Chapter XXXIV
About dusk that day, as Martin was passing through the courtyard, some one touched him on the shoulder. He turned, and found himself looking into Peter Swartz’s face. The soldier gave a significant jerk of the head, closed one eye, and lounged casually in the direction of the doorway opening on the garden. The courtyard was full of men who had been cooking and eating their supper; one side of it had been turned into a stable; the south-east corner had become a kitchen where a huge fire blazed. The men lay about on piles of bracken, their arms hanging from wooden pegs that had been driven into the wall. There seemed to be an abundance of ale. One of the women from Gawdy Town was sitting on a saddle and singing to the men, while she thrummed her lute. Martin had to pass close to her, and she looked at him insolently and laughed.
Martin followed Swartz into the garden. The place was so wild and overgrown and tangled that no one troubled to enter it, save when there was a reason for lying concealed. Swartz was waiting by the yews near the sundial, and Martin joined him.
“A word with you, man.”
His eyes were restless and alert.
“Come this way, under the nut trees. Those sluts are still at supper, and not looking for dark corners.”
They pushed into the tunnel of leaves and stood listening. Then Swartz began.
“The Forest is full of swine, and I go elsewhere. Look to yourself.”
He jerked a thumb toward the house.
“Swine! I know the nature of the beasts. If I stayed here a day longer I should have my throat slit, just to make matters certain. Dead men need not be watched.”
He drew Martin close to him.
“Guard yourself, my friend; the pigs do not love you. If you are wise you will come with me and leave these gentry to be hunted by my Lord of Troy. Thunder, but what a man-at-arms I could make of you! In France and in Italy a good sword wins much gold; they offer you a gay life, plenty of wine, and honor to be won. These English have no souls; they are all butchers and brewers.”
He looked into Martin’s face.
“What say you? Would she come also? Three comrades in arms! I have money on me; you can buy any ship-master, and he will sail you to hell or heaven. Come—what do you say?”
Martin’s answer showed on his face.
“Swartz, no man has been more brotherly to me——”
“Damnation, man, I have a sort of foolish liking for you. Good men are rare, men who can fight, and throw the whole world over for a bit of honor. And here they are ready to play some foul trick on you.”
“Swartz—I cannot come.”
“And why not, man? If——”
“I have a doom here to work out; I feel it in my blood. Nor would she go—as yet.”
“Try her.”
“No; the word would come from her—if it ever came. I stay here, on guard, her man-at-arms. I have set myself on this path, and I shall not leave it.”
Swartz knew his man, and that he was not to be persuaded.
“One word. I shall make for Gawdy Town; I shall lie there for seven days; if your mind changes you will find Swartz at a tavern near the harbor, at the sign of the ‘Crossed Keys.’ Much may happen in seven days.”
They gripped hands.
“Look to yourself, Martin.”
“There are things a man never forgets.”
“Tush! I have the soul of a soldier. Remember the ‘Crossed Keys.’ ”
When Martin Valliant went to his post that night outside the door of Mellis’s room he found a drunken man trying to open her door. It was barred on the inside, but the fellow was fumbling with the latch, sottishly enraged and babbling oaths. Martin took him by the shoulder, sent him rolling down the stairs, and followed to see whether he betrayed any desire to return. The man went down the newel stairway with absurd contortions, like a beetle rolling over and over and kicking as he rolled. He gathered himself up at the bottom, clasped his head between his hands, and disappeared unsteadily through the doorway.
Martin returned to the landing outside Mellis’s room, and stood listening.
“Mellis!”
Her voice answered him from the other side of the door.
“I am here. What has happened?”
“Nothing. A clown had lost his way, and I showed it to him with some briskness. These knights and gentlemen keep but poor order among their men.”
He heard her sigh.
“Martin!”
“Dear lady!”
“I have a feeling of strange restlessness to-night. I know not what ails me.”
“What is there to fear?”
He spoke with calmness, but her voice had made him think of a wind blowing sadly in the distant woods at night, plaintive and forlorn. His own heart was heavy in him with deep foreboding, though he would not confess to it before her.
“Is John Falconer in the house?”
“I saw him an hour ago.”
“One friend, please God. Where is Swartz?”
Martin hesitated, and then gave her the truth.
“Escaped—or on the verge of it. He does not trust to promises—fears to be treated as a traitor.”
“Ah! he is right. Martin, I have come by a most evil fear of my own people; their eyes do not look straight into mine. That man, Sir Gregory, is no friend of ours. Oh, I know; we women are quick. I feel a shadow over us.”
He heard her move the bar that closed the door, and the rustling of her dress.
“The shadow is mine,” he said.
“No—no.”
There was passion in her voice.
“It is the evil in the hearts of other men. I feel it—feel it like a fog creeping into my window. And I loved this place; we were so happy, even though death was near; I was not afraid. But now—a dread of something seizes me.”
The bar was in her hands, and the door moved so that Martin saw a little streak of light. His heart seemed to stand still, and then beat like the heart of a man who is afraid.
“Martin!”
He did not answer her.
“There is danger for you—there. They might creep up while you are sleeping. Oh! what am I saying, what is this dread that makes me a coward? But I am not a coward, and I love you. See—you can sleep here, across my door, so that no one can touch you.”
She threw the door open, and the gray light from her room fell upon his face. She was all shadow, wrapped in a cloak that had been found for her—a vague, soft outline that seemed to yearn toward him, a dream begotten of the night, tender, mysterious.
He covered his face with his hands.
“Mellis!”
“Is there pride between us, and no sweet faith? Am I asking you to do a shameful thing? Why, this is no more than a simple room, where I breathe and move—and sleep. I have a great fear for you to-night; I want you near me.”
He was silent.
“Martin, would you shame me, hold aloof as though I had tempted you?”
She caught his hands, and drew them from his face.
“Oh! I am wounded—if you have no faith!”
“Mellis!”
“Yes—wounded, to the heart! Oh! my dear love!”
He lifted her hands and kissed them almost fiercely.
“It shall be as you wish. This room is a chapel, its altar—where you sleep.”
He was over the threshold, and freeing a hand, she softly closed the door. Her breath came quickly, with a flutter of exultation.
“Oh, my dear lord, my man, is this not a great sacrament between us? Now—you have made me happy; is it not strange? See—you will lie here; there is bracken, and I will spread it; and here—is a wallet for a pillow.”
She glided about the room with innocent joy.
“Set your sword there. Now, we are in our castle, and I have no fear. Shall we pray, kneel down like children?”
She caught his hand, and they knelt down side by side. Their prayers were said in silence, such prayers as save this world of ours from the doom that it has earned.
She started up suddenly, took his face between her hands, and kissed him.
“Dear heart, good-night!”
Mellis stretched herself on the bed, and Martin went to his couch of bracken by the door. Neither of them spoke again, but they lay awake for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing.