  Produced by Al Haines. [Transcriber's note: Chapters 22, 23, and 24 are somewhat confusing. In 22, Guillaume de Coray is thrown from his horse and injured, but in 23 he's OK, then in 24 he's dying. I don't have access to another edition to see if perhaps there's something wrong with the source edition for this etext.] [image] Cover art [image] "Do your work knave, and quickly." (p. A MAID OF BRITTANY A Romance BY MAY WYNNE AUTHOR OF POPULAR EDITION LONDON (All rights reserved) Dedicated MAID OF BRITTANY CHAPTER I "A spy—a French spy! tiens, monsieur! but it is assured." The speaker, a man of about thirty years of age, dressed in hunting costume, was standing by his horse's side, looking down, with flushed face and knitted brows, upon a figure which lay stretched on the ground before him, the figure of a man also young, but even in unconsciousness of far more prepossessing appearance than he who stood frowning over him. Gathered at a short distance and watching the scene with keen interest stood a hawking party, fresh from their chase, and consisting of a broad-shouldered, handsome old man of some seventy summers, a young girl, whose beautiful face wore a compassionate look as she bent forward on her palfrey to catch a glimpse at the unconscious stranger, and several attendants bearing trophies of the chase, and carrying hooded falcons on their wrists. "Nay, then, Guillaume," interposed the girl, before her father could reply, "but wherefore such assurance? Surely he is no spy, for see, the golden spurs upon his heels proclaim his knighthood." "Ay," replied her cousin mockingly, as he pointed to a horse standing with bent head and distended nostrils by the prostrate man's side. "As plainly, fair cousin, as yonder steed's docked ears and mane proclaim him Brittany's enemy."[#] [#] It was the fashion at the time for French knights to cut off their horse's ears and manes, as also never to ride mares. There was a sparkle of indignation in the girl's eyes as she turned to her father. "At least," she urged, as if pleading against some unspoken verdict, "we judge no man unheard. See, my father, there may be many explanations of his presence here; it is surely so, for assured I am that he is no spy. Nay, cousin, your wits are too keen in this case, for a spy would not thus proclaim his nationality, if a horse's mane speaks so plainly." "Tush, Gwennola!" reproved her father with a smile. "This is no matter for woman's interference that thou shouldst argue like a wandering scholar. Still, there is fairness in what thou sayest, and I would lief tender mercy with justice even to a Frenchman, though, if he be a spy, by the bones of St Yves, he shall hang as fast as any acorn to the nearest oak." So saying, and in spite of his kinsman's obvious disapproval, he ordered two of his servants to dismount and raise the unconscious object of their argument. It was clear that a fall from his horse had stunned the stranger, and the cause was not far to seek in the twisted roots of the trees partly concealed by grass and fern, which might well prove dangerous to an unwary rider. As they raised him the young man moaned, half opening his dark eyes, then closing them again in a fresh swoon. "He is hurt," said Gwennola compassionately. "See, he groans again: be careful how thou liftest him, Job. Yes—on thy shoulders—so, and bid them prepare the eastern room for his reception: I will myself attend to his hurts when I return." "A good Samaritan, fair mistress," observed her cousin with a sneer, as he vaulted again into his saddle. "Yet, be warned, lest the hand that nourishes it is bitten by the viper of treachery." "Nay," said her father, with a smile towards his daughter, "Gwennola is right, though over-forward for a maid, due, I fear me, to her old father's spoiling. Is it not so, my Nola? Methinks the stranger were best left to Father Ambrose's ministrations, so there shall be the less fear of the truth of Guillaume's ill prophecies." Gwennola allowed her palfrey to draw even closer to her father's steed as she raised a smiling face to his. "Nay, my father," she said tenderly. "'Tis but that I love justice as thou dost, and, moreover, my heart tells me that yon poor knight, even if he be a Frenchman, is no spy." "Nevertheless," said her father sternly, "a Frenchman is the enemy of the Breton; he comes not by chance to the forest of Arteze, my child, and, though I fail not in hospitality to a sick man, yet scant welcome will the servant of the King of France find under the roof of a soldier of the Duchess Anne." "Better the welcome of the halter for the spy, without more ado," said Guillaume de Coray with a malicious smile. "Remember St Aubin du Cormier, monsieur, and be warned by one who tells you that yonder false caitiff is a spy, for all his golden spurs and fair looks," he added, with another meaning look towards his cousin, "which have gone so far to soften the heart of my sweet mistress here." "Nay," said the old man sternly, "I will abide by what I have said. The Frenchman shall have justice, but no more—the nearest tree for the spy, and short shrift too, if he cannot bring good account of his presence here." Gwennola sighed. "He is no spy," she whispered to herself, but to her father she dared