Sword Before Tongue

by Warwick Deeping

 

SWORD BEFORE TONGUE

By WARWICK DEEPING

Author of "Uther and Tgraine" "The Seven Streams," "Rust of Rome," etc.

ROSAMUND BASSET, that swarthy girl with the red mouth and the white teeth, stood in the doorway of her tent under the oak trees of the forest, and listened to the whispering of her two women, who were turning tunics, girdles, and shoes out of a black oak hutch.

The two women glanced often at the girl in her hunting dress of Lincoln green. They knew why she stood there in silence and in anger, for Rosamund Basset was a ward of the king, and in those days a ward of the king was often bought and sold.

"The king has commanded her to marry Roger de Quintet's nephew," said Blondelle, whose hair was the colour of saffron—"a great oaf of a boy. They say that Roger de Quintet has been jingling gold pieces under the king's nose ever since we came into the forest."

"Bah!" said the other, who had the mouth of a rabbit and jealous eyes. "I should even be ready to pity the boy. Show me a worse temper——"

"Well, well, we are not all honey-pots. And when one is the lady of many manors——"

"All the men will swear that there never was such beauty!"

Red-haired Joan looked round with a sneer, as though she were ready to exult a little over this troubling of her mistress's pride.

"It will be a bad day for the boy," said she, "unless he can ride the mare they are bringing him. It is time for robing. The trumpets will blow for sapper in half an hour."

"Call her in, then."

"Not I! I am not in a mood for her temper. Messire de Quintet's nephew must see to that."

From the doorway of the tent stretched a long green glade carpeted with turf that was sleek and smooth as velvet. On every side it was shut in by the huge trunks and sweeping foliage of old forest trees. Here and there the evening sunlight streamed through and dappled the grass with gold. The sunlight fell also upon the diverse colours of many tents that had been pitched in the glade, the blues, purples, and reds looming up richly under the green gloom of the trees. Further away Rosamund saw fires burning where the king's cook and his men were roasting meat for the king's supper. From amid the trees came the whimpering of hounds and the sound of horses munching grass.

Rosamund Basset had a mirror in one hand and a silver comb in the other. But her hands were idle as she stood there and watched two figures come out of a white tent that had been pitched close to the king's pavilion. One was the figure of a lean old man who walked with a slight limp, and whose chin and nose were like the horns of a new moon. The other was that of a young man, who towered up over his companion like an ash tree overtopping a stunted thorn. They began to move up the glade in the direction of Rosamund's tent, the old man with the face like a new moon talking volubly and making many gestures with his hands.

The younger man did not appear very desirous of approaching Rosamund Basset's tent. He looked sulky and restless, avoiding his companion's eyes, and staring obstinately into the deeps of the forest. And Rosamund, watching him from the doorway of her tent, felt a quick contempt for this young bachelor whom Roger de Quintet was driving like a calf to market.

The king's "friend" turned away with a threatening uplift of his sharp chin. He had brought this young man, his nephew, well on the road towards marrying a wealthy wife. The youngster must be left to manage some part of the wooing. So Roger de Quintet turned back, leaving his nephew alone.

Rosamund had lifted her mirror. She looked at her own reflection, drawing back the red lips over the white teeth, and creasing her forehead into a frown. Then she threw the comb and the mirror to her two women, and walked out boldly to deal with Roger de Quintet's nephew.

The young man appeared surprised to find her approaching him so readily. He was a sinewy fellow, brown as a cob-nut, with great hands that looked very clumsy but very strong. His plain, rust-coloured surcoat had a silver hawk embroidered on the breast. But Rosamund Basset seemed to have more of the hawk about her than had this tall brown lad, who looked as though he were trying to keep the sunlight out of his eyes.

It was the girl who opened the attack, and the manner of it was not encouraging.

"This is Roger de Quintet's nephew, is it not?" she said.

The young man stared at her with very solemn blue eyes. It was evident that he was a little afraid of women, and Rosamund Basset had no wish to reassure him.

"Certainly. Roger de Quintet is my uncle," he answered her.

"Ah, to be sure, and a very shrewd gentleman is Roger de Quintet. And you?"

"I am Jasper Botterel. Messire Roger de Quintet has the wardship of me and my manors. In six months——"

"What a big baby you are," she said, breaking in on him with a hard little laugh, "to be rocked in your good uncle's cradle! We know what we know, eh, Messire Jasper Botterel? Come, I have a few words to say to you."

She turned and walked away among the oak trees, the young man following her, and looking as though he wished himself anywhere but at her heels. He could not help noticing how tall and straight she was, how black her hair seemed, and how her green tunic was belted about her with a curious girdle crusted with purple stones. Rosamund Basset's mouth was the mouth of a shrew, and it would not have comforted Jasper Botterel had he seen it. She walked on for a hundred paces before she faced round sharply and looked him in the eyes.

"Come, now, Messire Jasper Botterel," she said, her swarthy face hard and insolent, "tell me how much money you have given the king in order that you may marry me?"

The young man stared at her with his solemn blue eyes, and looked as though he did not know what to do with his big hands.

"I have given the king no money," he said; "but as for Roger de Quintet, my uncle——"

"Ah, your sweet uncle! Well, my good fool, it is your uncle, no doubt, who has given the king money, and here am I, to be sold like a filly at a fair. Perdition take you and your uncle, Messire Jasper Botterel! That is what I have to say."

The young man's brown face went red under its tan. He looked at her stolidly, as though wondering what he should say.

