aymery went riding southwards over the snow, a cloak of furs over his harness, and the leather flaps of his steel cap turned down to cover cheeks and ears. he rode alone, for though the gilt spurs were at his heels, his purse saw little of the colour of gold, and his horse and his arms were all that he had.
there was peace in the land that january, for men had put up their swords, and delivered their quarrel into the hands of the king of france. it was the month of the mise of amiens, when louis, saint and king, sat to judge between henry of england and his people. men trusted in that holy heart, that flame of sacred chivalry, that had brought peace to france, and given god martyrs on egyptian sands. but louis was a king judging between a king and turbulent towns and still more turbulent barons. nor was it strange, therefore, that a saint, from whose mouth should have sprouted an olive branch, hurled back over the sea a two-edged sword.
a truce had been called, and with the sheathing of his sword, aymery had seized the chance and the time to ride southwards into sussex. goldspur manor house was a black ruin, but the manor folk were there, with grimbald to see that an absent lord was not forgotten. no forfeiture had been proclaimed, and aymery had saddled his horse necessity, and ridden to see whether his villeins and cottars were honest men. aymery had left no steward over them, but grimbald was more to be trusted than any steward; no one would play him any tricks.
aymery’s road ran a devious way that january morning, the road of a man who galloped ten miles out of his path for the glimpse of a woman’s face. and aymery rode wilfully towards battle, though goldspur lay over and away beyond the white hills in the west.
about noon aymery let his horse take his own pace up the hill from watlingtun. the slope of mountjoye seemed one sweep of virgin snow, and aymery, looking for denise’s cell, marked it out above the thicket of oaks where he had kept his vigil that summer night. when he came to the place where the path should turn aside from the road, he saw a muddy and much trampled track leading over the snow towards the cell with its hedge of thorns. it looked to aymery as though the whole countryside had made a pilgrimage to denise of the hill. he followed the path in turn, giving denise her glory with the sadness of a man who cherishes an impossible desire.
the ground about the gate in the thorn hedge had been trampled into a quagg of mud as though many people had passed to and fro that morning. aymery dismounted, and threw his bridle over the gate post, numbering himself among those who had come for denise’s blessing. but the sight he saw startled him not a little, for there was no benediction to be won there that morning.
the door of the cell stood open, and before it, in the middle of a space of trampled snow, two of the abbey servants were heaping up straw and faggots as though for a fire. the trampling of aymery’s horse had been deadened by the snow, the men had not heard it, and he stood at the gate, watching them and wondering what this meant. the two men went to and fro into denise’s cell, carrying out the wooden bed, the straw, and the sheets thereof, her prayer stool, and cross, and other lesser things, for silvius in his first ardour had seen her better housed than a mere recluse. the men piled everything upon the faggots, and then stood aside in silence as though waiting for someone’s coming.
aymery tarried no longer, but marched out from the shadow of the thorn hedge, a voice crying in him: “can it be that she is dead?” the two servants saw him, and for some strange reason began to handle their staves, while one of them went to the door of the cell, and spoke to someone within.
dom silvius and aymery came face to face outside denise’s cell that morning, for the monk had been within, watching the unclean things carried out for the burning. he came out with a lighted torch in his hand, ready with canonical curses, hot and hungry for the chance of scolding the whole world. but when silvius saw aymery, he seemed to grow cold of a sudden, and thin with a malicious carefulness.
for silvius saw the hauberk and the gilt spurs, the long sword at the girdle, the shield slung across the back, the shoulder plates painted with a knight’s device, the golden claw of a hawk. and silvius sprang to sinister conclusions with the intuition of a woman. here, no doubt, was the woman’s paramour, some hot-headed gentleman who had ridden in to discover how things fared with denise.
silvius took no notice of the knight of the hawk’s claw, but plunged his torch into the straw, and watched the flames spring up and seize the wood. the smoke rose straight up into the still air, turning to a pearly haze as the sunlight touched it. the monk stood there, with bowed head and folded arms, as though too busy with his own prayers to be troubled by any stranger. but prayer was very far from silvius’s soul. his eyes were wide awake under their lowered lids.
aymery came two steps nearer. silvius raised his head and looked at him, and saw at a glance the face of a man who was not to be repulsed or fooled.
“whom may you be seeking, my son?” he asked, watching aymery out of the corners of his eyes.
the knight of the hawk’s claw turned his head towards the cell. silvius seemed to enjoy an inaudible chuckle.