return no answer, but bent low over the beautiful bird attached to her wrist by a slender golden chain, to hide perchance the tears in her blue eyes rather than from any desire to gaze at her pet's bright plumage, or count the tiny golden bells on its hood. So in silence they rode through the forest glades and up through the long avenue of whispering oaks where the sunshine of a June evening shed slanting rays of golden glory through the rustling foliage overhead. The ChÂteau de Mereac stood on the outskirts of the forest of Arteze, not many leagues distant from the little Breton town of Martigue. The country on this side of Rennes had from time immemorial been the debatable land between Brittany and her overweening sister France; countless feuds raged constantly between the peoples, such as were fought in the Middle Ages, and even later, along our own Scottish border, and every Breton eyed his French neighbour as a natural and implacable enemy. But, in the year 1491, this natural animosity had grown from a smouldering antagonism into active flame of bitter hatred; for some years past the red angel of war had stood between the two countries with a blood-stained sword in her hand. Ever since the accession of Charles VIII., the rich prize of Brittany had been coveted by his ambitious sister and gouvernante, Anne of Beaujeu, now Duchesse de Bourbon, in all but name mistress of France. French armies had from time to time devastated the domain, but still Brittany, stubborn, gallant, untameable, had resisted the greedy hand outstretched to seize her. With enthusiastic loyalty the Bretons had rallied round their little Duchess, left an orphan at the age of thirteen, to face the perils of her exalted position alone. Her beauty, her helplessness, but above all her courage, appealed to the love and chivalry of her indomitable people. It is true that amongst the great nobles there were traitors to her cause, waverers who proffered allegiance first to one side then the other, disappointed suitors, who, like the Comte d'Albret, vented his spleen at a child's scorn by betraying his country; yet amongst the vast majority of her subjects Anne was worshipped, and her name inspired deeds of chivalry and devotion which had hitherto kept the all too greedy foe at bay. But her case was desperate, and well every Breton knew it; the armies of France might sweep across their borders at any moment, bringing destruction and devastation with them. What wonder that a Frenchman's name was poison to a Breton's ear? What wonder if those dwelling, as it were, under the shadow of the great and powerful enemy meted out scant mercy to their foes when opportunity arose? Yet for the moment a lull had fallen on the strife; the attitude of France seemed, for the present, to be quiescent, if not friendly. It was rumoured that the Count Dunois, cousin to the French King, and friend of the Duchess Anne's, as he had been of her father, was striving to unite the two countries in bonds of peace. Already he had succeeded in bringing about the release of his friend Louis of Orleans, the bitter enemy of the Duchess of Bourbon, and some said the lover of the Duchess of Brittany, for all her tender years, and the fact that he was already the husband of Yeanne, the deformed younger daughter of Louis XI., whom her royal father had forced him to marry. The air was, in fact, thick with rumours and intrigues, with the ominous thunder of war growling threateningly in the distance. It was said that the bond Dunois proposed was the holy one of matrimony between France's King and Brittany's Duchess, yet the rumour ran vaguely and doubtfully, and was scarcely credited by those who remembered that Anne was already married by proxy to the King of the Romans, whose little daughter was also affianced, at the tender age of two, to Charles VIII. It was a time, therefore, when men went warily, mistrustfully, with eyes glancing to right and left for fear of enemies, and ears open to listen to the breath of treachery. Above all, on the borders of Brittany was such watchfulness needed. What wonder then if the Sieur de Mereac, riding homewards from the chase with his daughter and kinsman beside him, pondered first on the counsel of one and then of the other, finally deciding that the Frenchman's fate must be tempered with justice, but small mercy, and that the rope end was the best meed for the enemy of the Duchess Anne? CHAPTER II With the vague wonderment of returning consciousness, Henri d'Estrailles lay striving, at first feebly, then with growing clearness, to recall the events which had preceded his fall. From out of the mists of elusive shadows, which seemed to paralyse his brain, he remembered how he had set out for Rennes in the train of the Count Dunois, who went on an embassy to the young Duchess from the King of France; of how he had lost his way on the preceding day, wandering aimlessly over vast heaths and landes, through valleys and forests, till the stumbling of his good horse Rollo brought a blank to his train of thought. Then, as the mists cleared still more from his weary brain, came the further wonderment of his present situation. He was lying on no mossy sward, with Rollo nozzling his face with dumb endearments, but instead, in