Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

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Cornelia did not use her dining-room and its couches save on Roman and state occasions, and in Calleva such occasions were becoming rare. Geraint was given her chair at a table, and meat and wine and bread were set before him, but he and the old autocrat of the battlemented hair had other matters to speak of. It was Cornelia who remembered his men; she stood at a window, clapping her hands until the janitor appeared.

"Tell Pompey to feed my lord's men."

"There are ten of them," said Geraint.

But Cornelia would have her way, and it was a large way; in spite of earthquakes and barbarians and bishops she was not yet a beggar. She arranged herself on a couch and put up her feet. She had questions to ask Geraint, and many things to say to him.

"Footpads on the London road! What next?"

Geraint dipped bread into his wine.

"Deserters from the Sixth Legion."

The old lady looked fierce.

"Ye gods! Why do they not cut off a few heads? We are growing weak, Geraint, silly and sentimental. They tell me those savages in the north are swarming near the Wall. Why does not Duke Fullofandes do something? A weak fellow, that."

"They say his men won't fight."

"Ye gods! I'll get into my chariot and go north."

Geraint smiled at her.

"We have trouble nearer home. The Cymri, ready to loot. Do you know what I heard in the forest country? Nectarides has let Saxons settle in the woods not ten miles from Anderida."

Her lower lip was thrust out.

"The fool! A Saxon is a savage, Geraint. He is not a Frank or a Goth. But as you said, my friend, the trouble is nearer home. Just when the strong hand is needed, we have swollen heads here. That gouty old dotard Benedict—our vicar—is having his paunch kneaded at Bath—when he should be suppressing a man like Balthasar. These Christians are becoming impossible. A slimy upstart like this Bishop! Do you know what the fellow is planning?"

"I can guess."

"The world's confusion is—his opportunity. A little priest-king, my dear—Calleva a City of God—with the scum squawling canticles, and Balthasar throned in the curia. Go round the city—see—the empty houses, the very people who should have stood up to the fellow—running away."

Geraint raised his cup to her.

"You have not run away."

Her old blue eyes stared.

"I am too fat to run.—Do you know, Geraint, that we have only three senators left in the place—and they shake at the knees. Shops are shutting; the council does not meet. Balthasar presides in the curia. Last week I was stoned in my litter. Go—not I.—I suppose—some day—the Emperor will remember this island and send us a man, and Balthasar will be put back in his kennel."

Geraint's face was grave.

"Or—the barbarians will break in. Guess what I have in my wagon?"

"You had—a pretty wench."

"Iron. When gold becomes yellow dirt, iron is king; iron for swords. If our soldiers will not fight, we must help ourselves."

She nodded at him.

"If I had my way, I would give you the purple, my dear.—But a few words about this girl. Is she penniless?"

Geraint had finished eating. He wiped his hands on a napkin.

"I will tell you what she told me."

Cornelia listened. She managed her own estate and was a woman of affairs. Yes, her lawyer had not run away; she would put the girl's business in his hands. Next week she was sending her freedman Felix to Londinium; the lawyer could go with him in the carriage and consult with the advocates who were dealing with the girl's inheritance. A goldsmith's shop in the Via Augusta—and money in the mortgages on property in Verulam? Well, the shop would have to be sold. Rhadamanthus the banker had transferred himself and his strong-boxes to Corinium, because Balthasar had sticky fingers. The girl's money could be banked at Corinium.

She said: "I like young things when they do not talk too much and let me do the talking."

And then the Frisian woman appeared.

"The girl is sitting up, Dame."

"Has she eaten?"

"Yes, Dame."

"Well, let us see her with her colour back."

Geraint had risen and was buckling on his sword, for the road should be his if he and his men were to see the White Tower before sunset. He went to the window and spoke to Caradoc, who was sitting in the wagon with ale froth on his beard. The horses had been fed and watered.

"Get the men together. I am coming."

The hound, who had been lying in the sun, rose and loped across the courtyard, put his forepaws against the wall, and barked at his master.

"Coming, Bran, coming."

He turned and saw Guinevra in the doorway. Her hair was coiled and pinned over her ears and the nape of her neck; she looked taller, older, standing there in the green sheath of her young dignity. Cornelia, sitting squarely on the couch, stared the girl over, nodded, smiled.

"Well, my dear, my Lord Geraint is leaving me something pretty to look at. You can make your home here until you know what you wish to do."

Guinevra's eyes were for Geraint. Was it his wish?—He smiled at her. With an air of consent she crossed the room, took Cornelia's fat right hand, and kissed it. Her head was meek, with its sleeked hair and downcast eyes. Cornelia patted her cheek.

"We shall be very good friends, my dear.—And now my Lord Geraint is for the road."

The girl stood back from them both. She had a hushed look, but Cornelia saw the trembling of her knees. Her colour came and went, and with a little air of breathlessness she ran to Geraint and knelt.

"O, my lord—I shall not forget."

She was confused, red, voiceless. Geraint raised her. He looked at her face and then slowly kissed her forehead.

"The gods be good to you, Guinevra."

Then he put her quickly away from him with the air of a man who had touched a thing that was strange and mysterious. He walked to the window and stood looking out.

"My men wait."

When he had kissed Cornelia's hands, he had no more words for either of them. Head in air, he walked to the door, turned, stood erect—raised an arm. Guinevra, hands hanging, did not dare to look at him. He saw the coils of her hair, the curve of a cheek. Her knees were trembling.

"Vale."

He went out. They heard the barking of the dog and the voices of the men. The wheels of the wagon rolled over the stones. But as Geraint's white horse swung out through the gate, he turned in the saddle and looked at the window.