A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous by Andrew Lang (highly illogical behavior .txt) 📗

and flung yourself and the sentinel into the moat?  And where have you been wasting your time, and why went you from the bridge ere I came back, if the archers took another prentice lad for Norman Leslie?”

“They told you truth,” I said.

“Then, in the name of Antichrist—that I should say so!—how scaped you drowning, and how came you here?”

I told him the story, as briefly as might be.

“Ill luck go with yon second-sighted wench that has bewitched Elliot, and you too, for all that I can see.  Never did I think to be frayed with a bogle, {14} and, as might have been deemed, the bogle but a prentice loon, when all was done.  To my thinking all this fairy work is no more true than that you are a dead man’s wraith.  But they are all wild about it, at the castle, where I was kept long, doing no trade, and listening to their mad clatter.”

He took out of his pouch a parcel heedfully wrapped in soft folds of silk.

“Here is this Book of Hours,” he said, “that I have spent my eyesight, and gold, purple, and carmine, and cobalt upon, these three years past; a jewel it is, though I say so.  And I had good hope to sell it to Hugh Kennedy, for he has of late had luck in taking two English knights prisoners at Orleans—the only profitable trade that men now can drive,—and the good knight dearly loves a painted book of devotion; especially if, like this of mine, it be adorned with the loves of Jupiter, and the Swan, and Danäe, and other heathen pliskies.  We were chaffering over the price, and getting near a bargain, when in comes Patrick Ogilvie with a tale of this second-sighted Maid, and how she had been called to see the King, and of what befell.  First, it seems, she boded the death of that luckless limb of a sentinel, and then you took it upon you to fulfil her saying, and so you and he were drowned, and I left prenticeless.  Little comfort to me it was to hear Kennedy and Ogilvie praise you for a good Scot and true, and say that it was great pity of your death.”

At this hearing my heart leaped for joy, first, at my own praise from such good knights, and next, because I saw a blink of hope, having friends at Court.  My master went on—

“Next, Ogilvie told how he had been in hall, with the Dauphin, the Chancellor Trémouille, and some scores of knights and nobles, a great throng.  They were all waiting on this Lorrainer wench, for the Dauphin had been told, at last, that she brought a letter from Baudricourt, but before he would not see her.  This letter had been kept from him, I guess by whom, and there was other clash of marvels wrought by her, I know not what.  So their wisdom was set on putting her to a kind of trial, foolish enough!  A young knight was dressed in jewels and a coronet of the King’s, and the King was clad right soberly, and held himself far back in the throng, while the other stood in front, looking big.  So the wench comes in, and, walking straight through the press of knights, with her head high, kneels to the King, where he stood retired, and calls him ‘gentle Dauphin’!

“‘Nay, ma mie,’ says he, ‘’tis not I who am the Dauphin, but his Highness yonder,’—pointing to the young knight, who showed all his plumage like a muircock in spring.

“Nay, gentle Dauphin,” she answers, so Ogilvie said, “it is to thee that I am sent, and no other, and I am come to save the good town of Orleans, and to lead thee to thy sacring at Rheims.”

“Here they were all struck amazed, and the King not least, who then had some words apart with the girl.  And he has given her rooms in the Tour Coudraye within the castle; and the clergy and the doctors are to examine her straitly, whether she be from a good airt, {15} or an ill, and all because she knew the King, she who had never seen him before.  Why should she never have seen him—who warrants me of it?—she dwelling these last days nigh the castle!  Freits are folly, to my thinking, and fools they that follow them.  Lad, you gave me a gliff; pass me another stoup of wine!  Freits, forsooth!”

I served him, and he sat and chuckled in his chair, being pleasured by the thought of his own wisdom.  “Not a word of this to Elliot, though,” he said suddenly; “when there is a woman in a house—blessings on her!—it is anything for a quiet life!  But, ‘nom Dieu!’ what with the fright you gave me, sitting there, whereas I deemed you were meat for eels and carp, and what with thy tale—ha, ha!—and my tale, and the wine, maybe, I forgot your own peril, my lad.  Faith, your neck is like to be longer, if we be not better advised.”

Hearing him talk of that marvellous thing, wrought through inspiration by the Maid—whereat, as his manner was, he mocked, I had clean forgotten my own jeopardy.  Now this was instant, for who knew how much the archer might have guessed, that followed with the Maid and me, and men-at-arms might anon be at our door.

“It may be,” said I, “that Sir Patrick Ogilvie and Sir Hugh Kennedy would say a word for me in the King’s ear.”

“Faith, that is our one chance, and, luckily for you, the lad you drowned, though in the King’s service, came hither in the following of a poor knight, who might take blood-ransom for his man.  Had he been La Trémouille’s man, you must assuredly have fled the country.”

He took up his Book of Hours, with a sigh, and wrapped it again in its silken parcel.

“This must be your price with Kennedy,” he said, “if better may not be.  It is like parting with the apple of my eye, but, I know not well how, I love you, my lad, and blood is thicker than water.  Give me my staff; I must hirple up that weary hill again, and you, come hither.”