a bed of which the fine linen and rich hangings bespoke a seigneur's castle rather than a peasant's hut, whilst, as the pain in his side caught his laboured breath, he became aware that he had been bandaged by no unskilled hand. Too weak to rise, he lay, still vaguely conning over those last hours of consciousness, and striving in vain to fit them in to the present, till at last, outwearied, he closed his eyes and would have slept, had he not been aroused by the soft withdrawal of the heavy curtain at the foot of the bed, and his eyes, in opening, fell, he told himself, on the fairest vision they had ever beheld. It was the figure of a young maiden, slim and tall; the high, heart-shaped headdress, with its long dependent veil, framing a beautiful, childish face, for the bloom of early youth was on the soft colouring of her cheeks and rosy lips, and a look of innocent bashfulness in the great blue eyes which looked down, half smiling, into his wondering brown ones; the red gold of the curls which peeped beneath the stiff headdress contrasting with the dark green of her tight-fitting bodice and long hanging sleeves. For full a minute the sick man gazed with all the boldness of one whose brain had yet scarcely realised whether it were vision or substance that he saw, and as the blue eyes met his eager glance they drooped, the colour rose in a wave of soft crimson to the girl's cheeks, and the curtain was allowed to slip to its place. He was alone once more, but no longer did Henri d'Estrailles desire sleep; his pulses still beat with the emotions created by the vision; more than ever he desired to know where fate had led him. 'Twas no unkindly destiny, he told himself, but verily the star of Venus herself which had so unwittingly guided him. His restless excitement boded ill for his hurts, as he tossed from side to side, and his face was already flushed with fever, when again the curtain was drawn aside, and he caught back his breath with disappointment, as this time, instead of the beautiful face of his dreams, there appeared the wrinkled, kindly face of a priest in the black robe of a Benedictine. "Ah, my son," he murmured gently, as he drew back the curtain by the side of the patient's bed and seated himself by his side, "it is well. I see that you have already benefited by my salves and ointments, and perchance"—he paused, smiling, as he read the hundred questions in the eager face turned to him—"you are doubtless as anxious, my son," he added kindly, "to know under whose roof you are resting, as we are to inquire what brought a stranger to wander unattended in our forest of Arteze?" There was no hiding the anxiety in the old man's eyes as he awaited the answer to his question, and the sick man smiled as he replied— "Perchance you had e'en taken me for a spy of the King of France? No, no, father, the d'Estrailles of d'Estrailles have never yet stooped to so vile a task, and, by our Lady's help, will never so soil one of the proudest scutcheons in France; my errand here in Brittany was the Count Dunois' business, for I rode in his train to Rennes on an embassy to your Duchess from my master, but losing my way in this so dreary and perilous country, I had nearly met my fate at the hand of an unruly tree stump, had it not been, I ween, for the unknown benefactor who has played the good Samaritan." Father Ambrose drew a sigh of relief. "'Twill be good news to my lord," he said heartily, "as also to the fair Demoiselle de Mereac, who pleaded so prettily with her father that you were no spy, that he was fain to spare you from the hanging which Monsieur de Coray deemed your fittest end." A flush of anger deepened on the young man's cheek. "Parbleu!" he cried softly, "Breton justice indeed, to hang an unconscious man because, forsooth! he rides unattended and cannot speak for himself! This monsieur——" "Nay," interrupted the priest, laying a soothing hand upon the other's clenched fist. "Calm yourself, my son, or I fear you will suffer ill from fever to your hurts. Be patient, and I will tell you how it chanced, as the demoiselle herself told me," he added, smiling. "And the demoiselle?" questioned d'Estrailles eagerly, as the priest concluded his tale of the brief episode which had been so near to terminating his career. "She is without doubt the angel who anon looked down upon me as I lay a-wondering, and who did so far entangle my thoughts that I deemed I must have reached Paradise itself?" "She is a good maid and a beautiful," said the old priest, with a touch of asperity in his tones. "Moreover," he added, with a smiling glance askance at his interrogator, "she is betrothed to her kinsman, Monsieur Guillaume de Coray." "De Coray?" echoed the young Frenchman with scorn. "What! the hound who would have strung me to the first tree because, parbleu! I had not the honour of his acquaintance? Nay, father, so sweet and gentle a maid would ill mate with so unknightly a spouse!" Father Ambrose sighed. "It is the will of her father, monsieur," he said, "and therefore it is a thing that must be—though from small choice, I ween, on the part of the Lady Gwennola." "Gwennola," murmured d'Estrailles, lingering tenderly over the syllables. "It is a name altogether suited to one so