CHAPTER IV.

A GOOD FIGHT

Now, ever since I could run alone I have always tried to find out everything for myself, and to put my spoon into every dish the like of which I had never seen before. So, having easily passed off my escapade upon the friskiness of Varlet, and his having had no exercise for weeks at the convent, only Larry, who did not matter at all, understanding, I was resolved to make the most of our stay at Cour Cheverney.

I had seen greater things before, of course; for mine own home of Castle Thrieve yields to none in all the kingdoms where I have been, and I could recall, though dimly, those great days when my dear brother William held his tourney on the mead of Glenlochar, the one that lasted three days--ah, there never was aught finer than that in France--no, nor yet in Italy.

But then, at that time I was a little girl, scarce fit to hold the train of the Queen of Beauty, and Maud Lindsay it was who had all the honours and all the eye-glancings of the younger men. But now that has changed, and I felt for the first time, I know not how, that I could hold my own with a king’s daughter.

Moreover, Cour Cheverney was still empty of my bridegroom. That was its chief joy. I had an unexpected respite. As Margaret of Galloway I could laugh at Will of Avondale, my cousin, at his books and parchments, the great schemes in his head, and the little outcome there had been of them; but as my bridegroom, my husband, my master, the Earl of Douglas, the Duke of Touraine, I was not so sure that Cousin Will would be such a laughing matter.

So, for the present, Cour Cheverney, even with the presence of the Lady Superior, was to me highly desirable; a means of furthering my education, and, by incident, that of several other people as well.

And my chief joy and safety, in thus completing of my education, was that everyone knew that I was so soon to be married--by high pontifical dispensation, papal Bull, holy cord, and four pounds of wax thereto attached--not to speak, as it were, of bell, book, and candle. So they might sigh, the men of them, that is--but no one could think (no, not for a moment) that I meant any harm. Indeed, I never did, and said so frequently when the harm came.

Now Cour Cheverney was of itself a pleasant place. The Sieur Paul, a rich man, had recently had it put in repair. The chambers he had decorated with tapestry from Paris. The higher windows were widened, and balconies thrust out from the thickness of the wall. The courtyard was set about with a bordering of flowers. Bravest of all was a great Judas tree, with purple blossoms close set upon its branches, which cast a shade along the left side of the court, opposite to the great hall and the men’s apartments. I asked the Sieur Paul to have a bench put there, and I went often to that place of a sunny afternoon with my broidery--to be quiet and think.

But the strange thing was that I scarcely got five minutes of meditation, and as for the solitude which I had come there to seek--why, first came one and then another, my faith, past believing! The place was like a fair.

There was Laurence, who, being a prelate, or, at least, having the powers of one, could not go a-hunting. Yet, because I said once, to try him, that he was of no more use than to bide at home with the maids, he took to fishing, and made infinite work with his tackle, sitting beside me on that same seat. I never heard whether he landed anything--from the river, I mean. At the seat he certainly did not. So I mourned with him over his ill success, and when James Douglas came down in yet another new purple vest, with gold buttons and long sleeves of silk, I told him of the little progress that Larry was making in the art of fishing with the angle, innocently inquiring if he did not think that with a rod of elder and a busking of white jupon, our fisherman might try the banks of the Closson with better success.

“These French troutlets are shy. They have been tried so often before,” I said. “You can ask my Lord James as to the bait he is wont to use!”

Then Larry, knowing that James and I had some secret between us, would grow all of a sulk, and, bundling his things together, take leave of us upon the instant. At which James, making a little face behind his back, would sit down beside me, while the Sieur Paul went a-promenading along the other side of the court with the Bald Cat upon his arm. She had discovered that on the maternal side he could claim to be a cousin ten times removed (if not more) of her family. And as he was also kin to the great, and possessed a castle like Cour Cheverney, the wise Mother Superior had no objections to the alliance, in spite of the “bar sinister” which, like an oriflamme, he flaunted athwart his back.

It was one of the most frequent of our ploys to dance in the courtyard of an evening. James could not dance well. He was too big of bone, and too fair. Only dark men dance well. But he would snatch angrily at the strings of his doublet and kick at the house dogs as they slunk uneasily along the selvage of the flagged square, apprehensive of so many heels all going to a measure. Then he would affirm loudly that, thank Heaven, only fools and cropped poodles could dance; that as for himself, the “deil might care, but he, James Douglas, cared no jot!”

