Читать книгу The King Behind the King - Warwick Deeping - Страница 6

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There were deeps in the forest where a hundred men could hide and never be stumbled on for weeks together. Thieves and outlaws who knew the ways could travel north, south, east, and west, and never be seen by woodward or forester. Moreover, these trailbastons and broken men left the deer alone, for they themselves were part of the wild and the forest was their harbour, and if no deer were slain they themselves were less likely to be hunted.

Now there were forest lodges and foresters at Pippinford, Hindleape, Broadstone, and Comedean, as well as at the White Lodge of the Master Forester; but none of these men of the greenwood and the heather had any knowledge of the queer gentry who were lodged among the hollies of Blackbottom Gill. The holly wood was itself hidden in a great wood of oaks and beeches, and the Polecat, who knew every ride and every path, and the spots, too, where there were no paths, had served as guide to these strangers. The Polecat had lived all his life in the forests, thieving, cheating, robbing when a safe chance offered. He could “burr” like a goat-sucker and scream like a jay, tell the age of a deer from its slot and its dung, and judge just how high the pheasants would be roosting on a certain night. The Polecat had hunted in all the forests in Hampshire, Sussex, and Surrey, and he would slip from one to the other if it happened that the nose of the Law had smelt spilt blood.

In Blackbottom Gill five figures were grouped before a fire in the thick of the gloom of the hollies. The fire had been built in a recess grubbed out of the side of a bank, and a screen of boughs built round it, so that its light should not be seen. And since it was night the smoke did not concern them. They smothered the fire before dawn.

Father Merlin sat on a wallet stuffed with grass, his grey cowl over his head, the girdle of his grey habit unbuttoned. He had taken off his sandals and was stretching out his brown feet to the fire. Over against him, on a pile of dead bracken, sat Guy the Stallion, a handsome, tawdry, swashing sworder with a red head and fiery eyes and a fierce little peaked beard. At the other end of the half circle a lean man with a swarthy, gloating face was cleaning his nails with a holly twig, and men called him Jack Straw. In the centre sat John Ball, the mad priest of Kent, staring at the fire, bemused, lips moving silently, eyes seeing visions. Half lying on a sheep-skin and poking the fire with a charred stick, Big Blanche, the singing-woman, listened to Jack Straw and Guy the Stallion disputing over some point of policy.

The soldier spoke in fierce, characteristic jerks, as though he were making cuts with a sword.

“Let them begin with a little killing. I know a trick or two to make men’s blood boil. Let them warm to it, and in a month there will be no gentles left in the land to trouble us. I am a man of the sword, and what I know of war is as much as Du Guesclin or Knowles could carry.”

Jack Straw, the East Anglian, thrust out a contemptuous lip.

“Keep your sword in its scabbard. One word from Brother John here is worth a thousand such swords.”

“Bah, wait till the work begins. Look at him! Will he keep the hinds from blood and wine?”

Father Merlin showed his big teeth, his harsh face gaunt and long in the shadows. The swashbuckler amused him and piqued the laughter of a subtle scorn.

“Let no man quarrel with the soul of St. Francis,” said he. “What say we but that the meek shall inherit the earth?”

They turned their eyes by some common instinct upon Father John, staring raptly at the fire, his lips moving silently, his face strangely radiant. His spirit was away in some fantastic earthly heaven while his body remained among the black hollies of the forest. Even red-headed Guy was sobered by a something that was above and beyond his lustful vigour and his bombast.

“Father John treads the clouds.”

“Perhaps St. Thomas of Canterbury is up yonder. When we have pulled Simon of Sudbury out of his archbishop’s shoes we might do worse than clap them on Father John’s feet.”

The Franciscan smiled like a horse champing a bit, drawing back his lips and showing his teeth.

“What God wills—God wills.”

“And what the devil wills——”

“The swashbuckler knows best.”

Big Blanche sat and gazed at John Ball’s rapt and dreaming face. He seemed not to hear the voices of those about him, and his face was the face of a man drunk with visions.

She pointed to him.

“He has touched neither food nor drink since daybreak. Some day his soul will fly away like a piece of thistledown, and we shall have no one to preach to us.”

“Pluck his sleeve, Jack.”

“Descend, brother, descend. See here, something warm for the belly.”

John Ball started, and stared at those around him as though he had been wakened out of a deep sleep. Big Blanche wriggled across on her knees, and held out the mead bottle. He took it mechanically, and nodded to her with an air of vacant benignity.

“Drink, brother.”

Jack Straw was still using the holly twig, and the swashbuckler grew facetious.