beautiful—Gwennola. Ah, my father, although I have but seen her for a moment, my heart grows bitter when I think of her betrothed to one whose knightly instincts can well be no higher than a butcher's scullion; but tell me, if you can indeed spare the time to a stranger such as I, hath this Sieur de Mereac no other child but this fair maid?" The priest shook his head, sighing heavily. "Alas!" he replied, "none now, monsieur; although scarce three years since he rejoiced in the possession of as gallant a son as father might desire; handsome, noble-minded and brave, it seemed impossible but that Yvon de Mereac should become a great knight whose name should resound throughout Brittany; but, alas! alas! the holy saints had not so willed it—he fell, monsieur, this gallant youth, scarce twenty years of age, in the bloody battle of St Aubin du Cormier, and the hopes which had gathered so fondly round the budding promise of his noble manhood were quenched in the darkness of the grave; not even was it possible to recover his body, though long and terrible search was made amongst the mangled slain on the battle-field, and since that day when Guillaume de Coray brought news of his death, the Sieur de Mereac has been an old and heart-broken man, ever cherishing his anger in wrath and bitterness against the French who thus worked the ruin of his hopes." "'Tis a sad tale," said d'Estrailles. "Yet, my father, after all, 'tis the risk all soldiers must run; some are born to fight a hundred battles and come scathless through all, whilst another, like yon poor boy, perishes ere he had dyed his maiden sword in the blood of his enemies. Such is Fate, and we must fain abye it. For the rest, it appears to me that this Monsieur de Mereac might well mourn his living heir rather than his dead son, if he is to be succeeded by this poltroon knave who would hang noble knights in cold blood." "Yes," sighed the priest, "the inheritance falls indeed to this same Guillaume de Coray, and therefore it becomes plain to you, my son, that of necessity he marries Gwennola de Mereac; so the old inheritance comes back again to the child of her father, and in their turn his grandsons may yet rule over the lands of Mereac." But to this d'Estrailles replied not, seeing that to him it was a thing impossible to dream of, that poltroon lips should touch those rosy ones that had smiled down so short a while since into his heart. The very thought kept him tossing feverishly upon his bed long after the old priest had left him and he lay in darkness. "Gwennola," he whispered to himself, "Gwennola," and fell to wondering when he might see the vision of her beauty once more. CHAPTER III The ChÂteau de Mereac stood on a slight elevation, overlooking, on one side, the forest of Arteze, whilst far away on the other stretched vast heaths and landes covered with patches of gorse and whin, briars and thistles, whilst here and there huge boulders of rock lay scattered about. A very land of desolation this, yet grand and even beautiful in its rugged, mournful way, for there is a vein of poetry which runs throughout Brittany, even in its loneliest and most desolate parts, a poetry which finds its expression in the history of its people, set as it is to the music of its wild winds, waves, and rugged moorlands, music in a minor key wailing across wastes and through valleys and forests, music which sings of love and passion, the free untamable spirit of the Celt, with all its romance and love of the supernatural. Like their Scottish brethren, they revel, these people, in legend, folklore, and hero-worship, over which for ever reign King Arthur and his fairy Morgana to inspire chivalry, passion, and love ideals. The keen air and salt spray of their shores act, too, as an inspiration to these great-hearted men and women, bracing them up to deeds of heroism and glory—glory such as their ancestors fought for and won in the olden days. A river ran in front of the old ChÂteau de Mereac, with orchards and gardens sloping down to the water's edge, and it was here that, that June morning, walked the Demoiselle de Mereac with an attendant maiden, both, it would seem, intent on their devotions, seeing that they raised not their heads from their livres d'heures even when a man's shadow crossed the path of the young chÂtelaine. But when the shadow became stationary substance, she was fain to look up, though with a frown on her smooth white brow, and a most decidedly unfriendly glance in her blue eyes. The accompanying maiden discreetly withdrew to the distance as the cavalier made his obeisance before the lady. "I crave thy pardon, sweet mistress," he observed, smiling, "for disturbing thy devotions. Methought I heard the very rustle of angels' wings on the air as I approached." The Demoiselle de Mereac drew herself up stiffly, facing him with flashing eyes. "You do well, monsieur," she retorted coldly, "to observe that they departed on your arrival." Guillaume de Coray shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, sweet," he observed coolly, "I came not to discourse on angels, though I ventured to intrude upon one, but rather because I would fain speak with you anent the stranger who lies so sorely sick yonder," and he pointed towards the chÂteau. "My