Henry the Seventh sat upon the throne.

The town of Middle Forest had long since pushed the forest from all sides. Its streets, forked as lightning, ran up to the castle and down to the river. The river here was near its mouth, and wide. The bridge that crossed it had many arches. Below the bridge quite large craft, white and brown and dull red, sailed or dropping sail, came to anchor. Answering to hour and weather the water spread carnation, gold, sapphire, jade, opal, lead and ebony. Now it slept glassy, and now wind made of it a fretful, ridged thing. The note of the town was a bleached grey, but with strong splashes of red and umber. A sharp, steep hill upheld the castle that was of middle size and importance, built by the lords Montjoy and held now by William of that name.

Behind the town a downward sloping wood tied the castle hill to fields and meadows. The small river Wander ran by these on its way to join the greater stream. Up the Wander, two leagues or so, in a fertile vale couched the Abbey of Silver Cross. Materially speaking, a knot of stone houses for monks—Cistercians, White Monks—a stately stone house for God and his Son and Mary; near-by a quite unstately hamlet, timber, daub and thatch, grown haphazard by church and cloister; many score broad acres, wood and field, stream and pasture, mill, forge, weirs, and a tenant roll of goodly length,—such was Silver Cross. So far as physical possessions went what in this region Montjoy did not hold Silver Cross did and what the two did not hold Middle Forest had managed to wrest from them in Henry Sixth’s time. Silver Cross had, too, immaterial possessions. But once she had been wealthier here than she was now. That time had been even with a time of material poverty. Now she had goods, but she did not have so much sanctity. Yet there were values still, marked with that other world’s seal; it is useless to doubt that.

The thorn in Silver Cross’ flesh was not now Montjoy nor Middle Forest, with both of whom she had for years lived in amity. The thorn was the Friary of Saint Leofric—Dominican—across the river from Middle Forest, but tied to it by the bridge, holding its lands well away from Montjoy and Silver Cross, but rival nevertheless, with an eye to king’s favour, cardinal’s favour, and bidding latterly, with a distinctness, for popular favour. That was the wretched, irritating thorn, likely to produce inflammation! Prior Hugh of Saint Leofric—ah, the ambitious one!

Silver Cross possessed in a splendid loculus the span-long silver cross that the lips of Saint Willebrod, the martyr, had kissed after head and trunk were parted. In ancient times it had worked many miracles, but in this modern day the miraculous was grown drowsy. Saint Leofric had the bones of Saint Leofric,—all, that is, save the right hand and arm. That is, once and for ages these had lacked. But now—this very Easter—the missing members had been found: miraculously pointed out, miraculously found! There had been long pause in working miracles, but now Saint Leofric was working them again. Middle Forest talked more of Saint Leofric who was, as it were, a foreigner, being across the river, lord of nothing on this side—than it talked of Silver Cross that was its own. Not alone Middle Forest, but all this slice of England. Silver Cross found the mounting bruit discordant, a very peacock scream. Silver Cross slurred the fresh miracles of Saint Leofric and detested Prior Hugh. Silver Cross’s own abbot, Abbot Mark, said that Apollyon made somewhere a market.

The river lay stretched and still, red with the sunset, deep blue where the blue summer sky yet abided. “Like the Blessed Virgin’s robe and cloak!” said Morgen Fay. “The bridge is her gemmed girdle.”

Morgen Fay’s house was a river-side one, built up sheer indeed from the river so that one might take welcomes, flung toys, from passing boats. Morgen Fay took them, leaning from her window. Her voice floated down in return; sometimes she flung a flower. She had a garden, large as a kerchief, beside the house, hidden almost by a jut of the old town wall. Here she gathered the flowers she flung. Sometimes he who had been in the boat came again, walking, to her door that was discreet, in the shadow of the wall. But he only gained entry if he were somehow friend of a friend. And all alike must be armiger, or at least not the least in the burgher world. And, logically, only those of these entered who could be friends and pay. Would you have love for nothing? She had an answer always ready to that. “I must live!”

The sunset spread. There was more red than blue. “She is so close wrapped in her mantle that you can hardly see the heavenly blue core of her.—Oh, Mother and Mother and Mother—where are we and what are we?”

Morgen Fay went into her garden. Company was coming for supper. Best break a few more flowers. The flowers were June flowers, roses and yellow lilies, larkspur and pinks. They had the sunset hues. The owner of the garden broke them, tall herself as the lilies, white and vermeil like the roses.

The sunset died out and the river stretched first pearl and then lead and then ebony.

Morgen Fay had a little oaken room where boards were laid upon trestles and covered with a fringed cloth, and dishes and flasks and goblets set upon this. An old woman, large but light upon her feet, spread the table, Morgen helping. The old woman’s son kept the street door. He was a lazy lout but obedient, strong, too, of his fists and with a voice that could summon, if need were, not the dead but the watch. His name was Anthony, the old woman’s Ailsa, and Morgen Fay had known them since she was a young child. Now they were in her employ.

