with eager, clasped hands and excited face, his breast heaving under his scarlet doublet.

"Monsieur! listen to me—I will tell you all—everything—Monsieur—all! It was June, two years ago—"

Kristopher roused himself.

"I will be getting the log," he said, rising, but the little Frenchman entreated him back to his seat with a gesture he could not disregard.

"We were riding back from the tourney at Paris," resumed Sir Valerie. "Amedée and I—Amedée and Valerie Estercel of Lorraine, Monsieur."

His pale, blue eyes sought Kristopher's an instant, then travelled back to the fire.

"It was evening, M'sieur—just the clear, pale light before the dusk—the long, white road seemed a path to love and glory. Amedée carried a silver and crimson pennon on his lance—won at the tourney—and ahead of us I saw two mules—two women muffled to the chin riding them—Ah! Mon Dieu! It was the hour of all my life! the great, pure sky throbbed like my heart in swift beats—all earthly care fell from me—I became as one winged, uplifted. The mules disappeared down the hill, but I was after them—my lips smiling—my heart laughing—uplifted—exalted—till I felt myself treading on clouds and stars. I gained the hilltop and saw them still ahead—pausing outside the houses of a little village—a golden village in a silver calm. With winged feet and a heart afire I hurried on—the perfume of the cool, fresh air became mingled with faintest music—music to tear the heartstrings—she on the dark mule played—she on the white one—sang!"

Valerie Estercel paused, his hands clasping and unclasping. Kristopher, leaning back in his chair, was silent.

"She sang! I could not speak or cry—I drew nearer softly and watched—she sang in English—Mon Dieu! in liquid music! Little else have I seen since, little else till death shall I see but that figure, stirring lightly as a flower petal—" He stopped suddenly, choking with emotion, and bowed his head on his hands.

"I stood entranced—enchanted. Amedée found me there like one turned to stone—and they—they had gone! Oh, my beautiful queen—oh, my heart's goddess—ever since have I followed you—and ever will! Once in Normandy did I see her—so hastily she fled that I picked up her shoe—only two days ago I saw her again—Oh, belle amie I Oh, my soul's desire!"

The infantile voice rose and fell as if labouring with a passion of tears, he clasped his slender fingers over his heart, bending forward in the faint firelight.

"Ah I my poor heart! It is sore with waiting—But one day I shall see and hear her again. Monsieur, assure me you believe so also!"

There was no answer. Kristopher lay back, his handsome head on the worn velvet of the chair, his dark lashes on his flushed cheek—he was asleep.

"Morbleu!" cried Valerie angrily, "a coarse churl!"

The blue eyes opened, looking at him, dazed.

Valerie stamped.

"I was telling thee of my lady I My quest!" lie cried, flushing scarlet.

Kristopher's head fell back, his breast rising with his even breathing—and Sir Valerie turned away in despair.

At the door he looked back. Captain Kristopher was fast asleep, the firelight caught the silver ring he wore and the tarnished buttons of his côte-hardie. He was certainly fast asleep; with a sigh Valerie went out.