All which was, as one might say, meat to the hungry. And specially to me, who had been two long years in a convent, with Sister Eulalie tugging all the time at the tail of one’s gown! Well, I have heard speak a great deal of paradise. And it may all be true. But at eighteen one does not hunger after such doubtful exchanges. Cour Cheverney and the dance beneath the Judas tree were good enough for me.

Then Larry, who had a vast amount of music in his fingers as well as in his toes, and could play any instrument from an organ to a five-stringed _guiterne_ or a mouth flute--by sheer wit, as it were, and without learning, used to play for us. At first it was all solemn-sounding tunes on the great harp--after which, perhaps, low, sweet harmonies on the _psalterion_. Then, as he warmed to his work, I, who knew him and saw the ichor mounting, would hand him a viol silently and hush the company with my hand. For, if left alone, they were bound to hear a marvellous thing.

Then would he sing, accompanying himself, like the carolling lark on the first day of May, in such a voice as never was heard save in the sky, till he would bring the very tears to our eyes, and set us to the sobbing for no reason at all. Songs of lost love he would sing, of desolate low shores and maids yet more desolate. Sadder and sadder the ballad would grow, till, with a sudden fling of the elbow through his embroidered robe, Larry would dash into some mirthful lilt of old Scottish song, all marriage-making and happiness, with white-mutched crones nodding heads at their gossip, and goodmen chaffering in the market-place.

As he played he grew fixed and lost, this daft Larry of ours, whom fate and the Douglases had made an abbot, and the ambassador of another man’s wooing. And though there was a shaven patch, the size of a clipped ducat, on his crown, I wot well the curls clustered so fair and maidenly about his brow, that, had he not worn breeches (or whatever holy men wear underneath their soutanes), the Bald Cat would have had them shorn by the roots in the twinkling of an eye.

Then, of course, at Cour Cheverney there were other exploits. Great brawny James was all for the tourneying, and (also of course) at that, among the country lords and Knights-of-the-Green-Fields, easily bore the gree. But Bevis Roland, the renegade Englishman, as easily beat him at the archery, which at least was exceedingly good for our brisk Jamie’s soul. But again at riding and hunting, and also at the horse-leaping, my Lord James Douglas could give a long start to all the company--an it were not Larry, who, being a clerk on a white mule, a cross on his breast, and a mitre on his head, could not, for very shame, compete with him. But he stood behind me, gritting his teeth and groaning in his spirit.

“I could beat him,” he said, “’fore the Lord, I could beat him at all but the jousting. And as for that bag-swagging Englisher, Bevis Roland, I could shoot three in the white to his one, for sixty golden crowns! If I could not, may the devil change me into a kailstock. Yet here I must stand like a draff-sack set upright. God rest my soul for it in the day of need! It is much to put up with for the sake of religion!”

Then, the devil he had imprecated entering into me, I encouraged him to cast his robe, his cope, and soutane, and to it in his hose and shirt. And by my fey, the mad wight would have done it in a twinkling. He had the heavy mantle half off his shoulder, when suddenly he caught sight of the great golden cross upon it, all wrought in thread as thick as wire.

Then some thought of his calling, as I hope, or shame of the people about him--as I fear--caused Larry to halt, and with a sigh he drew his cope again about him. But when I had egged him on a little further (the devil or one of his imps still possessing me), he turned upon me and said in Scots, “Mistress Meg, art a naughty wench! And if thou dost not mend thy manners, wilt come to no good! I ken what means thy trokings under the Judas tree yonder, thy blotched broiderings and sudden eye-liftings, thy seats set in the shade of an afternoon”--

“Concerning which, good lad,” I retorted, “you, holy Father Larry, of a certainty ought to know, for you sit there more than any! Ay, and hold thread for the winding, too, between these same thrice-blessed abbatical fingers! _Pax vobiscum! Retro me! Requiescat in pace!_”

And that being all my stock of Latin, I made to bless him backwards in sport, which angered him curiously.

“Ah, that I were your father,” he murmured, low and bitter in mine ear, “or your mother, ay--or even the Abbess of St. Brigida two days agone! There are some rules of that Order which would suit you!”

“Well, what would happen then, most reverend prior of the bare chin?” I demanded.

Larry said nothing in words, but his fingers itched visibly to box my ears--or, for aught I know, more and worse.

