A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous, Andrew Lang [speld decodable readers TXT] 📗

The Maid’s confessor, Pasquerel, stood in the chamber where we had met, with his eyes bent on the ground, so that Elliot and I had no more free speech at that time.  Therefore I said farewell, not daring to ask of her when her mind was to visit my hosts, and, indeed, my trust was that she might leave this undone, lest new cause of sorrow should arise.  Thus we parted, with very courtly leave-taking, the priest regarding us in his manner, and I was carried in the litter through the streets, that had been so quiet when I came forth in the morning, but now they were full of men and of noise.  Herds of cattle were being driven for the food of the army marching against Jargeau; there were trains of carts full of victual, and the citizens having lent the Maid their great pieces of ordnance, the bombard called “The Shepherdess,” and the gun “Montargis,” these were being dragged along by clamorous companies of apprentices, and there were waggons charged with powder, and stone balls, and boxes of arrows, spades and picks for trenching, and all manner of munition of war.  By reason of the troops of horses and of marching men, they that bore me were often compelled to stop.  Therefore, lest any who knew me should speak with me, I drew the curtains of the litter, for I had much matter to think on, and was fain to be private.  But this was to be of no avail, for I heard loud voices in my own tongue.

“What fair lady is this who travels so secretly?” and, with this, one drew the curtains, and there was the face of Randal Rutherford, with others behind him.  Then he uttered a great cry—

“Faith, it is our lady of the linen-basket, and no other”; and leaning within, he gave me a rough embrace and a kiss of his bearded lips.  “Why so early astir, our sick man?” he cried.  “Get yourself healed anon, and be with us when we take Paris town, Norman, for there is booty enough to furnish all Scotland.  Shalt thou be with us yet?”

“If my strength backs my will, Randal; and truly your face is a sight for sair eyne, and does me more good than all the powers of the apothecary.”

“Then here is to our next merry meeting,” he cried, “under Paris walls!”

With that the Scots gave a shout, and, some of them crowding round to press my hand, they bade me be of good cheer, and all went onward, singing in the tune of “Hey, tuttie tattie,” which the pipers played when we broke the English at Bannockburn.

So I was borne back to the house of Jacques Boucher, and, in the sunny courtyard, there stood Charlotte, looking gay and fair, yet warlike, as I deemed.  She was clad in a long garment of red over a white robe, and had sleeves of green, so that she wore the spring’s own colours, and she was singing a French ditty concerning a lady who has a lover, and vows that she will never be a nun.

Seray-je nonnette, oui ou non,
Serray-je nonnette, je croy que non!

Seeing me, she stinted in her singing, and in feeding a falcon that was perched on her wrist.

“You are early astir for a sick man,” she said.  “Have you been on pilgrimage, or whither have you been faring?”

“The Maid sent for me right early, for to-day she rides to Jargeau, and to you she sends a message of her love,”—as indeed she had done, “but, for the great press of affairs she might not visit you.”

“And Mistress Elliot Hume, has she forgiven her lover yet? nay, I see by your face that you are forgiven!  And you go south, this very day, is it not so?”

“Indeed,” I said, “if it is your will that we part, part we must, though I sorrow for it; but none has given me the word to march, save you, my fair nurse and hostess.”

“Nay, it is not I who shall speed you; nevertheless the Maid is not the only prophetess in this realm of France, and something tells me that we part this day.  But you are weary; will you get you to your chamber, or sit in the garden under the mulberry-tree, and I shall bring you out a cup of white wine.”

Weary I was indeed, and the seat in the garden among the flowers seemed a haven most desirable.  So thither I went, leaning on her shoulder, and she returned to bring the wine, but was some while absent, and I sat deep in thought.  I was marvelling, not only as to what my mistress would next do, and when I should see her again (though that was uppermost in my mind), but also concerning the strange words of the Maid, that I alone should be with her when all forsook her and fled.  How might this be, and was she not to be ever victorious, and drive the English forth of France?  To my thinking the Maid dwelt ever in two worlds, with her brethren of Paradise, and again with sinful men.  And I have often considered that she did not always remember, in this common life, what had befallen her, and what she knew when, as the Apostle says, she “was out of the body.”  For I have heard her say, more than once, that she “would last but one year, or little more,” and, again, she would make plans for three years to come, or four, which is a mystery.

So I was pondering, when I looked up, and saw Charlotte standing in the entrance between the court and garden, looking at me and smiling, as she shaded her eyes with her hand from the sun, and then she ran to me lightly as a lapwing.

“They are coming down the street, looking every way for our house, your lady and her father,” she said, putting the wine-cup into my hand.  “Now is it war or peace?” and she fled back again within the house.

