Читать книгу The King Behind the King - Warwick Deeping - Страница 8

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It was the poll-tax that had set every common man in England snarling like an angry dog. Hitherto no one had listened to the sullen grumbling of the poor, those brown men with brown faces who trudged in the mud and went out to labour in the winter wind and rain. They were part of the soil, and no one heeded them so long as there was corn to be had and fat beasts to be salted for winter. Edward the King and his great lords had made war in France with a screaming of trumpets, a humming of bow-strings, and the clash of ash-staved spears. They had crossed the sea in their rich-coloured stuffs and their shining harness, had ridden their war horses over the fields of France, and brought back honour, noble prisoners, and much plunder. But the wars were no longer glorious, and the taxes mounted up. A gust of anger had passed over the land, and even the boor flinging mud out of a ditch had paused and asked himself, “Why—and wherefore?” There were many who talked and many who threatened, looking sullenly upon the lord as he rode by in a coat of furs, and thinking even more sullenly of those who sat before the fire with wine and spices ready to hand. Privilege everywhere, valiant pride soaring overhead, and the serf in the mud, suddenly and viciously envious! This anger of the common people had not known how to vent itself, how to speak so that the great ones should hear. This was no baron’s business, but a dunghill fermentation, and being slow and sodden and savage, was like to be more terrible when thoughts of blood and fire and vengeance fumed up out of this mixen of discontent.

Of all the great lords of the land no man was more hated than the King’s uncle, John of Gaunt. It was said that he had the King in the palm of his hand, that the curse of the heavy taxes flowed from him, and that he had no thought or pity for the poor. Men spoke of his Palace of the Savoy as the most wonderful house in England, packed with plate and jewels, rich stuffs, and armour. Scores of rich manors, forests, castles, houses, and chases were held by him, and his power and his opulence were not to be challenged. Moreover, a certain majestic pride, a casual haughtiness in dealing with lesser men, had not brought him the mob’s love. He was an eagle who took no account of the hedge-sparrows, holding aloof and looking far afield, for his was a soaring spirit with visions of kingship and honour in far countries. The little men under and about his feet were just little men to be forgotten. Being over-busied with great enterprises, he had no patience to remember the ploughman and the fool.

Not only was the Duke of Lancaster hated, but all those near to him, and even his possessions, shared this savage hatred. The common people lusted to cut the throats of his stewards and foresters, beat out the brains of his knights and men-at-arms, and to burn and destroy his houses and all the rich gear in them. So in the blowing up of the storm there were certain tall trees marked out for destruction; and Fulk of the Forest, riding his rounds and cherishing the deer, did not reflect that he himself would be a stag marked out for the slaughter.

But Father Merlin knew it, and told himself that a chained hart alive might be of more value than mere venison. Much enlightenment had come to him since that meeting by the thorn tree near the vachery, and Merlin had gathered his gossips round the fire in Blackbottom Gill and whispered a strange story. They had drawn close about him, gaping, amazed, yet caught by the shrewd audacity of his imaginings.

There was no moon when the Polecat climbed the White Lodge fence, opened the garden wicket, let Merlin in, and led him to Isoult’s window. The house was asleep, but Isoult lay awake, having been warned of Merlin’s coming. She had heard a fern-owl whirring in the oak woods, and, rising from her bed, stood at the window, waiting.

Merlin spoke in a whisper:

“Isoult, art there?”

He could see her grey face at the bars, but she could see nothing of his because of his cowl.

“Speak softly, for the young falcon has strong talons and a fierce beak.”

“It is of Fulk Ferrers that I have much to say.”

“I am listening.”

She was on her guard, though not conscious of it, half ready to put aside any treacherous blow aimed at the man who had captured her under the yews; but Merlin had not spoken ten words before she became enthralled by the strange tale that he was telling her. She stared out into the darkness whence this whispering voice came. And when he had ended she drew in her breath sharply, and fell to listening for any sound within the house.

“Merlin,” said she, “have a care. What if it be the King?”

“Comfort yourself. I had word. Richard is in the White Tower in London—has been there all these days.”

“Is he so like?”

“Like enough to trick any but his own familiars, and though this fellow is some five years older, the young king looks more than a lad. It is a marvel.”

Isoult stood thinking.

“Two kings to play with! To use the one, if the other should prove contrary! Yes; but, my friend, this young man, this Fulk of the Forest, is more proud and stiffnecked than any king I ever read of.”

Merlin’s voice was sly and insinuating.

“And Isoult of the Rose surpasses all women——”

She cut in on him sharply.

“Be careful. I am not to be played with. But I might try my wits.”

She stared into the darkness as though trying to see Merlin’s face.

“Have you any plan?”

“Listen, Isoult. All the country is stirring, and all the outlawed men are swarming hither. The word is flying from mouth to mouth. Now, we shall come here and break in. This falcon will fight?”

“To the death, or I am no judge of a man’s fettle.”

“Good. We will have him at our mercy, and then you, Isoult, shall step in and beg his life. A close prisoner he shall be, and I doubt not that he may be persuaded.”

“Be not too sure.”

“I am not crossed easily.”

“Merlin, one word: think not that Isoult is without honour.”

He protested with an eager, murmuring voice.

“No, no; it is but a lure to the lad’s spirit. Born out of wedlock, a love child, a king before a king! He is the son of his father’s loins. We’ll challenge him to the adventure.”