But in the midst of these occupations and the new joyance of freedom which had come to me, the Sieur Paul promised other entertainment. He was, I think, some little piqued that our big James had so easily borne his point against the gentlemen of Touraine. So said he one morning, when we were all at gossip under the Judas tree, “Messire James, my good lord, there are none of your mettle here, but over yonder at Loches with the Dauphin there are one or two knights of another web--La Hire and the younger Dunois--good lances and stout hearts. How will you like it if I send for them, make a fête day at Cour Cheverney, and see if you can break a lance with them as deftly as with us poor laggard oafs of the provinces?”

“Faith, I would like it greatly,” said James. “I ask no better!”

And to me, turning his head, he said in Scots, “Cousin Marget, ye will see me whammle them!” Which is the same as to say that he would make them all bite the dust.

For that was our James, root and branch of him--ready, self-confident, never blate, everyway large, hectoring, easy of manner, quick as a touch to draw on a gentleman, swinge a burgher, or drink pewter for pewter with a beggar. He never dreamed that he could fail in anything. Nor for that matter (to tell the truth) did I!

Well, they came. And I sat on a fine crimson-draped balcony which had been fastened out on struts from two lower windows of the keep. For (having none other) the Sieur Paul had perforce to make me Queen of Beauty; and as for James, he thought, as usual, that he had naught else to do but lift the jewel--a black diamond circled all about with points of brilliants and sapphires--which certainly would have become me excellently. So I hoped he would win.

The company arrived. There were knights on splendid horses, the like of which I have never seen in Scotland, except the noble black, which had belonged to William, my dear young brother, who was so treacherously slain at Edinburgh by Chancellor Livingston and the sneaking gutter-hound Crichton.

There was Dunois the younger, a tall, dark man, quiet and lissom, a velvety glitter in the eyes of him like a wandering Egyptian, with La Hire, a smart, grey-headed man of fifty, stout-backed, and with a long upper lip, also with little to say for himself. To them add the Count des Baux and Henri de Cayades, light, alert men of the South, Provençal through all their veins, both born within sight of the castle of good Roi Réné, and both as full of talk and apt to love as a willow bole is of sap in the springtime.

Ultimately to these were added a slight brown man with shifty eyes, with an ill-kept steel capote on his head, and, believe it who will, a rosary about his neck like the Bald Cat herself; and, last of all, a tall dark man, of whom, however, I caught but one glimpse disappearing into the stables to arm himself, for he had ridden over light, his armament having been sent from Loches with a groom.

There were banners hung from all the windows of Cour Cheverney and the air of a fête day everywhere. The very grooms and varlets of the stable were alert and active, with ribbons in their caps and fresh straws in their mouths.

Outside the newly set-up barriers there was a great press of the commons, with spearmen to tread upon their bare toes with mail-clad feet, and in case of need to stamp out a due and respectful space behind the barriers with the butts of their lances.

Of our house party there came first, of course, James Douglas, my cousin, who must always gallant it in the forefront. Then came the Sieur Paul, most like an apple dumpling done in steel plate and a helmet with plumes, but yet, so they affirmed, able to swing a good sword and grip a stout lance in his day. One of these last only he was to break. Then there was one who, though amongst the party of Cour Cheverney, and fighting in a borrowed suit of plate with the “bar sinister” of Herault de Douglas, had requested that his name should not be made known.

We of Cour Cheverney, being for the most part clerks and squires, had hard work to muster man for man. And, indeed, even with the young man of the Golden Bar, we were two men short, till there rode up another, the dark man I had seen disappearing in the stables. Through his banner-bearer he declared his readiness to fight upon the side of Cour Cheverney--which, when he had ranged himself with James, the Sieur Paul, and the young man of the Bar Sinister, gave us four to their four.

It was a good fight. Dunois and James broke four lances each and still held it even, which was little to the liking or expectation of either at the first shock. The Sieur Paul “keeled” over and lay like an egg of Pasch, fallen on his back, feebly swaying his arms and calling to all and sundry to hasten--that he was being choked in his armour. He had encountered La Hire. And though that stout-backed Samaritan tried to save him all he could, the shock of meeting so famous a lance was doubtless severe. Bar Sinister and our Succouring Knight lent us from the other side had both conquered their men, without even breaking their own lances, and the grooms were catching the runaway horses and setting the armed men back in the saddle. Towers of glistening metal they looked from my high bank of crimson cloth, and being men of the Midi, they spat out curses at their ill-fortune--the Count des Baux blaming De Cayades for riding across him, and De Cayades telling Des Baux of various places more or less discomfortable, to which an it pleased him he could immediately ride. Whereupon Des Baux said they could settle the matter elsewhere.

