Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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Dame Cornelia with her skirts tucked up, perspiring, dusty, but indomitable, used no such saintly language to her own soul. To be taken from your bed at midnight and bundled out of your house and through the streets and out of the city by gentlemen of the baser sort were matters to be met with dreadful silence. Her escort had made fun of the old lady.

"How far is it to Aquæ Sulis, Jack?"

"It will be a long walk for the old broomstick, brother."

"And she'll need a bath at the end of it. You will have lost some fat, Mother Cornelia, by the time you get to Aquæ Sulis."

There had been guards at the west gate, and Cornelia's gentlemen had swapped jokes with them.

"The lady is going to the bath, soldiers. Got your strigil, old dear?"

"And the bottle of ointment?"

"And clean clothes? You will be a bit sweaty by the time you get there."

With laughter and ironic loutings they had thrust her and her one faithful servant out into the night. The rest of the household had been in the conspiracy, and in losing their mistress, such as were slaves had embraced freedom. Which, after all, was human. The gate had thundered to, muffling more laughter, and not till then had Cornelia uttered a word.

"We will walk, Martha."

Walk indeed, and whither? The scared Martha had been feeling more like fainting.

"But where do we walk to, matrona?"

"Where? To Corinium, to Gleva, to Isca—to Rome, if necessary."

The woman had put her hands to her head and begun to whimper.

"But in the dead of night, in the dark, matrona."

"Shall we be devoured by lions?"

"But I was never good at walking, lady, and I have corns."

Cornelia had set her jaw at the night.

"Corns! Much better have courage. Forward!"

The night march along the south-west road to Vindomis had been an affair of halts and exhortations. Cornelia had paraded her garden, but not for twenty years had she walked a mile along a road. But she was as grim as Cæsar, and as silent. Martha had flopped on the grass beside the road; Martha had asserted that she could not take another step, and Cornelia had assured her that, corns or no corns, she would go on walking.

"Get up, woman, or I shall leave you."

That had proved a sufficient persuasion, though Martha had complained and creaked.

"Oh, my poor feet! Do they call that a Christian's act, turning us out of house and home in the middle of the night? What's the world coming to?"

Cornelia had consoled her by asserting that by persisting in the business of walking they would come to my Lord Geraint's place. Fifteen miles or so. What were fifteen miles to a determined and angry old woman? As for Master Balthasar and his flock, let them bleat canticles in Calleva until such a day—But she shut her mouth and trudged.

Seven miles along the road, Martha and her infirmities—both physical and spiritual—had fallen by the wayside. Cornelia, sitting like some outraged Dea Mater under a thorn tree, had allowed Martha to sleep. After all, the good creature had been faithful, even if she lacked spirit. Cornelia, with her cloak over her head, had watched the dawn come up. The brightness of its brow had made her think of a girl's head. Guinevra? What had happened to Guinevra? Had the girl known? But of course not. And why had they refused to let her have the girl? Authority had stepped in and sundered them. Authority? Balthasar. Ha, there might be more here than showed on the surface. The girl was an heiress. The girl was very comely. And Balthasar's face looking out of a window, and both seeing and not seeing? Was Guinevra a hostage to fate and to the sacerdotal fancy?

Cornelia had got to her feet, and nudged Martha with one of them.

"Up, woman. We will break our fast and wash our feet in the White Valley. You have been snoring for two hours."

Geraint had ridden out very early to meet Malgo when he encountered the two old women hobbling down the hill. Martha was bent nearly double, but her mistress confronted the day with a fiery face and uncompromising eyes.

"Good morning, my lord. You see two pilgrims."

Geraint was off his horse. He saw Martha flop on the grass and sit moaning, but Cornelia stood like Rome.

"Well, here we are, my friend, early birds. We have been on our feet most of the night."

Geraint asked no questions. He waited for her to tell him the why and the wherefore.

"Calleva had no further use for me, my dear. Yes, we were pulled out of our beds in the middle of the night and conducted to the town gate. And here I am, very ready for a bath and breakfast."

Abruptly she sat down on the grass like a large infant whose legs had failed it. Her face wore a look of surprise, and then she laughed.

"Tut-tut, I seem to be tired! Yes, apparently my house was needed, and my household had joined the new Calleva. Babylon has fallen. Babylon needs a bath."

Geraint stood close to her.

"Balthasar?"

"Very much Balthasar, my dear."

"And Guinevra?"

She fanned herself with a fold of her cloak.

"Still in Calleva. They would not let me take the girl. A couple of rude fellows had me by the arms, and out I went."

Geraint looked grim.

"The dogs! I'll go and send a litter for you and warn Placida."

But Cornelia was again on her feet.

"Give me an arm, my dear. I can manage. But what about your horse?"

"I'll put your woman on him."

"She will most certainly fall off. Martha, forget your poor feet and walk."

She held on to Geraint's arm. Her old face had gone grey and old, but she endured. The white horse followed like a dog, and behind the horse Martha hobbled as though the road was hot metal.

"I am troubled about the girl, my friend."

Geraint was silent.

"Have they shut their gates?"

"There were guards at the gate last night."

And then she chuckled in spite of her dragging feet.

"I sent all my gold and plate and jewels to Corinium a month ago. Not much loot, my dear. But I am troubled about the girl."

And still Geraint was silent.