“There is the woman, his mother. That is another marvel that one who is now as cold and stiff as a corpse——”

“She may serve or she may not. It does not signify: the man’s the master. If only he be persuadable. And you, Isoult, may do much.”

Her voice betrayed impatience.

“Let the adventure go on, but do not think of me as hell fire. We shall see how the stag runs. And now, good-night.”

She heard the sound of his breathing die away, and knew that the window was empty. Like a ghost he had come and like a ghost he stole away, leaving Isoult distraught and restless.

It was in the half light of a May dawn that Peter of Pippinford came running to the White Lodge with his head all bloody and a short sword in his hand. He had been ranging his ward, and had come back to find his lodge on fire and four ragged rogues waiting for him behind the woodstack. One of them had given Peter a bloody poll with the thick end of a holly cudgel, and Peter had cut off one man’s hand, slashed another across the face, and then had saved himself by the grace of his long legs. He set up a furious hallooing outside the White Lodge gate, and Fulk went out to let him in.

Fulk listened to his news with a face that was very quiet and very grim. He had been warned two days ago by one of the purlieu men that the common people were breaking down fences and emptying fish ponds, and that the whole country had gone mad. A tax-gatherer had been beaten to death in one of the villages. The gentry were flying to Lewes and Pevensey, leaving their houses and larders to be plundered by their boors.

“We must get the women out of the way. I will ride over to the vachery and bring Barnabas’s people in. Get your head tied up, Peter, and then help John to make ready the great wagon.”

Fulk had a word with his mother, Margaret Ferrers standing at her chamber door in her night gear, looking like a corpse in a shroud. Cold woman that she was, she fell to pleading with him, but he put her prayers aside.

“Run away from the lousels? Not I! The men shall take you and Isoult and the women to Lewes, and then come back to me. We will make these scullions skip.”

He mounted his roan horse, galloped bareback to the vachery, and ordered the cowherd to the White Lodge with his women and children.

“Turn the cows out and let them fend for themselves, Barnabas. The wagon starts for Lewes in an hour.”

When he returned to the White Lodge Fulk found that two other foresters had come in and were helping Peter of Pippinford yoke eight oxen to the wagon, and load some of the household gear into it. Fulk chose Peter to be the leader, and charged them to return when they had lodged the women within the walls of Lewes town. He chose John to bide with him, because John was a coward, and the best men were wanted in the wagon; and John looked sulkily at Fulk, having no stomach for the White Lodge when such rough gentry were hunting men as well as deer.

Fulk passed into the house, went to Isoult’s room, and stood in the doorway, beckoning.

“Come.”

She was ready, dressed in all her rich colours, her hair in its silver net, her knife and gypsire at her girdle. She looked at Fulk with intent and questioning eyes, considering something in her heart.

“Is it the swainmote?”

“No. The boors have gone mad and are running wild. I am sending the womenfolk to Lewes town for shelter, and you will go with them.”

“And you?”

“A deer master does not run away from swine.”

Isoult did not move.

“Messire Fulk, if I choose to stay here——”

“On my faith, the choice is not with you. Put on your cloak and hood.”

She eyed him half defiantly, yet as one who loved to be defied.

“I’ll make you carry me. It may be that you hold a hostage and know it not!”

He went a step nearer.

“What! Are you with these nameless fools?”

“Did I say so?”

“Come, have done; time’s precious.”

Her loftiness topped his impatience.

“I choose to stay. You brought me here, and if it must be that I should go, you must put me out even as you brought me in.”

They stood, measuring each other, Isoult’s red mouth smiling provocation. Fulk fell to frowning because some strange emotion stirred in him, a fierce young wonder that had stumbled of a sudden upon this woman’s comeliness. Her audacity seemed to beat its wings and to soar against his pride, and her eyes had all the luring gloom of the woods.

“Come; I have no desire to be rough, Isoult.”

“Ah, but a man’s roughness——”

Isoult, looking beyond Fulk, saw Margaret Ferrers standing in the doorway.

“Fulk, do we wait for this woman?”

He stood back with a sweep of the arm.

“Come, let us waste no more words.”

Dame Margaret’s mouth sneered, but her eyes were afraid of Isoult’s. She stood there menacingly, as though longing to utter the one word—“harlot.”

Isoult’s chin went up.

“Dame Ferrers, this woman waits for nobody. I go at my own pleasure.”

She passed out, her arm touching Fulk’s sleeve, her eyes throwing a quick side-glance into his.

“Stiffnecked as ever. You must take your choice.”

Fulk followed her, looking at the red shoes under the edge of the green dress; and as a man notices things at times, simply because he cannot help but notice them, he was struck by the way the woman walked—confidently, proudly, as though beholden to no one. His glance lifted to the white curve of her neck as she passed out of the porch into the sunlight. She, too, could be stiffnecked, he thought, though her throat looked so white and smooth and mysterious.

Tom of Hindleape was standing beside the oxen. The other men were in the wagon with their bows ready, the women and children sitting on the floor. Fulk helped his mother in, and then stood to help Isoult, holding his knee and hand as a man helps a woman into the saddle.

She gave him a whisper:

“Hold the White Lodge and wait for the grey friar.”

As the wagon moved off he found her watching him with eyes that were dark and enigmatical.