Crash went the arms again, and La Hire, having opposed himself to the Succouring Knight who had reinforced the party of Cour Cheverney, overbore him, and he went heavily to the ground. On the other hand James succeeded this time with Dunois, and his spear breaking, the brave young Frenchman was soon on the ground, crying with a loud voice, “Praise to St. Denis that my father is not here to see!” Upon which, James erected his lance as if to conquer Dunois were the simplest thing in the world, and rode again to the top of the lists. The Count des Baux and Henri de Cayades had rushed together upon the Knight of the Bar Sinister, but he, lightly reining his steed, had let them both pass him and crash heavily into each other like two ships in a strong sea, manœuvring too narrowly for the fairway.

A shout arose at his dexterity, and the little shifty-eyed man rushed into the arena and spoke some words to the fallen knights, which seemed to be ill enough taken.

At last La Hire and James Douglas came to it. They had met once before, and James, solely through self-confidence and lack of caution, had been overthrown. But this time our James made no mistakes. The prize was too high--a ring, a bird, and a kiss from the Queen of Beauty--as it is writ in the poem of Chivalry--

“Un cygne qui el pre sera, Et si vous di qu’il baisera La pucelle de Landemore.”

La Hire went down before the Douglas brawn and beef and bone. Porridge to breakfast and Martinmas cow to dinner for some score of years had done their work. Truth to tell, La Hire came at it with wonderful finesse, but the weight of man and horse bore him down. After this neither Henri de Cayades nor the Count des Baux was ready for the fray against the conqueror of La Hire and the young Dunois. The Knight of the Bar Sinister had mysteriously disappeared, and James rode round the lists like one vaunting himself, as indeed he never could help doing all his life, specially under the eyes of women. He had taken his new lance, with the pennon which had been carefully kept rolled until now by his standard-bearer, and, with a bow in my direction, he gave it to the wind. The “transfixed heart” of the Douglases flapped out bravely, together with the red and gold on his horse’s trappings. He set his visor up, and, as I told him afterwards, no cock on his own midden-head strutted ever more proudly than James Douglas that day.

Oh yes; and I liked him for it. It was a great deal to me to know that he loved me, and had done all that for my sake.

But when it came the turn of the victor to receive the chaplet, the swan, and the kiss, James had his headgear removed in his tent and came forth presently, looking tall and personable in a close-fitting suit with a golden tabard back and front. Then, according to custom, the beaten men had to unhelm also and see him receive the prize.

The Sieur Paul led them on, smiling and bowing to all about. He had his head wrapped up in a napkin as if for a deadly wound, but the good-humoured ironic cheering of the populace told that they understood other of it. Then came La Hire and Dunois, looking as if they had swallowed each a tankard of vinegar in lieu of good red wine. Lastly, the two men of the Midi, laughing, chattering, and jesting with an air which said plainly that it would be their turn next time. There was one other, the Succouring Knight, who had taken the side of Cour Cheverney, and after winning once had gone down before La Hire. He came up a little late, and at the very time when I was occupied in setting the chaplet of laurel on the head of the victor. Then, tossing the swan among the commons to be scrambled for, James bent over and took his legal kiss from my lips in the fashion prescribed and established by a hundred courts of love.

Perhaps he was unwontedly long about it. For the next thing I knew was the tall, dark Succouring Knight, he who had obstinately kept his visor down even when he stood among the vanquished, laying his hand upon my arm.

“Margaret!” he said quietly.

And then I knew him for my Cousin William, the man with whom I was to wed. I shuddered and caught my breath--as I do now, even as I write.

“And one for me!” he said. “I have come far to get it.”

Now I know not what it was that made me perverse that moment. A kiss was nothing, yet I would not.

“No,” I said; “it is not your right here in this place, but James’s!”

I think he sighed.

“Then a kiss by favour?” he said.

“Nay,” I answered, “you must win a tournament first!”

“I will win all Scotland for you,” he said. “As for this cracking of lances--it is but hammer-and-anvil play!”

“Ah, but then you cannot do it,” I retorted upon him, “and James can!”

And the victor of the combat stood preening himself behind his brother, and, I doubt not, trowing himself the greatest and the strongest man in Christendom.

But William Douglas went away softly without speaking another word.