father, monsieur," replied Gwennola haughtily, "would, methinks, best reply to any questions concerning Monsieur d'Estrailles. Doubtless he has already informed you," she added scornfully, "that he is satisfied that he is no spy, this French knight, but a noble gentleman of the train of the Count Dunois." "So I have heard," retorted her kinsman. "But it is also my habit, sweet mistress, to believe little that is not proved. Moreover, I am well assured that this fellow has less right than you dream of to your father's mercy. Were I," he added in a low, menacing tone, "to tell him all I knew, the nearest branch and short shrift would be the hospitality extended to him by the Sieur de Mereac." "Indeed, monsieur," replied the girl, her face flushing crimson with anger, "you are very wise; but wherefore spare to strike so crushing a blow?—not for love, I trow, of the poor knight who lies sick yonder." "Nay," he returned, trying to soften his tones, till they resembled the angry purr of a cat, "but rather for love of thee, sweet Gwennola, for well I know how grieved thy tender heart would be to see yon miscreant meet his just doom." "Just doom!" she retorted, the crimson once more dyeing her cheeks. "Nay, monsieur, surely it comports not with knightly honour to hint at what it is difficult to assert or prove—nay, I will hear no more of your base insinuations against a brave man. Begone, monsieur, and leave me to my devotions." "Nay," he snarled, "surely, sweet, 'tis no time for devotions when the star of Venus is on high; let us walk together, and, since it pleases thee not to talk of sick traitors and spies, let us converse on sweeter themes: of our love, fair lady, and of the day when thou shalt be my bride." She shuddered and drew back from his proffered arm as if he had stung her. "No, monsieur," she replied, "have done with mockery; you know well my will with regard to our betrothal—as for marriage——" She checked herself, startled by a sudden change of expression on his face; instead of the suave, mocking smile it had grown grave and hard, whilst the cruel mouth tightened over his gums till his teeth showed white below them, but into the eyes had crept an unmistakable look of fear, as he gazed across the river towards the forest beyond; then, with a quick side glance at her and her maiden, he murmured some excuse for leaving them to their prayers, and with a hurried bow turned and walked swiftly towards the castle. "What can it be? Saw you aught, Marie?" asked Gwennola, as her maiden, seeing her alone, hastened towards her. "What was it that so startled Monsieur de Coray?—he turned as pale as if he had seen a spirit from the other world." Both girls crossed themselves, Marie adding that she fancied she had seen a man's figure amongst the trees, but it had disappeared so swiftly that she could not be sure. "At least it has rid us of an unwelcome intruder," smiled Gwennola. "See, Marie, let us gather some violets and then return to Mass; I would fain demand of the good father how his patient is this morning. Last night he feared fever from the wound in his side where the poor knight's own sword pierced him; only a hair's-breadth more and it would have entered his lung. I must in truth offer three candles at the shrine of our Blessed Lady for sparing so gallant a knight. Think then, my Marie, a hair's-breadth and he had been no more!" The maid smiled slyly. "The saints be praised, mistress," she replied, adding beneath her breath that the hair's-breadth might well have been passed had the accident befallen some knights, whereat both laughed and fell to picking the violets with light hearts. It was indeed a fair dawn, and the fragrance and sweetness of it seemed to have entered the turret room where Henri d'Estrailles lay, with the presence of the young chÂtelaine of the castle.. No fleeting vision this morning, but verily a living presence, stately, smiling, beautiful as she stood by his side, inquiring of Father Ambrose how his patient fared. In spite of her childish appearance—she was scarce seventeen summers—Gwennola bore herself with all the stately airs befitting to the lady of a great house, for, since her mother's death, she had filled the post of chÂtelaine at Mereac, and had grown, it must be confessed, from a spoilt child to a wilful maiden, whose self-importance sat so sweetly upon her that her father could find no word of chiding for his oft-times wayward darling. Only, alas! in one matter had he proved firm, and that concerned her betrothal to her kinsman, and even Gwennola, indulged as she was beyond the custom of those stern days of parental authority, dared not oppose herself against the decree, though, with all the strenuous force of her womanhood, she would fain have striven against it, had she dared, ever more too as the months showed her a lover so contrary to all her maiden dreams. How well she knew that for all his empty phrases and mocking vows this kinsman of hers had no love in his heart for her; his very endearments were an insult against which her hot, impetuous young nature revolted. Bitter were the tears shed in secret, and none to see or comfort her but Father Ambrose and her maiden, Marie Alloadec, her trusted friend and companion. And, after