A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous by Andrew Lang (famous ebook reader .TXT) 📖

But Elliot, not looking at her, said to me again, and this time tears leaped up in her eyes—“Forth with you! begone, ere I call that archer to drag you before the judges of the good town.”

I was now desperate, for, clad as I was, the archer had me at an avail, and, if I were taken before the men of the law, all would be known, and my shrift would be short.

“Gracious Pucelle,” I said, in French, turning to the Maiden, “my life, and the fortune of one who would gladly fight to the death by your side, are in your hands.  For the love of the blessed saints, your sisters, and of Him who sends you on your holy mission, pray this demoiselle to let me enter the house with you, and tell my tale to you and her.  If I satisfy you not of my honour and good intent, I am ready, in this hour, to go before the men of law, and deliver myself up to their justice.  For though my life is in jeopardy, I dread death less than the anger of this honourable demoiselle.  And verily this is a matter of instant life or death.”

So saying, I clasped my hands in the manner of one in prayer, setting all my soul into my speech, as a man desperate.

The Maiden had listened very gravely, and sweetly she smiled when my prayer was ended.

“Verily,” she said to me, “here is deeper water than I can fathom.  Elliot, ma mie, you hear how gently, and in what distress, this fair lass beseeches us.”

“Fair lass!” cried Elliot: and then broke off between a sob and a laugh, her hand catching at her side.

“If you love me,” said the Maid, looking on her astonished, and not without anger—“if you love me, as you have said, you that are the first of my comforters, and, till this day, my only friend in your strange town, let the lass come in and tell us her tale.  For, even if she be distraught, and beside herself, as I well deem, I am sent to be a friend of all them that suffer.  Moreover, ma mie, I have glad tidings for you, which I am longing to speak, but speak it I will never, while the lass goes thus in terror and fear of death or shame.”

In saying these last words, the fashion of her countenance was changed to a sweet entreaty and command, such as few could have beheld and denied her what she craved, and she laid her hand lightly on Elliot’s shoulder.

“Come,” said Elliot, “be it as you will; come in with me; and you”—turning to myself—“do you follow us.”

They passed into the house, I coming after, and the archer waiting at the door.

“Let none enter,” said the Maiden to her archer, “unless any come to me from the King, or unless it be the master of the house.”

We passed into the chamber where my master was wont to paint his missals and psalters when he would be alone.  Then Elliot very graciously bade the Maiden be seated, but herself stood up, facing me.

“Gracious Maiden, and messenger of the holy saints,” she said, “this lass, as you deem her, is no woman, but a man, my father’s apprentice, who has clad himself thus to make of you a mockery and a laughing-stock, because that you, being a maid, go attired as a man, by the will of Them who sent you to save France.  Have I said enough, and do I well to be angry?” and her eyes shone as she spoke.

The Maiden’s brows met in wrath; she gazed upon me steadfastly, and I looked—sinful man that I am!—to see her hand go to the hilt of the sword that she wore.  But, making no motion, she only said—

“And thou, wherefore hast thou mocked at one who did thee no evil, and at this damsel, thy master’s daughter?”

“Gentle Maiden,” I said, “listen to me for but a little moment.  It may be, when thou hast heard all, that thou wilt still be wroth with me, though not for mockery, which was never in my mind.  But the gentle damsel, thy friend, will assuredly pardon me, who have already put my life in peril for thy sake, and for the sake of our dear country of Scotland and her good name.”

“Thy life in peril for me!  How mean you?  I stood in no danger, and I never saw your face before.”

“Yet hast thou saved my life,” I said; “but of that we may devise hereafter.  I am, indeed, though a gentleman by blood and birth, the apprentice of the father of this damsel, thy friend, who is himself a gentleman and of a good house, but poverty drives men to strange shifts.  This day I went with my master to the castle, and I was on the drawbridge when thou, with the gentlemen thy esquires, passed over it to see the King.  On that bridge a man-at-arms spoke to thee shameful words, blaspheming the holy name of God.  No sooner hadst thou gone by than he turned on me, reviling my native country of Scotland.  Then I, not deeming that to endure such taunts became my birth and breeding, struck him on his lying mouth.  Then, as we wrestled on the bridge, we both struck against the barrier, which was low, frail, and old, so that it gave way under our weight, and we both fell into the moat.  When I rose he was not in sight, otherwise I would have saved him by swimming, for I desire to have the life of no man on my hands in private quarrel.  But the archers shot at me from the drawbridge, so that I had to take thought for myself.  By swimming under the water I escaped, behind a jutting rock, to a secret stair, whence I pushed my way into a chamber of the castle.  Therein was a damsel, busy with the linen, who, of her goodwill, clad me in this wretched apparel above my own garb, and so, for that time, saved my life, and I passed forth unknown; but yet hath caused me to lose what I prize more highly than life—that is, the gracious countenance of this gentle lady, thy friend and my master’s daughter, whom it is my honour and duty in all things to please and serve.  Tell me, then, do I merit your wrath as a jester and a mock-maker, or does this gentle lady well to be angry with her servitor?”