My heart stood still, for now everything was on the fall of the dice.  Would this mad girl be mocking or meek?  Would she anger my lady to my ruin with her sharp tongue?  For Charlotte was of a high temper, and wont to rule all the house by reason of her beauty and kind wild ways.  Nor was Elliot the meekest of women, as well I knew, and a word, nay a smile, or a glance of mockery, might lightly turn her heart from me again for ever.  Oh! the lot of a lover is hard, at least if he has set all his heart on the cast, as I had done, and verily, as our Scots saw runs, “women are kittle cattle.”  It is a strange thing that one who has learned not to blench from a bare blade, or in bursting of cannon-balls and flight of arrows, should so easily be daunted where a weak girl is concerned; yet so it was in my case.  I know not if I feared more than now when Brother Thomas had me in the still chamber, alone at his mercy.

So the minutes went by, the sun and shade flickering through the boughs of the mulberry-tree, and the time seemed long.  Perchance, I thought, there had been war, as Charlotte had said, and my lady had departed in anger with her father, and I was all undone.  Yet I dared not go to seek them in the house, not knowing how matters were passing, and whether I should do good or harm.  So I waited, and at length Charlotte came forth alone.  Now she walked slowly, her eyes bent on the ground, and, as she drew near, I saw that they were red, and I guessed that she had been weeping.  So I gave up all for lost, and my heart turned to water within me.

“I am sent to bid you come in,” she said gravely.

“What has passed?” I cried.  “For the saints’ sake, tell me all!”

“This has passed, that I have seen such a lady as I never dreamed I should see, and she has made me weep—foolish that I am!”

“Why, what did she?  Did she speak unkindly then, to my kind nurse?”

For this I could in no manner have endured, nor have abased myself to love one that was unjust, how dear soever; and none could be dearer than Elliot.  Yet unjust she might have been; and this thought to me was the greatest torment.

“Speak unkind words?  Oh, I remember my foolish talk, how I said that she would never forgive me while the world stands.  Nay, while her father was with mine and with my mother, thanking them for what they did for you, she led me apart to devise with me, and I took her to my chamber, and there, with tears in her eyes, and in the sweetest manner, she prayed me to pardon her for that she had been mad for a moment; and so, looking meek as an angel, she awaited my word.  And I could not but weep, though to weep is never my way, and we embraced each the other, and I told her how all your converse had ever been of her, even when you were beside yourself, in your fever, and how never was so faithful a lover.  Nay, I bid you be glad, for I never deemed that any woman living on earth would so repent and so confess herself to another, where she herself had first been wroth, but would blame all the world rather, and herself—never.  So we women are not all alike, as I thought; for I would hardly have forgiven, if I know myself; and yet I am no worse than another.  Truly, she has been much with the Maid, and has caught from her this, to be like her, who is alone among women, and of the greatest heart.”

Here she ceased to speak very gravely, as she had till now done, and breaking out into a sweet laughter, she cried—

“Nevertheless I am not wholly a false prophetess, for to-day you go with them southward, to Tours, to change the air, as the physician counsels, and so now we part.  O false Scot!” she said, laughing again, “how have you the ill courtesy to look so joyous?  Nay, I shall change your cheer”; and with that she stooped and kissed my cheek, saying, “Go, and joy go with you, as joy abides with me, to see my sick man look so strong again.  Come, they are waiting for us, and you know we must not tarry.”

Then, giving me her arm, she led me in, and if one of us twain had a shamefaced guise, verify it was not Charlotte Boucher.

“I yield you back your esquire, fair lady,” she said merrily, making obeisance to Elliot, who stood up, very pale, to receive us.

“He has got no ill in the bower of the enchantress,” said my master; whereat, Elliot seeming some deal confused, and blushing, Charlotte bustled about, bringing wine and meat, and waiting upon all of us, and on her father and mother at table.  A merry dinner it was among the elder folk, but Elliot and I were somewhat silent, and a great joy it was to me, and a heavy weight off my heart, I do confess, when, dinner being ended, and all courtesies done and said, my raiment was encased in wallets, and we all went through the garden, to Loire side; and so, with many farewells, took boat and sailed down the river, under the Bridge of Orleans, towards Blois.  But Charlotte I never saw again, nor did I ever speak of her to Elliot, nor Elliot of her to me, from that day forth.

But within short space came tidings, how that Charlotte was wedding a young burgess of Orleans, with whom, as I hear, she dwelt happily, and still, for all I know, dwells in peace.  As I deem, she kept her lord in a merry life, yet in great order and obedience.  So now there is no more to tell of her, save that her picture comes back before me—a tall, brown girl, with black hair and eyes like the hue of hazel boughs glassed in running water, clad in white and green and red, standing smiling beneath the red-and-white blossoms of an apple-tree, in the green garden of Jacques Boucher.

Elliot was silent enough, and sat telling her beads, in the beginning of our journey down the water-way, that is the smoothest and the easiest voyaging for a sick man.  She was in the stern of the boat, her fingers, when her beads were told, trailing in the smooth water, that was green with