all, it was surprising how ill they comprehended, these two. The good father would strive to comfort her with a homily on the necessity of obedience and submission to Heaven, and would only shake his head gravely when she replied, weeping, that Heaven could have no share in breaking a maiden's heart, or else suggest, half hesitatingly, that perhaps her father might listen to her entreaties to enter the cloister. But this latter suggestion found small favour in the eyes of one whose warm young life shrank back appalled from the cold vocation of a nun's monotonous existence. Surely, she told herself, there was some other way, some other loophole of escape from the fate in store for her. Marie Alloadec's consolations were more congenial than the worthy father's, but even they fell short of Gwennola's need; sympathy was all her foster sister held out to her, hope there seemed none. With all the tragedy of youth and all the young girl's exaggerations of woe, Gwennola saw herself condemned to an early grave or broken heart. But somehow, as she stood there, glancing shyly from time to time towards the sick man, the rosy finger of hope seemed busy at the locked door of her heart, which beat swiftly at the messenger's knock, for all her outward calm. And so it came that she lingered in the turret-room, passing from questions of his wound to talk, hesitatingly at first, but with growing curiosity, of that distant home of his in fair Touraine, sunny, laughing Touraine, with its langorous breezes and fair meadows, its fruits and flowers, and the dancing waters of the Loire, so different to their own grey Vilaine. Then, as if half ashamed of her eagerness, or because the brown eyes that looked up into hers brought the blushes to her cheeks and a sudden inexplicable thrill to her beating heart, or because she had caught a grave reproof in Father Ambrose's face which seemed to warn her of unmaidenliness, she became of a sudden the quaintly-stiff little chÂtelaine once more, speaking to the priest instead of to the patient concerning salves and ointments and such like with the air of a matron of fifty. "The wound heals favourably," said Father Ambrose, and for all his reverent estate there was a twinkle of amusement, or perhaps sympathy, in his kind old eyes as he glanced from the flushed, childish face, with its framing of red-gold curls and white headdress, to the eager one on the bed, which looked up with such an admiring gaze at the now averted face of his fair visitor. "Monsieur will doubtless be able to continue his journey in a week's time, but he must be careful, for the reopening of an old wound is ever more dangerous than a new one." "Except the new one be at the heart," smiled d'Estrailles slyly. Gwennola turned, answering the smile half shyly, half coquettishly, as she replied: "But Monsieur's heart is unscathed? The sword——" "Truly, mademoiselle is right; the sword spared my heart, but nathless I fear it has not gone unscathed, for what is a sword point compared to a maiden's eyes—if," he added softly, "those eyes be cold?" Gwennola's face flushed again, and the blue eyes in question drooped, to hide perchance a tell-tale light which shone in them, but Father Ambrose's gentle voice interrupted the conversation. "Nay, nay, monsieur," he urged reprovingly, "French compliments suit ill to a Breton maiden's ears; for the rest, it is not well that you should talk too long, lest the threatened fever of last night overcome you; if you would be again in the saddle before a week has passed you must e'en be obedient." "Verily," sighed Henri d'Estrailles with a faint grimace, "your words are doubtless golden, my father, though scarcely sweet to the ear, yet I must e'en obey, seeing that I do ill to grasp too greedily at hospitality which must needs be more pain than pleasure to bestow." "Nay, monsieur," interrupted Gwennola gently, "we of Mereac grudge no man our hospitality, but——" "Ay, the but," replied d'Estrailles wistfully. "Mademoiselle, believe me, my gratitude is unbounded, yet I cannot but comprehend how distasteful is the presence of a Frenchman to a family bereaved as the good father here has told me, nor would I linger one moment longer than it is necessary to my hurt; though," he added softly, "I must needs leave behind me for ever somewhat that I had dreamed to keep my own for all time." She did not reply, only met his pleading glance with one which was half wonder, half glad comprehension, the look of a child who sees before it joys hitherto undreamt of, yet gazes, doubting whether they be for him. The look lingered in her eyes even when she had left the sick man's chamber, and gone slowly down the winding stairway into the great hall. "Ah, my Nola, so there thou art. Comest thou not with thy old father to-day a-hawking?" The Sieur de Mereac stood by the long table booted and spurred, his falcon on his wrist, his cloak flung over his shoulder, a gallant figure, in brave attire, his kindly, keen grey eyes fixed questioningly on his daughter. She ran to him, curtsying and smiling, and slipped one slim arm round his caressingly. "I knew not that it was your pleasure, monsieur my father," she replied, smiling up at him with loving eyes. He stroked back her ruddy curls fondly as