“Take my dagger, Jack. We are getting ready to be great lords and gentles all by the cleaning of our nails!”

John Ball’s eyes fixed themselves on his neighbour’s hands. He began to speak in a slow and inward voice.

“Our brother cleanseth his nails. It is a symbol, surely. All the world shall have clean fingers.”

“And no pickings! My cock, father, I must pick up something on the point of my sword!”

The priest of Kent looked up and around at the black boughs and tops of the hollies. His face was the white face of a saint in an altar picture of the passions. His neighbours were so many allegorical figures—Cunning, Ambition, Lust, Bombast—and yet mere men with strong teeth and muscular hands and eyes that looked hungry. This dreamer of Kent whose mouth could fill with fire had a soul whose simplicity made these shrewd and carnal men marvel.

“Has Isoult of the Rose returned?”

“No, father.”

“The Polecat is out; we shall have news.”

John Ball spread his hands to the blaze.

“The voice of an angel, a bright angel on the white clouds at dawn. Shall it not sing the children into Paradise?”

Big Blanche’s face grew sullen and lowering. She glanced up suddenly and caught Guy the Stallion watching her mockingly, laughing at the jealousy that she could not hide. She flounced round and turned her back.

“What will you make of Isoult, father?”

John Ball was blind to such a thing as raillery.

“Isoult shall stand in the gateway of our new city and sing. I will put golden words into her mouth. And because of her beauty——”

The woman by the fire twitched her shoulders.

“Golden words in the mouth of such a——”

Father Merlin’s figure straightened suddenly, and his hooked nose protruded like the beak of a bird from under the shadow of his hood.

“’Ssst!”

“What is it?”

“Listen.”

They remained motionless, rigid, so many stark black figures seen against the glow of the fire. The night was very still and windless, and the hollies seemed weighed down by the heavy, midnight silence. From somewhere came a rustling sound as of dead leaves blown along the forest’s floor. Father Merlin’s head moved slowly from side to side on its long and sinewy throat; the swashbuckler’s hand went to the hilt of his sword.

They heard a jay scream, and Blanche drew in a deep breath and laughed.

“The Polecat!”

“That was his cry.”

“Come down into the light, good friend, and welcome.”

A little man with a face like a wild cat’s appeared from nowhere, and threw himself down beside Big Blanche. His eyes were red and small and wonderfully restless, and his hair looked like a mass of little black snakes writhing all in a tangle. For the moment he said nothing, but reaching out with both hands, grabbed a bottle of mead with one and half a loaf with the other. The animal was thirsty and hungry, and they suffered him to have his will.

Jack Straw was the first to question him.

“What news, Polecat, out of the wood?”

The man still masticated, and answered as he ate.

“The duke’s foresters have taken Isoult.”

“What! John of Gaunt’s green bullies?”

“I always said the wench was too venturesome.”

“What have they done?”

“Lugged her to the White Lodge. It was young Fulk, the riding forester, who took her. I might have stabbed him in the dark, but the young wolf was too wary.”

Father Merlin grinned and bit his nails. John Ball stared at the fire and said nothing. It was Guy the Stallion who jumped up, swaggered, tightened his belt, and looked at his comrades’ faces.

“Nothing to say, good brothers? See here, the sword has its tongue. I’ll have Isoult out of the White Lodge, by cock, before they can say a Pater!”

Big Blanche twisted round of a sudden, and snapped at him like an angry dog.

“Sit down, fool. Let the jade——”

“Fool! Shut that jealous mouth of yours. You—to be jealous of Isoult, the hen of the falcon!”

The woman sprang up, furious, chattering, beside herself, a knife in her fist.

“Let the jade rot, I say. You are my man and I’m your woman. By the blood of the——!”

Father Merlin rose up and put himself between them. He was a big man, and had a voice that could thunder.

“Peace, you fools. Swashbuckler, sit you down and cool that hot pot of a head of yours. As for you, Dame Blanche——”

She snarled at him insolently, her large white face like a lewd mask.

“I have a tongue, mind you. I have a tongue!”

Merlin went close to her, and she alone saw his eyes.

“Peace, or you may have no tongue to boast of.”

The insolence went out of her, and she cringed and slunk away.

“I meant nothing, good father; but that fool there is my man, and I’ll not see him filched from me.”

“Peace!”

John Ball had sat through the squabble with the look of a man whose soul was elsewhere. He turned his head slowly and stared at Father Merlin.

“My brother, what shall be done?”

The Franciscan sneered.

“Leave it to me, Brother John. I will go out to-morrow—to hear confessions.”