He led me to his own chamber, where I had never been before, and showed me how, in the chimney-neuk, was a way into a certain black hole of little ease, wherein, if any came in search for me, I might lie hidden.  And, fetching me a cold fish (Lenten cheer), a loaf, and a stoup of wine, whereof I was glad enough, he left me, groaning the while at his ill-fortune, but laden with such thanks as I might give for all his great kindness.

There then, I sat, when I had eaten, my ears pricked to listen for the tramp of armed men below and the thunder of their summons at the door.  But they came not, and presently my thought stole back to Elliot, who, indeed, was never out of my mind then—nay, nor now is.  But whether that memory be sinful in a man of religion or not, I leave to the saints and to good confession.  Much I perplexed myself with marvelling why she did so weep; above all, since I knew what hopeful tidings she had gotten of her friend and her enterprise.  But no light came to me in my meditations.  I did not know then that whereas young men, and many lasses too, are like the Roman lad who went with his bosom bare, crying “Aura veni,” and sighing for the breeze of Love to come, other maidens are wroth with Love when he creeps into their hearts, and would fain cast him out—being in a manner mad with anger against Love, and against him whom they desire, and against themselves.  This mood, as was later seen, was Elliot’s, for her heart was like a wild bird trapped, that turns with bill and claw on him who comes to set it free.  Moreover, I have since deemed that her passion of faith in the Maid made war on her love for me; one breast being scantly great enough to contain these two affections, and her pride taking, against the natural love, the part of the love which was divine.

But all these were later thoughts, that came to me in musing on the sorrows of my days; and, like most wisdom, this knowledge arrived too late, and I, as then, was holden in perplexity.

CHAPTER VIII—OF CERTAIN QUARRELS THAT CAME ON THE HANDS OF NORMAN LESLIE

Belike I had dropped asleep, outwearied with what had befallen me, mind and body, but I started up suddenly at the sound of a dagger-hilt smitten against the main door of the house, and a voice crying, “Open, in the name of the Dauphin.”  They had come in quest of me, and when I heard them, it was as if a hand had given my heart a squeeze, and for a moment my breath seemed to be stopped.  This past, I heard the old serving-woman fumbling with the bolts, and peering from behind the curtain of my casement, I saw that the ways were dark, and the narrow street was lit up with flaring torches, the lights wavering in the wind.  I stepped to the wide ingle, thinking to creep into the secret hiding-hole.  But to what avail?  It might have served my turn if my escape alive from the moat had only been guessed, but now my master must have told all the story, and the men-at-arms must be assured that I was within.  Thinking thus, I stood at pause, when a whisper came, as if from within the ingle—

“Unbar the door, and hide not.”

It must be Elliot’s voice, speaking through some tube contrived in the ingle of the dwelling-room below or otherwise.  Glad at heart to think that she took thought of me, I unbarred the door, and threw myself into a chair before the fire, trying to look like one unconcerned.  The bolts were now drawn below; I heard voices, rather Scots than French, to my sense.  Then the step of one man climbed up the stair, heavily, and with the tap of a staff keeping tune to it.  It was my master.  His face was pale, and falling into a chair, he wiped the sweat from his brow.  “Unhappy man that I am!” he said, “I have lost my apprentice.”

I gulped something down in my throat ere I could say, “Then it is death?”

“Nay,” he said, and smiled.  “But gliff for gliff, {16} you put a fear on me this day, and now we are even.”

“Yet I scarce need a cup of wine for my recovery, master,” I said, filling him a beaker from the flagon on the table, which he drained gladly, being sore wearied, so steep was the way to the castle, and hard for a lame man.  My heart was as light as a leaf on a tree, and the bitterness of shameful death seemed gone by.

“I have lost my prentice another way,” he said, setting down the cup on the table.  “I had much a do to see Kennedy, for he was at the dice with other lords.  At length, deeming there was no time to waste, I sent in the bonny Book of Hours, praying him to hear me for a moment on a weighty matter.  That brought him to my side; he leaped at the book like a trout at a fly, and took me to his own chamber.  There I told him your story.  When it came to the wench in the King’s laundry, and Robin Lindsay, and you clad in girl’s gear, and kissed in the guard-room, he struck hand on thigh and laughed aloud.

“Then I deemed your cause as good as three parts won, and he could not hold in, but led me to a chamber where were many lords, dicing and drinking: Trémouille, Ogilvie, the Bishop of Orleans—that holy man, who has come to ask for aid from the King,—La Hire, Xaintrailles, and I know not whom.  There I must tell all the chronicle again; and some said this, and some that, and Trémouille mocks, that the Maid uttered her prophecy to no other end but to make you fulfil it, and slay her enemy for the sake of her ‘beaux yeux.’  The others would hear nothing of this, and, indeed, though I am no gull, I wot that Trémouille is wrong here, and over cunning; he trusts neither man nor woman.  Howsoever it be, he went with the story to the King, who is keen to hear any new thing.  And, to be short, the end of it is this: that you have your free pardon, on these terms, namely, that you have two score of masses said for the dead man, and yourself take