Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (417 page)

Nobody spoke, till at last the little page Jehan said seriously:

“Ah! dear lady, this, I think, is a very good plan, but I do not know or I fear me that your horse Roland will not stand very still when it comes to axes. This is what I fear. And, but that I must hold up your shield, I would kneel down and humbly pray you that you have great care when you come to this passage with the axes. For ah! dear lady, your good horse Roland will run very well when there is tilting to do, but stand he will not, as I very much fear.”

“In this I am agreed with the little Jehan,” the Lady Amoureuse’ said disdainfully, “for you have not so practised your horse as the Lady Dionissia has done in the manège. All day long she has ridden him abroad, so that he will stop, curvet, or turn suddenly round at the mere sound of her voice, she using no reins, so that it is a pleasure to see, and I think few knights of Christendie have such another horse.”

“Oh-well-away!” the little Lady Blanchemain wailed suddenly in a high note, like the voice of a pig that is in the butcher’s hands, “Ah! dear lady, what shall we do if you are cast down at this passage of the axes? For how shall we two stand against the Lady Dionissia’s three, who are all savage and well armed?” A sudden rage convulsed all the features of the Lady Blanche. Her eyes grew enormous, and glowed as if she did not believe what her ears heard, and it was as if the lamentation of the Lady Blanchemain were the lash of a whip falling upon her skin. For a moment she sat still upon her stool, the red patches upon her cheeks becoming a brilliant scarlet. Then, suddenly, she sprang up and ran towards the little Lady Blanchemain, for even in her rage she was afraid to strike the Lady Amoureuse.

“What is this I hear!” she screamed out “Is it I that shall fall at the passage of the axes?”

With her long yellow arms, she smote savage blows upon the face of the weeping Lady Blanchemain. The Lady Blanchemain turned to run, but the Lady Blanche caught her by the two shoulders. She shook her backwards and forwards, so that at one moment her head seemed to strike her back and her chin immediately afterwards thumped upon her chest. The little Lady Blanchemain screamed, so that it was like a streak of flame.

“Mercy of God!” the Lady Blanche brought out between her teeth, and she set her knee in the Lady Blanchemain’s back. Then she hissed with the expiration of the breath from her lungs, and the little Lady Blanchemain fell, expelled by a great strength, across the tent and against one of the horses of armour. All this iron fell to the ground with a great noise.

The little Jehan stretched out his hand over the shield and touched timidly the Lady Blanche’s wrist “Ah! gentle lady,” he said gravely, “I think it is not wise in you to maim your side before you come to the mêlée. For if you have not the Lady Blanchemain, then the Lady Dionissia’s many will be as three are to two.”

“Little fool,” the Lady Blanche breathed heavily, “there will be no mêlée. Mercy of God! shall I not have slain this insolent and unworthy woman before ever we come to the mêlée? This, I tell you, I will do, and none has ever withstood me. I tell you I will so slay this lady that her face shall be deflowered, and none shall ever call her fair again if they remember her, her face I will so cut and mangle with my little dagger. And the cross I will take to myself, and there shall be great joy through all this countryside where I am beloved and that woman is hated. Is it that white milk creature that shall triumph over me? I tell you never; but she shall die un shriven, and her miserable ghost be wracked for ever in hell. She is a liar and a cozener, a cheat and a false whisperer, a foul slut and evil in her life, envious and hating all that is good. Well does she think with her milk-white and pink to lord it over me. But her hour is come, and the little devils in hell are throwing coals upon the fires that are reserved for her. Neither do I pity her, for she is hardly a Christian — almost a brute beast, and it was a very evil day for her when she set herself up against me, she an upstart from strange wild places, a nothing come from desert lands and seeking to make herself of importance here in Christian territories.”

“Ah! dear lady,” the little page Jehan said, “I am very glad that you are of such a high courage for this adventure.”

She straightened her back and made her shoulders appear very broad.

