it was possible for such a man as gaillard to be in love with two women at one and the same moment, if indeed what gaillard felt for a woman could be called love. peter of savoy was at lewes, and the gascon had the command at pevensey, and had taken to oiling his hair, and having musk sewn up in a corner of his surcoat. he and etoile saw much of one another, but the lute girl knew how to keep gaillard at arm’s length. he might play the troubadour, and make himself ridiculous by singing under her window at night. etoile wished to try the man further before she trusted such a cousin as gaillard with her power over count peter of savoy.
one thing etoile did not know, that gaillard had ridden more than once to the beech wood above goldspur, and that he had seen denise, and come away feeling baulked and foolish. the red saint had shut herself obstinately in her cell, and as for singing her love songs, even gaillard had not the gross conceit to treat denise as he would have treated etoile. yet gaillard had no sense of the comic in life, and accepted himself with such enthusiasm that anything was possible to so blatant a creature. display was a passion with him, and any clouding of his conceit, an injury that made him scowl like a spoilt child. life had to be full of noise and bustle, the blowing of trumpets, and the applause of women. gaillard was so much in love with himself that he ran about like a fanatic waving a torch, and expecting all the world to listen to what he said.
the gascon might be a fool, but he was a pernicious fool in those rough days, when there was a woman to be pleased. denise had shut her door on him, but gaillard did not doubt but that she would open it in due season. her pride was a thing on the surface, so gaillard told himself, and she had more to surrender than had most women. etoile also was unapproachable, but in very different fashion to denise. the one was a white glare that blinded and repulsed, the other a glittering point that lured and kept its distance. and gaillard, like a great gross red moth, blundered to and fro, making a great flutter.
etoile had much of the spirit of those byzantine women who had the devil’s poison under their tongues. gaillard amused her. it pleased her to discover how far she could drive him into making a fool or a cur of himself, even as she might tease count peter’s leopards, playing on their jealousy, or tantalising them by holding out food and snatching it away between the bars. and etoile’s ingenuity searched out an adventure that should show her how far gaillard could be trusted. she was shrewd enough to realise that the man might be of use to her. peter of savoy was but a child with a play-thing. it was worth etoile’s discretion to have a man upon whom she could rely.
gaillard grew more importunate, and was for ever offering her his homage. “well,” said etoile to herself, “let him prove himself, but not in the matter of brute courage.” she knew that it is always more dangerous for a man to be tempted than to be dared. and etoile gave gaillard a tryst at dusk among the cypresses of count peter’s garden, and turning on him like a cat challenged gaillard to prove his faith.
no man was ever more astonished than the gascon when she told him what she would have him do. at first he hailed the devil of mischief in her, but etoile was in earnest, and flamed up when he laughed at her. gaillard shrugged his shoulders, and saw destiny stirring the live coals of his desire.
“it would be simpler to bring you her head,” he said, wondering whether etoile knew more than she had betrayed. “cut off the woman’s hair, indeed! the folk yonder would crucify me, if they caught me harming their saint.”
etoile looked him in the eyes.
“you are for ever shouting at me to prove you my gaillard. here is your chance. there is often some wisdom in a whim. you are to bring me her wooden cross, too, remember, as well as a piece of her hair.”
gaillard, uneasy under etoile’s eyes, hid his more intimate thoughts behind an incredulous obstinacy. he could have scoffed at the absurdity of the thing. and yet, when he looked at it squarely, the adventure was not so physically absurd. what did it mean but the robbing of one woman to win another, the plundering of one treasure house to use the spoil to bribe the keeper of other treasures! the fine rascality of the thing delighted him. he threw back his head and laughed, though etoile mistook the meaning of his laughter.
“you have not the courage, gaillard, eh? the man who sings under my window must be something better than a troubadour fool.”
gaillard bit his nails as though in the grip of a dilemma. the devil in him applauded. he could have clapped himself on the back over the broad humour of his cleverness.
