CHAPTER XXII
The Inn of The Painted Lady stood near the river, a gaudy, cut-throat, bold-faced house, the plaster between its beams daubed a hard, bright red, the barge-boards of its gables painted blue. The “Painted Lady” herself on her sign wore scarlet and blue, and her round eyes ogled the passers-by.
The inn door was barred that night, the windows shuttered. Nothing but chinks of light came from it, furtive gleams that lost themselves quickly in the darkness. The lane in front of it was rough and dirty and full of holes, and from the lane a narrow passage went down between two houses to the river.
Hither came Guy, holding Isoult fast by the wrist. And he found Merlin in “The Painted Lady,” and though it was June, sitting on a stool before the fire, his cowl thrown back, his gaunt face glistening, the nails of his right hand bitten to the quick.
Isoult was bidden up the ladder stairs into an attic, and Guy sidled up to Merlin and touched him on the shoulder.
“Prettily fooled, by cock, and by no King!”
Merlin turned on him savagely.
“No King, say you? Too much of a King!”
Then Guy bent to him and whispered, and Merlin started and straightened like a man stabbed in the back.
“Thunder!”
“Ask the wench. It was the bastard, or I’m no man.”
“Mea culpa!” He struck his chin with his fist. “Fool priest, blind ape! And I never scented the fox!”
He sprang up.
“That Sussex hawk—that love child of a Prince! Hallo, listen.”
Men were coming down the lane with a rattle of arms. Someone knocked at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Wat and John Ball.”
Merlin nodded Guy towards the door. He dropped the bar, and they came crowding in—men whose hands were bloody and whose throats were dry.
“Why bitest thou thy beard, St. Francis?”
“Saints, is the man hungry? Here is good Father John who has not touched a crust.”
Merlin caught Wat by the shoulder.
“I’m in no mood for your clowning when the lords have made fools of us all.”
“Good sir, I think not.”
“Bah! a few old men butchered! Come, hear news!”
He dragged Wat to the far end of the long room where the fire burnt on the hearth. Jack Straw and John Ball joined them, and the rest of the men were for crowding up. Merlin flapped his long arms at them.
“Back! We want no gossips here.”
They shouted for the innkeeper.
“What has befallen old Pot Harry?”
“He has fled.”
“But left his cellar behind him! Down, brothers, down among the hogsheads.”
They crowded, shouting, into a narrow passage, leaving Merlin, Wat the Tiler, Jack Straw, and John Ball alone. Guy tramped to and fro, twisting his moustaches.
The voices by the fire grew angry and querulous.
“What! A stuffed King?”
“He had fettle enough to fool us of forty thousand men. They went, at his bidding, bleating like sheep.”
“This is a fool’s tale. I’d not give a groat for it.”
“The wench, Isoult, knows whether it be the truth or a lie.”
“Where is the woman?”
“Above, in the attic.”
“Have her down. We’ll make her speak.”
Merlin turned to Guy.
“Bid her come.”
Guy climbed the ladder stair, and forced up the trap-door with one hand. His head disappeared through the opening.
“Isoult, Father Merlin has need of you.”
He climbed down, and stood looking up with a grin on his face. There was no light but the light of the fire and the flare of a torch burning in a cresset. Isoult’s red dress showed on the stairs. She descended them slowly, gathering her skirt up with one hand.
The men by the fire stared at her. Their faces looked gaunt and shadowy. Merlin was licking his lips.
“My sister, the truth lies with you. Friend Guy has used his eyes. Speak!”
She stood before them in all her comeliness.
“What truth, Merlin?”
“Tsst! You know well. The King they sent out to us is no King.”
She looked at him, and shrugged her shoulders.
“Is Guy never thirsty?”
“No fencing. Speak out. Was it Fulk Ferrers you saw on the white horse?”
He went near, stooping, and staring her in the face.
“Fulk Ferrers?”
“Yes—Fulk Ferrers.”
She spread her hands.
“Are my eyes quicker than yours? You should know.”
“A woman’s eyes look deep.”
“Mine saw a King.”
He snarled impatiently.
“That will not serve. Answer me. Was it Fulk Ferrers?”
She answered him calmly.
“No.”
Merlin flung out his arms, and his mouth worked.
“A lie—by the Book, a lie!”
“The father knoweth his children. I have answered you.”
Jack Straw sidled up, drawing a knife from its sheath.
“Persuasion—a touch of persuasion! Hold her.”
Guy caught her arms from behind. She stood rigid, staring at the fire.
“The blade of a knife under a thumb nail, hey?”
Isoult did not resist, did not move, but set her teeth and kept her lips shut.
Wat the Tiler sprang up, knocking his stool over.
“Let be. This is a coward’s game. Answer me, Isoult. Was it Richard the King on the white horse?”
“It was the King—as I know him.”
Merlin clutched at her, but Wat thrust him aside.
“Out! You have an answer. Isoult, I am a friend.”
She met his sinister eyes.
“Yes and no. I have spoken.”
Merlin flung back towards the fire in a rage.
“Go, and get you above. Close the trap on her, Guy. This bird may serve as a lure.”
Blood was dripping from Isoult’s hand; she did not heed it, but turned and walked towards the stairs. Guy tried to whisper to her, but she would not listen.
They gathered about the fire, hunching themselves on their stools and putting their heads together. John Ball had been in a stupor of prayer, and he was still kneeling with his face in the shadow. Merlin and Wat were the two who talked. Their voices rose and fell like a wind blowing fitfully through a hole in the wall.
As for Isoult, she found some straw and a horse-cloth in the attic, and spreading them over the trap-door, made her bed there, so that no one could steal in on her in the night.