“Little fool,” she said to him with a kindly scorn, “would you have me ape the tricks of grooms and fellows that run with horses? No, surely I was made for higher things than that. It is well for the Lady Dionissia and such low creatures to go riding about over the countryside, for they have need of such practice. But I am of a better blood, and my horse shall obey me because, of instinct, it knows its master.”

“That may well be, ah! gentle lady,” the little Jehan said; “and your horse is very large and strong. God keep the issue!”

A faint sound of distant trumpets came through the noise of the multitude without that all that time had buzzed in their ears like the voice of a sea surrounding them. The little Lady Blanchemain still sobbed where she had fallen amongst the armour; the Lady Amoureuse looked at the ground with her nostrils distended in contempt.

I think that will be the signal for arming,” the little Jehan said. “Yes, I hear it again, and yet a third time.”

And he repeated: “God keep the issue, and uphold the right,” whilst he crossed himself behind the large shield.

“Well, I am content to rely upon my good arm,” the Lady Blanche said. “It was the Lady Dionissia, not I, that spent the whole of last night whining over her sword in her little chapel. Come, put on my arms.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE old and gentle knight, Ygorac de Fordingbridge, was sitting with the ladies at dinner in the castle of Tam worth. So when he thought that they had sufficiently devised of love and of the nature of men, he rang a little bell that stood before him upon the tablecloth.

“Now, why do you ring that little bell, ah, gentle knight?” Mr. Sorrell asked. He had had himself set beside the old knight so that he might learn by asking many questions all the nature of chivalry in such ceremonies as that day should go forward.

The old knight said: “Ho! ho!” in a little sound like a laugh. And he smiled at Mr. Sorrell with eyes that twinkled, but that were of a blue gone very pale with age. “By my faith, gentle stranger, I ring my bell that silence may fall.” And because there was still much talking and tittering in the hall he rang his little bell again. Then indeed there was a silence. The ladies did not chatter or laugh; the pages all stood still as they carved before them; the servers who were bringing in dishes stood still where they were when the sound of the bell reached them. Then the little old knight said to the two pages that carved before him:

“Go, fetch me the circlet of gold and the small sword of State.”

Then he looked at Mr. Sorrell and laughed.

“The circlet,” he said, “is the token of authority in matters of chivalry that has been given me by several kings, of England as well as of France and Aragon, because in my day I did certain feats of arms that were deemed noteworthy; and the sword is to perform one of the functions of the most noble arm.”

Little joyous whispers passed among the ladies all down the table, and most of them cast friendly glances at Mr. Sorrell, and kept their eyes upon him as well as they could for their hennins, coifs, and hoods. Then the circlet was brought, and the old knight set it upon his thin white hair. The sword, which was not very long, in a sheath of shagreen and tortoise-shell, was laid upon the table before him amongst the nefs of gold, of silver, and of parcel gilt. The old knight looked at Mr. Sorrell.

Gentle stranger,” he said, “I will have you go round the table and stand among the pages.”

“What is this that I must do?” Mr. Sorrell said. The old knight repeated that he should go round the table and stand among the pages. This Mr. Sorrell did, brushing gently the backs and the hoods of all these ladies, until he stood just before the old knight in between the pages who had been carving. Then the old knight clapped his hands, and outside a trumpet blew.

After a little while there came in a great number of people who had been dining in the castle of Stapleford — that is to say, all such as had been ready to lose part of their dinners in order to witness this thing. Amongst them were the Dean of Salisbury and the chaplain, and several of the chapter-priests, the almoner and the mass-priest of the Abbey of St. Radigund, and a great many ladies and others who were unknown to Mr. Sorrell. For, if the truth must be known, those who had come to Stapleford Castle were the larger in number; the Lady Blanche was not loved in that countryside, but her cooks were renowned throughout all the south. Whereas of the Lady Dionissia little was known, for she was only two months or a little more in that country. That was why the Dean and all the religious men had eaten at Stapleford. Nevertheless, they were come over to Tamworth in order that, as far as they might, they should give countenance and honour to Mr. Sorrell, for he had mightily made presents in gold and in kind, not only to the cathedral in Salisbury, but to many churches and hospitals of the neighbourhood. But the old knight had determined to do honour to the Lady Dionissia, who was his kinswoman, and so, being king of those ceremonies, he had eaten at her board. And, in truth, since he had been daily in converse with this lady whilst they were regulating how the ceremonies should be carried out, she had got Sir Ygorac very much upon the soft side, and could make him do all that she asked. He was a widower and childless.