“perhaps you have come for a blessing, messire?”
as yet aymery had not spoken a word, but silvius read his thoughts by the puzzled frown and the alert eyes.
“ah, my son,” he went on, beginning to sneer, “you are wondering what has become of our saint.”
aymery looked from silvius to the flames that were leaping through the wood.
“has death been here?”
silvius’s eyes were netted round with cynical wrinkles.
“assuredly your saint is both dead and alive,” he said. “some of you gentlemen have slain the saint in her. i will not ask you, my son, whether the guilt of the sacrilege is yours.”
his sly, sneering face made aymery’s manhood grow hot in him. he was in no temper for sardonic subtleties. silvius saw a look in his eyes that betrayed a lust to take someone by the throat. and silvius kept the fire between him and the man of the sword, nodding to the two servants, and hinting without deceit that they should be ready with their staves.
“my son,” he said, licking his lips; “we are burning the unclean relics of an unclean woman. if you ask me for reasons, i send you to my lord, reginald, at the abbey. his word is law here. i am but a humble servant in god’s house.”
aymery looked silvius in the eyes, and then turned on his heel, with a face like ice. he mounted his horse, and went up mountjoye hill at a canter, choosing to gallop at the core of the truth rather than suffer dom silvius to lick his lips and sneer. nor had horse and rider disappeared below the sky line before silvius called the two servants to him, gave them their orders, and sent them away into the town. he himself tarried there awhile, warming his hands at the fire that consumed those relics of an unsaintly saint.
when aymery came out from the presence of reginald of brecon that day his face had the frozen bleakness of a winter land. he walked stiffly, almost rigidly, with nostrils that twitched, and hungered for air. the abbey servants fell back before him as he mounted his horse at the gate. here was a man who was not to be meddled with. his face sobered them more than the face of a leper.
aymery struck his horse with the spurs, and the beast leapt his own length, stood quivering a moment, and then went away at a sharp gallop as though he had the devil on his back. aymery’s eyes looked straight before him, eyes that caught the white glare of an inward fury, and were blind to the outer world. the snow lay white upon the roofs of the little town. smoke ascended tranquilly into a shimmer of sunlight.
aymery was not to ride out of battle town at his own pace; dom silvius had seen to that. at the sound of a horn a crowd of figures seemed to start from nowhere; men, women, and children came running together; the whole wasps’ nest was on the wing.
aymery drew up sharply, for the crowd in front of him filled the street. he did not grasp the meaning of it at first, but stared round at the people as though he were but a chance actor in some chance scene. a stone thrown from the crowd carried a rude hint, striking him upon the shield that hung at his back. and with the throwing of the first stone the whole mob sent up a sudden roar of anger.
“out, out, seducer!”
“pelt the sacrilegious dog!”
“here is dame denise’s man, neighbours.”
“drag him off.”
“roll him in the mud.”
the uproar and the fury of the fools might have dazed any man for the moment. the crowd came tossing about aymery’s horse, keeping a coward’s distance, content as yet with stones, and filth, and curses. thorn-in-the-thumb and her women were there, obscene and violent, howling like cats, and urging the men on. some of them cut coarse capers, leering up into the knight’s face.
aymery sat still in the saddle for a moment, looking neither to right nor left. his lips were white and pressed hard together, his eyes full of that shallow glare that fills the eyes of an angry dog. the yelling and distorted faces began to close upon him. a stone thrown by a man near struck aymery upon the mouth.
blood showed, but with it a blaze of wrath so terrible and yet so silent, that hands which were uplifted did not fling their stones. aymery’s sword was out. he struck his beast with the spurs, and rode straight into the thick of the crowd. and though he smote only with the flat of the blade, they tumbled over each other in their hurry to give him room, while those who were safe stood open-mouthed, staring like stupid sheep.
aymery rode through them as he would have ridden through a cornfield, swinging his sword, and laughing, the terrible laughter of a man who has no pity. no sooner did the rabble see his back, than their courage came again, the courage of dogs that yap at a horse’s heels. they scampered after him, shouting, screaming, pelting him as they ran. thorn-in-the-thumb, with a bloody poll from the flat of aymery’s sword, panted along with the very first, her apron full of filth that she had brought with her from her kitchen, and kept gloatingly until too late. but aymery never turned his head, and leaving the slobbering pack behind, rode at a canter out of battle town.
