Noble Vance, the Forest Warden, came riding into Paradise on his black horse, with two archers in russet and green following at his heels. He crossed the Rondel at the mill, and his scarlet coat went burning through the orchards and over the fields. Such common folk as saw him louted very low to the man, for, though he rode over Church lands, he was a fellow to be feared, being merciless and very cunning. Poachers and laborers whom he caught chasing the deer had but one thing to hope for from Noble Vance. He loved tying a man to a tree and thrashing him with his own whip, and the fellows he caught red-handed would rather have it so than be sent to Roger Bland of Troy Castle.
About a furlong from the priory gate the Forest Warden overtook Dom Geraint.
“The best of a May morning to you, man of God.”
“And God’s grace be upon you, defender of the deer!”
They were gossips, these two, men of animal energy who understood each other, and looked at life with the same shrewd cynicism. Their eyes met whimsically. Neither had any solid respect for the dignity of the other. Their appetites and prejudices were alike; they met on common ground and made life a gloating, full-blooded jest.
“You ride early, Master Warden.”
“All for the joy of being shrived by you, Dom Geraint.”
“Tut-tut—I am busy to-day. It would be a long affair.”
“Not so long, either; for you have only to name me any sin, good sir, and I will say that I have committed it.”
“What a mass of guilt is here—riding in scarlet!”
“The black coat has its red in the lining!”
They laughed in each other’s faces.
“You will come in and drink some of our ale?”
“Such brown Paradise is not to be despised. I have an hour to spare.”
“I will give you a penance: not to look at a woman for two months.”
“Fudge, good sir, I am out to tie one behind me on the saddle this very day.”
The archers were sent to the buttery hatch, while the prior’s parlor served Vance and Dom Geraint. Prior Globulus had ridden out on a white mule to visit one of his farms, and Geraint had no prejudices against sitting in the old man’s chair.
Vance drank to him.
“May you have the filling of it, dear gossip. Then Paradise will lack nothing.”
Geraint gave blow for blow.
“And no man will stay me when I go a-hunting, whether it be the red deer——”
“Or others. You have a park of your own, man.”
“And you—the whole Forest.”
“Thin, sir—very thin. Game is scarce, though I am trapping a fine young doe this very day. And here is the jest, gossip Geraint; she has taken cover in one of your thickets.”
Geraint looked hard at Vance over the top of his mug.
“Here—in Paradise! Rabbits, man! I know everything that happens in Paradise.”
“Who doubts it? But this is a great gibe, with that woolly-noddled saint of yours serving as father confessor!”
“I miss the scent, my friend.”
“You and I can keep each other’s secrets. There is some trouble brewing about here, though I have not got to the bottom of it as yet. Old Dale’s cubs had sneaked back out of France; we sighted them in Gawdy Town. We have the young man’s brush, and now I am after the girl. She is going to ride to Troy with me.”
Geraint’s black eyes were on the alert.
“I know nothing of all this, gossip. Where are you going to find the lady?”
“On the Black Moor.”
“What!”
“Under the protection of St. Florence and Brother Martin, and taking her sleep in your rest-house.”
Geraint gaped like a great bird.
“Blood and wounds, but this is—miraculous!”
He began to laugh—deep, gloating laughter.
“Dear gossip, I have not heard such monstrous good news for many months. Brother Martin playing the nurse to a woman! Why, sir, we sent him one, and he would have none of her, the pious fool!”
“I dare say Brother Martin could not help himself.”
“How so?”
“The young woman arrived, claimed St. Florence’s charity, and friend Martin had to give it. I could swear he has kept the door of his cell shut all the while, and only gone out after dark.”
Geraint’s mouth showed its typical snarl.
“It’s probable, most probable, but such a tale does not suit us, good sir.”
“What has the fool done that you hate him so heartily?”
“He is too good for this world, Vance; I would that you could help us to be rid of him.”
The red man grinned.
“Why, anything in reason! One bruises one’s toe against these incorruptible lumps. And your toe may be swollen, holy friend.”
“Have done. This is serious to us.”
“Speak out, then; confess to me, Dom Geraint; I am no suckling.”
Geraint poured out more ale.
“But for Abbot Hilary we should not care a snap of the fingers.”
“Every man has a man over him, gossip, even if it be only a grave-digger. My Lord of Troy—well, I would not lose Roger Bland’s good-will. I should be a broken man in a month, and I know it. You are afraid of this pup’s yelping?”
Geraint nodded, and sat biting the nail of his thumb.
“Teach him to gnaw bones.”
“We have tried it.”
“But here is a pretty tale that could be told. Why, souse me in vinegar, one only has to lie hard enough in this world—see things crooked! Supposing I and my two fellows dream that we found——”
He painted the picture with a few coarse flourishes, and Geraint wriggled in his chair.
“Great, sweet gossip—great! But supposing he calls for a court?”
“Let him have it. He can call no witnesses. Madame Mellis will not be forthcoming, and we shall be ready to swear—for the jest of it. Of course a gold piece or two for my fellows! These little mazes please me, gossip; brains—brains! I’m tickled by a rebus! Now—what of it?”
Geraint stretched out one of his hairy paws.
“A bargain, Vance.”
“I’ll hold the debt over you, and call it some day. Prayers put up for me in Paradise—hey! No, a priest may be useful on occasions.”
Half an hour later he called his men, mounted his horse, and set out for the Black Moor.