“what a road to set a man on, my desire,” he said, looking rather sullen over it. “there is a sin that they call sacrilege——”
etoile clapped her hands.
“cousin gaillard with a conscience! oh, you fool, am i worth a piece of hair, and the wood of a cross?”
gaillard spread his arms.
“fool! do you think that i want a man with weak knees to serve me, a boy who empties half the cup and then turns sick?”
gaillard made a show of faltering, rocking to and fro on his heels, and looking at her under half closed lids.
“assuredly,” said he, “you are a devil. and to win a devil i will rob a saint.”
denise’s inward vision helped her so little those days that she had no foreshadowings of gaillard’s treachery. he had shown none of his rougher nature to her when he had ridden through the beech wood to her cell. and denise had let him talk to her once or twice, intent on discovering all that had befallen aymery since he had fallen into the hands of peter of savoy. only when gaillard had tried to come too near had she closed the door on him, frightened by the look in the man’s eyes, and yet feeling herself very helpless in that solitary wood. for some days she had seen nothing of the goldspur folk, nor did she know whether grimbald was dead or alive. gaillard had gone off sulking from the frost that she had thrown out on him. denise believed herself rid of the man. and yet in her unrest, and loneliness, she thought of what dom silvius had said to her, and was half persuaded to put herself within sanctuary at battle.
gaillard had told her nothing about aymery, save that he was alive, and waiting the king’s pleasure. and of all these happenings aymery knew nothing as he lay on the straw in a tower room at pevensey. his wounds were mending, for peter of savoy had some of the instincts of a christian, and had sent his own barber surgeon to minister to aymery’s needs. yet the lord of goldspur manor thought little of his own wounds those days.
though aymery’s flesh was free from fever, the spirit chafed in him, tossing and turning with an unceasing flux of thought. those happenings at the hermitage haunted him, and in the spirit he drank wine that was both bitter and sweet, cursing himself for the helplessness that had brought such things to pass, and laying to his own charge all the shame that had fallen upon denise.
yet aymery had other thoughts to trouble him, for those hours at the hermitage came back more clearly and vividly, as though they had happened in the twilight, and been remembered in the day. he felt again the touch of denise’s hands, saw the gleam of her hair, and caught the mystery of tenderness that had flashed and faded in the deeps of her eyes. aymery would be very still in the narrow room, still as one who lies dead with a smile on his lips, and in blind eyes a vision of things splendid.
sometimes aymery would take to preaching to himself, growing sensible and almost prosy, like a merchant looking methodically into his ledgers. without doubt grimbald would be at goldspur, the people would come back to the village, they would think no shame of denise, even if they heard of the thing that she had attempted. the quiet life would begin again, for there was no cause now for my lord peter to harry the countryside. no harm might come of all these adventures, and to insure that end, aymery preached to himself still further.
“heart of mine,” said he. “denise is for no such worldly desires. true, she has taken no sworn vows, but for all that, my friend, she is as good as a nun. take heed how you tempt sacrilege. for to the people denise is a lady of many marvels. she is not of mere clay, there is mystery yonder—and her love is the love of the angels and the saints.”
in some such simple and sturdy fashion aymery spoke often to his own heart. yet there was always an enchanted distance shining beyond these vows of his like a sunset seen through trees. flashes of passion lingered that should not linger. a look of the eyes, a touch of the hand, such things are not forgotten.
as for his own fortune, aymery had no grip thereon; he could only eat his food and shake up the straw of his bed for comfort. he was mewed there, “waiting the king’s pleasure,” a useful phrase in the mouth of a lord who shared with others in persuading the king. aymery might have stood at his window and shouted “charter” till the barber surgeon decreed that he was turgid and feverish, and should be bled. there was no such thing as a rescue to be thought of. presently he might scheme at breaking out in other and grimmer fashion if they did not release him. for there was still much talk in the land of “stephen’s days,” and it was said that when the saints saved a soul, the devil erected a castle.