When all the new-comers were in the hall and standing decently still, the knight rang his little bell again. Then the silence was breathless, and all those motionless people gazed upon Mr. Sorrell. The old knight too looked at him seriously.

“Gentle stranger,” he said, “is it true, as I hear, that you passed last night from sundown to cockcrow in vigil and prayer and abstinence in a little chapel, containing amongst other things the good arms of a gentle knight?”

“Why, it is true,” Mr. Sorrell said. And, indeed, it was true that that night he had knelt for many hours beside the Lady Dionissia in her dark and cold chapel, whilst she prayed over her arms as if she were indeed a young knight. For she said that she had more need of it than many others. Mr. Sorrell’s knees were still stiff with kneeling for so long upon the stones of the chapel, though he had been very glad to do it, and it had seemed to him that the Lady Dionissia was very right in what she did.

“And is it true,” the old knight asked, “that after this vigil you did not break your fast till noon was gone by?”

“Why, it is true,” Mr. Sorrell said, “that I did not eat until just now, and I think we did not sit down till after noon. But I did not notice that I was fasting, for there have been so many things to do.”

“Nevertheless, you have abstained,” the old knight said. “And is it true that, as I have heard you say this morning, you are determined to live according to the rules of high and honourable chivalry such as I have explained them to you — to draw your sword only in high quarrels, not to oppress the poor, but to succour them and all good knights and gentle ladies such as may be in distress? And will you give freely of your goods to the Church, as I hear you have done in times past?”

“Why, all this as I have told you,” Mr. Sorrell answered, “I shall try to do to the best of my ability; but I should wish to know why you ask me these questions?”

The old knight smiled gently and faintly.

“And will you,” he asked, “if the occasion serves, give all that you are possessed of, whether of money or of goods, whether of life or of endeavour, to the joyous and noble emprise of redeeming the sepulchre of our Lord Christ from the hands of all pagans and Saracens whatsoever?”

“Why, indeed,” Mr. Sorrell said, “I would do it very gladly if the occasion offered.”

“And will you pray for me who speak to you, that my life may pass in honour, my death be duly shriven, and my hereafter blessed in the path of the saints?”

“Why, truly, that I will do for you and for the souls of all Christians whether they are alive or dead,” Mr. Sorrell answered, for so the Lady Dionissia had taught him to answer this request.

“Then if you will do all this,” the old man said, “and if you have done as I have been told you have done, I think you will be, if God help you, a very proper man and one fitted to enter into an honourable order. And I would have you now instantly to kneel down and pray truly. Kneel you down!”

And with his hand he indicated the rushes where Mr. Sorrell should kneel, but a little page brought him a cushion of black velvet.

Then the old knight clasped his hands and held them above the sword that lay amongst the nefs. His lips moved, and from time to time he crossed himself. And when he did so all the rest that were there, whether they were sitting or standing, crossed themselves too, so that nothing was heard but the whisper of prayers and the slight rustle of all their hands as they moved together.

Then in a similar silence the old knight drew his sword from the scabbard. He stood up upon his feet and, being a little man, he leaned right across the table to touch Mr. Sorrell upon his left shoulder with the point of the sword. Then very quickly came a page and buckled a spur of gold upon Mr. Sorrell’s right heel, and another, taking the scabbard of the sword off the table, belted it round his waist where he knelt.

“Now you may rise up, Sir Guilhelm,” the old knight said, “for the rest of your name it is not easy to pronounce. But I will call you of Winterburne of St. Martin, after the name of the little castle that now I give you, along with this sword, if you will vow honourably to do such suit and service as is due to our Lord the King for it.”

