CHAPTER XXIX
When they had breasted the chalk hills with their beech woods, great yews, and wild junipers, and saw the lush valley country below them, Cavendish rode on ahead to speak with the King’s reeve, who kept the Manor of the Black Mere. Cavendish had hunted in these parts, and knew the ways and the lie of the land. They saw him ford a stream that ran at the foot of the hills, splashing through the shallows, the water crackling into white foam under his horse’s hoofs.
Knollys and Fulk rode together, the mock page following on her pad. She made a comely youth with her ripe lips, and her dark eyes, and that daring and imperious chin of hers in the air. The hood of chain mail hid her hair, that was fastened up in a silver net. Her long-lipped mouth had an elusive and mischievous look, and sometimes she smiled as she watched Fulk in his black harness masterful even in the saddle.
Knollys was in a playful mood.
“It is not generous of us to set her to watch your beard grow, my son, yet she chose to come in that short cloak and her green hose. I can see petticoats in that big wallet strapped to the pad’s saddle. Sir Tristram and his lady! And no loving-cup needed!”
Fulk was a little in the air, and had too much passion in him to be playful.
“We owe her these heads on our shoulders.”
“Tsst, lad! The girl is splendid. I would change with you, if I could. To start again on adventures in strange lands with such a mate to keep your blood afire! Ha! the French wars, the Breton moors, the fine, lusty, galloping life! And the black eyes and the wines of Spain! If I were young again—if I were young.”
Fulk’s thoughts were back in that Sussex forest, turning towards that cold woman, his mother, and the silent man who had reared him as a son. Ever since he had caught Isoult by moonlight, hunting the duke’s deer, the world had been turned topsy-turvy, and the old life had vanished. He knew that he could never go back and guard deer in a Sussex forest. Isoult had come sailing like a splendid falcon out of the blue, challenging him to soar with her in quest of great adventures.
“Knollys, the King will keep faith?”
“We shall see to it, my son.”
“I must have good men, a good ship, and good money. My pride has had a bold flight. It will not come back to perch so easily.”
“Would you change with your half-brother?”
“Yes—and no. But I keep faith, and I shall not let it be forgotten.”
Knollys laughed.
“No, in faith, you would be dangerous—to forget. We have pledged our faith to you. No prince of the blood shall set out more royally. Even the good Walworth is ready to pay you for his knighthood! A man may send in a big bill for saving a kingdom. I will ride down hither before many days are passed, and bring you news.”
They rode through but one village, and saw nothing but women, old men, and children. Sullen faces looked at them from behind half-closed doors. The men who had slunk home from London did not show themselves, mistrusting anything that rode upon a horse. The fields were still deserted, though here and there they saw a man swinging a scythe. The people were cowed, afraid of their own violence, profoundly discouraged by the deaths of their leaders. The lords and the lawyers would be out for vengeance, and the mob that had threatened a kingdom had scattered in a panic, and was ready to cringe.
The country grew wilder, rolling woods meeting heather-covered hills that were purpling against the blue of the summer sky. It was an empty landscape where deer might range and the hawk hover without sighting such a thing as man.
At Beggars Thorn they reined in, for here Knollys and his men were to turn back.
“There is no more kick in Master Adam. You will not be troubled. Cavendish will see you housed.”
He slung Fulk a fat wallet.
“Wine and dainties, my son. God speed you.”
He drew close and these two embraced, for comrade’s love—man’s love—had sprung up between them.
“Grace to you, Master Bertrand.”
He looked at Isoult, and smiled.
“The knave of a boy! How could you cock your chin at me. Farewell, farewell!”
He left them the guide and turned back with his men for London town.
It was evening—a still, June evening—when they came towards the Black Mere. Heathlands sloped to a deep valley, where woods of birch and of beech threw light and heavy shadows. The track followed a long, winding strip of grassland knee deep with grass and flowers, and into it opened the woodland ways, tunnels of mystery.
Then the Black Mere lay before them, a great black pool in the hollows of green park-like slopes. Willows grew on the banks, trailing thin, grey foliage in the water among the flags and rushes. Here and there a tongue of woodland came down to the edge of the pool, throwing a long black shadow upon water that already looked black. No wind blew; not a ripple showed. The evening sunlight, streaming through the trees, made circles and bands of polished gold upon the water.
In the centre of the pool lay an island, and on this island stood the manor house of the Black Mere, its black timber and white plaster built into quaint squares and lozenges. Little windows were sunk deep in the thatch—heather thatch, the colour of the water in the pool. The upper storey overhung the lower, carried on great oak posts and brackets. At one end of the island was an orchard shut in by a palisade. Willows grew on the banks, making a grey, misty screen.
The place looked solitary and deserted. No smoke rose from it, and the flat-bottomed boat was lying chained to the island landing stage.
They found Cavendish’s horse tethered to a tree, and a pile of clothes on the grass near it.
The guide looked puzzled.
“An empty nest, lording.”
Someone hailed them, and a half-naked man with a piece of sacking tied round him came down to the landing-stage. It was Cavendish.
“Coming, coming!”
He climbed into the boat, unmoored it, and taking the pole, brought the boat across the water.
“Reeve Roger has had a fright. Not a soul on the island. The old rogue was afraid of having his throat cut by the rebels; he is safe in Farnham, Guildford, or Windsor.”
He threw the chain to the guide, sprang out, and going behind a willow tree, slipped into his clothes, and as he dressed he talked.
“I had to swim over. Not a soul has been there. You will find mead and wine in the buttery, flour and salt meat in the kitchen, herbs and green stuff in the garden, fowls and eggs in the yard and stables. If you must fast you can fish in the pool. How does it please you, Sir Godamar? Can your page cook?”
The page answered for himself.
“I can cook, squire, as well as I can say my prayers.”
“Noble child! A merry jest to you. Shall I take Master Numskull back with me?”
Fulk laughed, glancing at Isoult.
“Yes, take him, friend Cavendish.”
“If I am brisk I shall make Guildford before it is too dark to see. How many miles, Jock?”
“Nine, lording.”
“We shall do it, and have time to help with the horses. Jock is a wonder on his legs.”
There were two poles in the boat, and Cavendish and the guide served as ferrymen. Fulk’s horse, who behaved like a fine gentleman, was taken across first, and then Isoult and her pad, and the pad pretended to be restive. They stabled the beasts and found them oats, water, and straw.
Fulk went across with them to bring back the boat.
“Good luck to you, Cavendish. Tell Knollys that we are hermits.”
“May your beard grow, sir. And have a care how you play with that pole in your harness. Not God Almighty could fish you out of the mud if you tumbled overboard in all that gear!”
Cavendish mounted his horse, and Jock shouldered his quarter-staff, and Fulk watched them disappear up the narrow meadow that lost itself in the gloom of the woods.
Then he picked up the pole to ferry back to Isoult.