“We have the money,” she said, “we can buy food, and I have enough for to-night.”
“Innocent, there is not a loaf to be bought for miles round. The King’s paunch would have made short work of the very trees, only they are too tough. And a word in your ear, treasure your money as though it were your blood. For when a woman is starving, and her pocket is empty, the devil comes in with a grin, and offers to pay for a meal.”
“How can we get more money?”
Marpasse grimaced.
“We must go as mendicants,” she said. “I will thieve an old cloak, and cover up my colour. At all events, here is our Lord the Pig. We will make some use of him. If you are dainty, go and sit on the far side of the tree.”
Marpasse turned butcher that night, nor was it the first time that she had used a knife on a carcase, for people who live by their wits go poaching at times, even after the King’s deer. Marpasse had no intimate knowledge of The Charter, or the Forest Laws, save that she had known men who had been caught, and mutilated. Being strong and skilful she had a good skinful of meat beside her before the dusk came down. Then she cut a hazel stake, slung the skin with the meat on it, and going down to a stream that crossed the road, washed the boar’s blood from her hands and arms, and came back clean and smiling.
“Silver John will soon be up,” she said, nodding towards the east; “if he would only drop us a few coins the colour of his face, I should feel the happiest beggar in the kingdom. Come along with you. We will tramp a little farther from my gossips. If you fell in with them you might not like their tongues.”
Denise and Marpasse set out together, keeping a little distance from the road, and walking under the shadows of the trees. Soon the moon came up, and made the May woods magical, and full of a mystery that was clean and pure. Nightingales sang in the thickets, and the scent of the dew on the grass and dead leaves came with the perfume of wild flowers out of the dusk.
Marpasse was in a happy mood despite a day’s tramp, and the adventure with the boar.
“I have a feeling in me,” she said, “that Silver John looks at us kindly out of the sky. Throw us a penny, good Lord Moon, or some hair out of your silver beard. Hear how the birds are singing. They shall sing a merry jingle into our pockets.”