And immediately there began a great outcry of pleasure and acclamation amongst all who were in that hall. Then most people said that it was a very worthy and honourable thing for that knight to have done, and that it gave honour to all of that countryside in showing hospitality after a chivalrous fashion to a gentle stranger.

Mr. Sorrell rose to his feet and, with a dazed face, he leaned over the table and asked the laughing knight: “What is this that has happened to me?”

The knight laughed joyously back in his face.

“Ah, gentle knight,” he said, “it is that you become Sir Guilhelm de Winterburne de St. Martin, with a little castle that is hardly more than a stone house with battlements, fifty villains, a number of hides of land, and such other things as go with them. That is all I have to give you. I wish it had been more, but I am not a very rich knight.”

“But I have done nothing to deserve all this. If I had known of this before, I would not have taken this honour for which I am unfitted. I have none of the arts of chivalry, and I shall look like a fool parading as my betters. I am grateful to you, but you should not have done this thing.”

The old knight still smiled gently.

“Ah, gentle knight,” he said, “it is done and it cannot be undone, so these things you must take. As to who is fitted and who unfitted for honours, it is not for you to say. This power has been placed in my hands by three kings — of England, of France, and of Aragon. Neither is it for you to say whether you will take this honour or no, any more than it would be for you to say whether you should be degraded from a high position or no. The one or the other you must suffer, as it pleases those set in authority above you, who promote now one and now put down another, And this is a very good lesson to learn.”

“But I have done nothing to deserve this,” Mr. Sorrell protested again.

“Ah, gentle knight,” Sir Ygorac answered, “I am of another opinion. For alone and without aid you ridded this countryside of a weighty pack of robbers by whom we were all oppressed. And the accolade of knighthood is fittingly conferred upon one who has done this, whether by the aid of the little angels of God, or by his own arm alone.”

“But I did nothing,” Mr. Sorrell said.

“Friend,” the old knight answered, “that I do not believe, for it is all part of a modesty in you of which my kinswoman Dionissia has told me. And it was to avoid protestations from you that I have carried out this project behind your back. For you are fit, and I protest that you are fit, who am a Commander of the Order of St. Steven of Portugal and Aragon, and have weight in such matters. That the little angels of God aided you in that combat I can well believe, for such things are frequently known. But that you did nothing I cannot well believe. Or if it is so, then God surely so aided you that it was a mark that He desired to point you out as being specially fitted for the order of knighthood. And it is presumptuous, and not truly humble in you to protest against this.”

“Ah, gentle knight,” Mr. Sorrell said, “still I cannot think that I am indeed deserving of this honour, and I will prefer to imagine that it was the Lady Dionissia who begged it of you. She is not easily denied, and I can understand that you would not desire your kinswoman to be allied with one below the degree of a knight.”

The smile died away from Sir Ygorac’s face, and his friendly eyes became cold and hard.

“Gentle knight,” he said, “that is the most discourteous speech that ever yet was made to me, and I think if I were a younger man you would not have made it, for surely I should have killed you. By my faith, I am sorry now that I have made you a knight, for such discourtesy is likely to do honour to no order.”

“Alas! gentle knight,” Mr. Sorrell said, “what words have I uttered to so enrage you, for I do not know what they are?”

“Death of my life!” Sir Ygorac answered, “is it not foul to say that I have conferred upon a man a sacred order of chivalry at the request of a kinswoman? Could anything more foul be said to me? No, I think not, by my faith, and by little good Saint Hugh of Lincoln!”

A great many persons had listened to this conclave. They broke in with many voices, some commending the new Knight of Winterburne of St. Martin’s because modesty was a very proper thing, some blaming him and recommending that he ask very humbly his pardon of Sir Ygorac. Some said the old knight was too hasty, and a few were ready to believe that the old knight had indeed favoured the new one, only because he was the paramour of his kinswoman. So there was a great clamour, but at last the Dean’s chaplain shouted in his stentorian voice, quelling all the others, that silence should be made because the Dean desired to speak.