Said Ailsa, “’Tis Somerville’s company?”

“Yes. You know that. How many candles? You’d best bring three more.”

“Yes, I will. Is that the gown you’re going to wear?”

“Yes. It’s my best.”

“It’s not the one you like the best—so ’t isn’t your best after all, is it? You don’t like Somerville as well as you did last Lady Day.”

“What does it matter if I like him or don’t like him?”

“Oh, you won’t keep him if you don’t like him! He’ll go as others have gone. ‘Keep!’ Lord! With most of blessed women it’s the other way ’round!”

She brought the candles. “Do you like Master Bettany?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s richer than the knight—just as he’s younger. I say that Somerville’s holding a light for his own house’s sacking!”

“I say that I am tired. I like neither man nor woman, I nor thou.”

“Are you cold? Will you have a little fire? Here, take wine!”

“Joy from wine is falseness like the rest. Give it to me!”

Morgen drank. “I’ll have just time to put on the other dress if you think it sets me better.”

She went and put it on, returning to the oak room. Ailsa regarded results with eyes of a friendly critic. “It does! Montjoy knows how to choose—learned it, I reckon, in France!” She stood with her hands on her hips. She, too, had taken wine and now she loosed tongue, regarding all the time the younger woman with a selfish and unselfish affection, submitting to the wonder of her, but standing up for the right by prescription of half-ruling the wonder. Morgen had a voice of frankincense and music with a drop of clear oil. Ailsa had more of the oil and a humbler music. “Say you ‘Falseness?’ Say you ‘Coldness?’ Say you ‘Darkness!’ You’re a bright fool, Morgen-live-by-the-river!”

“Granted I am a fool,” said Morgen, and kneeled on the window seat.

The older woman’s voice rose. “Doesn’t fire warm you, and good sweet sack? Don’t you lie soft? Don’t you have jewels and gold work and silk of Cyprus? Don’t gentlemen and rich merchants come for your stroking? Haven’t you got a garden where you can walk and a tight house, and a pearl net for your hair, and a velvet shoe? Doesn’t Montjoy protect you for old time’s sake—even though now the fool goes off after religion? Religion! Don’t you go to Mass and give candles—wax ones—and doesn’t Father Edwin, your cousin, make all safe for you in that quarter? Oh, the Saints! There’s king’s power, and there’s priest’s power, and there’s woman’s power! World slurs you and world loves you, Morgen and Morgen! Go to! Fie on you! Shorten your long face! Where’s falseness—anything to speak of, that is? Where’s coldness and darkness? The world’s been a good world to you, mistress, ever since you danced at the Great Fair here, and Warham House saw you and took you and taught you! A pretty good world!”

“As worlds go—poor, dumb things! Yes, I say they are poor, dumb things! Light the candles!”

The large woman drew close the curtains over the window that gave upon the street and lighted the candles. There was wood laid within the fireplace. She regarded this. “It’s a cool June—and, Our Lady! we seem to need mirth here to-night! Fire and wine—wine and fire!”

She left the room for the kitchen, and returning with a flaming brand, struck it amid the cold wood. All took fire. “Better, isn’t it? I hear company’s footfall!”

The company thought the oak room shining to-night. They thought Morgen Fay fair and joyous. Sir Robert Somerville was yet in love,—none of her old loves went wholly out of love. But he was not so fathoms deep in love as once he had been. He had left the miser stage and now he was at the expansive, willing to feed pride by showing his easy wealth. He moved a tall man of forty-odd, with a quick, odd grimacing face, not unpleasing. He had a decisive voice and more gesture than was the country’s custom. With him came a guest in his house to whom he wished to show the oak casket and the gem it contained, a cousin from the other side of England, Sir Humphrey Somerville, to wit,—and Master Thomas Bettany, son and heir of the richest merchant in Middle Forest. They kissed Morgen Fay who put on magic and welcomed them. It was as though the river outside, that had been lead to ebony, ran now through faint silver back to rose.

There was a settle by the fire and Morgen sat here, and by her Sir Robert, and Sir Humphrey opposite, and Master Bettany in a poorer chair in front of the flames. Master Bettany was the youngest there,—a great, blond boy with blue eyes of daring, with enormous desire for adventure, experience, plots and mysteries. Salt and sugar must be elaborately planned for, approached with a delicate, shivering sense of danger, of play and play again and something to risk, or truly life was not sugared nor salted! He was for islands said to be danger-circled and with a witch for queen! He was likewise modest and kind-hearted, and as he could not devise evil, the evil he believed in was highly artificial. Sir Humphrey Somerville was as large for man as Ailsa was for women. He had brown hair and a beak of a nose and the eyes of a wag, but behind the waggery something formidable in his face.

Such as they were, they had a merry evening, when the food was brought and the wine was poured; and Morgen, too, turned merry, though, as ever, she kept measure, for that was the way she ruled.