It may seem inconsistent in such a brutal and godless man as Fulke to have submitted himself to this ignominious punishment. He acted, however, from mixed motives. First, it was a little bit of religious feeling, very small indeed, and call it superstition if you will, such as caused him uneasiness the morning after his dream, which led him to pay this visit to St. Alban's. Excommunication he feared, if indeed his brutal nature could feel fear. But he dreaded it quite as much for its temporal consequences as for those of the future; for it was apt to affect unpleasantly a man's social and worldly position. Secondly, Sir Fulke reflected that King Henry had certainly greatly strengthened himself by that visit to the chapter-house at Canterbury. With such an example, no one could aver that Sir Fulke's penance was unknightly or derogatory to his position. Further, he was obliged to confess to himself that he had much greater need of a coat of moral whitewash than had Henry; and, lastly, there was what he considered the great advantage of making his peace with the Church by an act of submission which did not necessarily involve any restitution--a matter so alien to his greedy disposition.
CHAPTER VII
"ARCADES AMBO."
In the evening of the day on which the strange scene at St. Alban's Abbey just described had taken place, Sir Fulke de Breauté sat with his younger brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.
The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well satisfied with himself.
"By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have done a good morning's work;" and he reached across to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood on the table beside him, and poured himself out a deep draught. Then he passed the wine across to his brother, who sat moodily staring into the log-fire.
"Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering."
"'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the other sulkily. "I like it not overmuch. Give me the pure clarets of France and Italy," he added, but replenishing his horn all the same.
Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother. A great change had come over William since that eventful evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe in a perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses keeping time to the rattle of his horse's hoofs. First and foremost he had cursed Ralph de Beauchamp--for now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage he drove the rowels again and again deep into the flanks of his unfortunate steed. Next he cursed all the De Beauchamp family and all connected with it. Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De Pateshulle had urged him to prosecute the suit which had resulted in such dire humiliation. But here he had paused in his curses.
He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's daughter with an oath. Her face haunted him as he rode along: her face--first, cold and set as marble, as when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then, flushed and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, as she turned to him from the window, and took those six paces to confront him. Her scornful beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid passion seized him.