he looked down into the beautiful face. "Thy father always wants thee, little one," he said tenderly, "as thou knowest very well, spoilt child as thou art. And so thou dost not want to come and see me try my new gerfalcon! Donna Maria? tiens! look then how beautiful a bird she is!" "She is altogether perfect," murmured Gwennola, stroking the bird's soft plumage, "and to-morrow thou shalt again take her hawking, my father, and I will accompany thee on my little Croisette. Say, is it not so?" "But why not to-day, little bird?" he asked, half impatiently. "See, the sun shines, and the air is glorious. Fie, then! is it because Guillaume is not here?" A shadow fell across the bright face, and she drew back with a sigh. "No, my father," she said in a low voice; "that thou knowest very well,—oh, father!"—and once again she clung to him with a sudden, new-born tenderness—"thou knowest that I want none but thee,—only thee for always." "Nay, child," he replied, patting her cheek kindly "that would never do; but see, when thou art married to Guillaume we shall still be together; there will come no stranger lord to carry my little sunbeam away from Mereac, leaving it cold and grey for ever. Say then, little one, is that not well?—thou and Guillaume, and the old father here? Tiens! give me a kiss, my Gwennola, for her Spanish Majesty waxes as impatient as my good Barbe without. Adieu, petite, and be kind to the poor Guillaume when he returns." But Gwennola did not reply; perhaps her voice was too choked with tears just then to make answer to her father's words, but, if so, she quickly dashed the bright drops from her eyes as she met the curious gaze of a youth who sat perched on a stool by the side of the empty hearth: a narrow-faced, undersized lad clad in a fool's motley, his quick beady eyes roving restlessly from his young mistress to watch the gambols of a small ape, which, dressed in quaint imitation of his master, chattered and clambered about, first over the rush-strewn floor, then up the dark tapestries, finally alighting between the outstretched forms of two wolf-hounds, which lay dreaming doubtless of the chase, for, as the impudent little jester sprang to their side, they raised their heads with an ominous growl, and might in sleepy anger have terminated a mischievous career, had not the little creature with an agile bound sprung over their bodies on to the knee of his master, where he sat gibbering and chattering like some mocking imp of darkness, whilst the fool rocked himself backwards and forwards on his stool, chuckling shrilly. "Silence, Pierre!" commanded Gwennola, the more sharply because she had with difficulty regained her composure; "and go quickly, bid Marie and Job Alloadec come hither; tell them that I would have them accompany me to Mereac to see old MÈre Fanchonic. And bid Marie bring the warm wrap I promised the old woman." Pierre obeyed sullenly enough, for it displeased him to have his sport thus interrupted, but Gwennola paid no heed to his frowns, but stood awaiting her attendants with a little smile hovering around her lips, though why she smiled she could not have told, unless it were that she recalled to mind Father Ambrose's shocked face when the Frenchman spoke of maidens' eyes. Tiens! what harm then was it? It was true,—so she supposed,—but could it also be true that her eyes——? She broke off, blushing crimson at the unmaidenly thought, then sighed as, instead of Henri d'Estrailles' handsome face, she recalled another face which had looked so mockingly into hers that very morn, yonder on the terrace, a cruel, evil face, with sallow cheeks and pale, cold eyes, the recollection of which started another train of thought. What had it been that had so startled Guillaume de Coray? Why had he been absent since that moment when he had parted from her so suddenly? She was still wondering vaguely when the entrance of Marie and Job Alloadec broke in on her meditations. "Come," she said, a little impatiently, "I have been awaiting thee this long time, my Marie; it grows late, and I would fain be home before the twilight deepens; but, ma foi, what ails the good Jobik?" It certainly appeared as if somewhat greatly ailed the poor retainer; his usually ruddy cheeks were flabby and pale, and his blue eyes glanced from side to side, with the nervous stare of one who has been badly frightened. Marie crossed herself, paling too as she replied— "Ah, mademoiselle, pardon, it is true that I delayed, but poor Job was at first so fear-stricken that I deemed he would verily have become crazed outright." Gwennola stamped her foot impatiently. "Foolish one!" she cried, though there was a ripple of laughter mingled with the anger in her tones. "Say then what has befallen? has the poor Jobik seen the same vision that affrighted Monsieur de Coray this morning?" "Truly, I know not," replied Marie in a whisper. "But he says—nay, lady, he says—tiens, Job! tell the Lady Gwennola what thou sawest yonder in the forest." For reply the poor Breton poured forth a mumbled string of vows and prayers, from amongst which Gwennola at last extracted the startling fact that, as he stood by the river bank, he had seen amongst the trees, on the other side, a vision of Yvon de Mereac, his young lord, who