The Maiden crossed herself, and murmured a prayer for the soul of him who had died in the moat.  But Elliot instantly flew to me, and, dragging off my woman’s cap, tore with her fair hands at the white linen smock about my neck and waist, so that it was rent asunder and fell on the floor, leaving me clad in my wet doublet and hose.

At this sight, without word spoken, she broke out into the merriest laughter that ever I heard, and the most welcome; and the Maid too, catching the malady of her mirth, laughed low and graciously, so that to see and hear her was marvel.

“Begone!” cried Elliot—“begone, and shift thy dripping gear”; and, as I fled swiftly to my chamber, I heard her laughter yet, though there came a sob into it; but for the Maid, she had already stinted in her mirth ere I left the room.

In this strange and unseemly fashion did I first come into the knowledge of this admirable Maid—whom, alas! I was to see more often sad than merry, and weeping rather than laughing, though, even in her utmost need, her heart could be light and her mirth free: a manner that is uncommon even among brave men, but, in women, never known by me save in her.  For it is the way of women to be very busy and seriously concerned about the smallest things, whereat a man only smiles.  But she, with her life at stake, could pluck gaiety forth of danger, if the peril threatened none but herself.  These manners of hers I learned to know and marvel at in the later days that came too soon; but now in my chamber, I shifted my wet raiment for dry with a heart wondrous light.  My craig {13} was in peril, as we say, neither less nor more than half an hour agone, but I had escaped the anger of Elliot; and even, as I deemed, had won more of her good countenance, seeing that I had struck a blow for Scotland and for her friend.  This thought made me great cheer in my heart; as I heard, from the room below, the voices of the two girls devising together very seriously for nigh the space of an hour.  But, knowing that they might have matters secret between themselves to tell of, for the Maiden had said that she brought good tidings, I kept coy and to myself in my little upper chamber.  To leave the house, indeed, was more than my life was worth.  Now to fly and hide was what I could not bring myself to venture; here I would stay where my heart was, and take what fortune the saints might send.  So I endured to wait, and not gladden myself with the sight of Elliot, and the knowledge of how I now stood with her.  To me this was great penance, but at last the voices ceased, and, looking secretly from the window, I saw the Maiden depart, her archer following her.

Now I could no longer bridle in my desire to be with Elliot, and learn whether I was indeed forgiven, and how I stood in her favour.  So, passing down the stair that led from my cubicle, I stood at the door of the room wherein she was and knocked twice.  But none answered, and, venturing to enter, I heard the sound of a stifled sob.  She had thrown herself on a settle, her face turned to the wall, and the afternoon sun was shining on her yellow hair, which lay loose upon her shoulders.

I dared to say no word, and she only made a motion of her hand towards me, that I should begone, without showing me the light of her countenance.  On this I went forth stealthily, my heart again very heavy, for the Maiden had spoken of learning good tidings; and wherefore should my mistress weep, who, an hour agone, had been so merry?  Difficult are the ways of women, a language hard to be understood, wherefore “love,” as the Roman says, “is full of anxious fears.”

Much misdoubting how I fared in Elliot’s heart, and devising within myself what this new sorrow of Elliot’s might signify, I half forgot my own danger, yet not so much as to fare forth of the doors, or even into the booth, where customers might come, and I be known.  Therefore I passed into a room behind the booth, where my master was wont to instruct me in my painting; and there, since better might not be, I set about grinding and mixing such colours as I knew that he required.

I had not been long about this task, when I heard him enter the booth from without, whence he walked straight into my workroom.  I looked up from my colours, whereat his face, which was ruddy, grew wan, he staggered back, and, being lame, reeled against the wall.  There he brought up, crossing himself, and making the sign of the cross at me.

“Avaunt!” he said, “in the name of this holy sign, whether thou art a wandering spirit, or a devil in a dead man’s semblance.”

“Master,” I said, “I am neither spirit nor devil.  Was it ever yet heard that brownie or bogle mixed colours for a painter?  Nay, touch me, and see whether I am not of sinful Scots flesh and blood”; and thereon I laughed aloud, knowing what caused his fear, and merry at the sight of it, for he had ever held tales of “diablerie,” and of wraiths and freits and fetches, in high scorn.

He sat him down on a chair and gaped upon me, while I could not contain myself from laughing.

“For God’s sake,” said he, “bring me a cup of red wine, for my wits are wandering.  Deil’s buckie,” he said in the Scots, “will water not drown you?  Faith, then, it is to hemp that you were born, as shall shortly be seen.”

I drew him some wine from a cask that stood in the corner, on draught.  He drank it at one venture, and held out the cup for more, the colour coming back into his face.

“Did the archers tell me false, then, when they said that you had fired up at a chance word,