A grey cell of unfaced stone showed amid the green boughs beyond the water. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross hung from her neck, and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode down to the rippling ford.
Autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and the King’s eyes beheld ruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had come from the cell, and now stood at the wicket-gate, with her hands folded as in prayer. Tristan took Uther’s bridle. The King went on foot alone to speak with the anchoress.
“Sire,” she said, kneeling at his feet, “God save and comfort you.”
The man’s brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his left wrist. He looked over the woman’s head into the woods, and breathed fast through clenched teeth.
“Speak,” he said.
“Sire, the woman lives.”
“I can bear the truth.”
The anchoress made the sign of the cross.
“She came to us, sire, here in this valley, a tall lady, with golden hair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her robe rent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches, such as tell of love. We took her, sire, and gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and gave her raiment. So, she abode with us, gentle and lovely, yet speaking like one who had suffered, even to death. And yet, even as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone.”
The woman had never so much as lifted her eyes to the man’s face. Her hands held her crucifix, and she was pale as new-hewn stone.