had perished on the bloody field of St Aubin du Cormier nearly three years since. Even Gwennola grew pale as she devoutly crossed herself, murmuring a prayer to her patron saint before she faltered out an inquiry as to the manner of the vision. It was this, it appeared, which had so puzzled the faithful Jobik, who had worshipped his young master with all a Breton's devotion: he had not stood before him clad in armour as he had fallen, but in ragged and poor attire, with wasted cheeks and eyes at once haunting and terrible, as if, so Job averred, the tortured spirit were in some great peril, from which it pleaded with Job to release it. In vain Gwennola strove to convince the poor fellow that the vision could be naught but some phantasy of the brain, or that the figure seen was that of some wandering madman who bore a likeness to her dead brother. Job clung to his tale, at last breaking down utterly in his terror and perplexity, and sobbing out prayers to every saint in the calendar to enlighten him as to what the vision would have him do. It was some time before all were sufficiently calm to set out on their expedition, an expedition from which Marie in vain strove to dissuade her mistress. The thought of so immediately entering the now horror-haunted forest was agony to the poor waiting woman; but in spite of her own inward qualms, Gwennola was firm in her purpose. Truth to tell, the young mistress was inclined to be of an obstinate and tenacious disposition, and, having decided on her plan of action, carried it through in spite of opposition, so that Marie, knowing well her wilful temper, was fain to yield to her wishes, and strive, if vainly, to conquer her fears. Gwennola, on the contrary, gave no outward sign of her misgivings; some strange elation seemed suddenly to have over-mastered them, and her merry laugh rang cheerily through the sunlit glades as she challenged Marie to a race. MÈre Fanchonic's humble dwelling was reached at last, and the young chÂtelaine's gracious sympathy and kindly words brought many a blessing down on her head from the old woman ere they departed once more on their homeward way, MÈre Fanchonic herself hobbling slowly to the door to scream shrill injunctions to Job to guard well his young mistress, for, though the way was short, there were perils on all sides. That such was the case in those lawless times Gwennola knew only too well, but she possessed the daring spirit of her race, and her father had ever yielded to her more licence than was deemed fitting for a young girl in those days. Therefore Gwennola had been accustomed from childhood to wander in the woods around Mereac, accompanied only by the faithful Job and Marie, or perchance by her father, or brother. The thought of that brother, so dear and so long mourned, brought a sadness afresh to her bright face as she turned her steps towards the chÂteau. The thrill of elation had gone, and a sudden gloom seemed to have plunged her from unaccountable mirth to melancholy; neither could she altogether explain what oppressed her, unless indeed it could be Job Alloadec's strange vision. Twilight was creeping with stealthy footsteps upon them, in spite of their haste, as they passed swiftly along the narrow woodland path, and Marie had shrunk closer to her mistress's side, when a sudden crackling of boughs in a thicket close by caused both girls to scream aloud in fear, as a man leapt out from the wood on to the path in front of them. Flesh and blood without doubt was the intruder, no hollow-eyed apparition of the dead, such as they had half dreaded: a man, short, thick-set, with a red stubbly beard and hard, reckless eyes, which stared now into theirs with a fierce, yet frightened defiance. "Monsieur de Coray?" he gasped, and looked eagerly behind the girls towards Job, who had hurried up to his young mistress's side. "De Coray?" questioned Gwennola, who was the first of the three to regain her self-possession, signing at the same time to Job to keep by her side. "Is it then Monsieur de Coray with whom you desire speech?" "Yes—no," stammered the man, glancing from right to left. "Pardon, mademoiselle, I feared—nay—methought——" And then, with the gasp of one who sees safety but in flight, he sprang once more into the brushwood, and disappeared, as suddenly as he had come, amongst the trees. "Nay," said Gwennola de Mereac gently, as Job, with a suspicious grunt, made as though he would set off in pursuit, "there was no harm; the poor man is half crazed with fear or something worse. Besides," she added with a smile, "thou wouldest not leave us alone, good Job, to find our way home through these twilight woods. Parbleu! it was well that yon poor, frightened rogue had no business with us, for he wore an ugly look, and it is possible that he hath friends, beside Monsieur de Coray, in yon dark forest. Come, my Marie, tremble not now danger is past, but let us return the more quickly, seeing that perchance my father even now grows anxious." "'Twas a strange knave," muttered Job as he followed his sister and her mistress on their way. "But, by the beard of the holy St Gildas! I had liefer meet two such than——" And the gallant Job crossed himself devoutly, though he did not complete his sentence. |
|