"My uncle may very well go to perdition," he answered. "All the same, he has me and my manors under his thumb. As for marrying you——"

She tossed her head and laughed impatiently.

"And am I to marry such a booby—a lank puppy led on a string? By my soul, I would rather die first! I have some pride, and a will of my own, so may the devil fly away with your uncle!"

The young man reddened still further.

"I assure you," he retorted, with blunt sincerity, "that I am in no hurry to marry you."

"Then the more fool you!" she said. "Merciful Heaven, why do you stand there staring like a sheep?"

She began to walk to and fro under the trees, carrying her head high and biting her lip. Jasper Botterel watched her with the air of a man who heartily wished himself saved from the answering of such a riddle.

"Well, what are you going to do, Messire—what are you going to do?" she asked, turning on him with passionate impatience.

"Assuredly," said he, "the king has commanded me to marry you. And though it would be treason to curse the king——"

"Thank you, Messire—thank you, from my heart! It is all so simple, eh? Here we are, like a couple of dolls on wires. The king plays with one, your good uncle with the other. And we must dance, whether we like it or no, because the king takes money, and your good uncle gives it. The devil fly away with both of you! I wish you had never been born!"

"Can I say less?" said he, beginning to be a little angry.

Her eyes flashed back at him.

"By my soul, I will never marry a man who is afraid of his own uncle!"

"I should never have asked you to, madame," he retorted; "I am wise enough for that!"

"Good—very good!" said she. "What comfort does one get from talking to a jackdaw?"

And she turned and walked back in a fury towards her tent, leaving the young man wondering what good they had done by quarrelling.

Jasper Botterel stood to serve at the king's table that night; but though Jasper had been trained as a page in his uncle's house, he was more fitted for the war-saddle than for serving at the daïs table of a king. The great white pavilion was full of a gay company, and Jasper was shy of these debonair folk in their splendid clothes. He felt too big among the tables, and when any lady laughed, Jasper had a suspicion that the laugh was against himself. Moreover, Rosamund Basset sat on the bench next to the queen, and when her eyes met Jasper's, it seemed to him that she thought him the sorriest thing in the world.

It is easy for a man to blunder when he feels like a clumsy oaf, and Jasper drew the eyes of the whole company upon him by stumbling over one of the king's dogs, and emptying a dish of venison over his uncle's back.

"Your boy is a shy lad," said the king to Messire Roger.

"Truly, sire, his hands and feet are big." And Messire Roger de Quintet dug the point of his girdle knife into the flesh of his nephew's leg.

"Dolt," said his uncle, "shall I ever teach you manners?"

Jasper's face blazed, but he stooped to pick up the dish that had followed the venison.

"Some day we shall see," he said, with dogs scrambling round his legs for the fallen meat. "One thing I know—may I have my tongue pulled out if they ever marry me to that black-haired shrew yonder!"

And Rosamund Basset was no less sure that she would never marry an overgrown boy who could not even carry a dish to table.

The forest was very still that night, but not more still than Rosamund Basset lying in her truckle bed under the red canvas of her tent. A full moon was up, glimmering through the trees, and the two women, Joan and Blondelle, had long ago fallen asleep. Rosamund listened a while to the steady rhythm of their breathing before she put one white foot out of bed, slipped the coverlet aside, and began to dress.

"May I die a nun before they marry me to that fool!" she thought. "I know what the king's greed is; he will not lose a good bargain, even in the breaking of a woman's heart. Roger de Quintet, good sir, would you were hanged in one of these trees!"

She dressed herself stealthily, patting on her tunic of Lincoln green, and binding it with the girdle set with purple stones. A cloak and a hood of green covered her black hair, which she left loose upon her shoulders. Then she laced up her brown leather shoes, broidered over with scarlet cord, and, lifting the flap of the tent, went out into the moonlight.

Now, Jasper Botterel had gone to his uncle's tent, feeling sore in the leg and sorer still in spirit. His blood was in revolt against Roger de Quintet and the king. Moreover, he hated the splendour, the chattering, and the ceremony of the court. These surroundings seemed to take the strength from his great hands and the manhood from his body.

"By St. Jude," he said to himself, "I must get out of this place of peacocks! Marry that black wench? Heaven forbid! Good uncle, the prick of that knife has put me in better spirits. Are there not the wars in Gascony, with good men being shipped across the sea? I would rather fight than be married. Heaven save us, yes!"

So Jasper crept out of Roger de Quintet's tent in the hush before the dawn, made his way to the place where the horses were tethered, took his own beast, saddled and bridled him, and rode off into the forest.

Meanwhile, that imperious and headstrong young woman, Rosamund Basset, had lost herself in the woodland, despite the light of the full moon and the promise that she had made herself that she could find her way to Winchester before the morning. There was a certain Messire Réné of Avranches at Winchester, a young man with a neat beard, an adroit tongue, and a fine extravagance in dress. And Rosamund had been moved to remember this Réné of Avranches as an avowed lover, and a probable champion who might ride off with her from under the king's nose. She had no great passion for this smiling and debonair little Frenchman, but he had made hot love to her, and Rosamund was in no need to judge either herself or others fairly.

At all events, she found that the forest was an eerie place to wander through at midnight, with its strange rustles of sound in the thick of its stillness, its huge trees black as ebony and splashed here and there with moonlight. White mists stood in the valleys, making the earth seem more vague and ghostly, and the night air raw and cold. Rosamund had been astray for more than an hour, and was climbing the slope of a low hill, when she became aware of a luminous mist shimmering before her among the dark trunks of the trees. It was not the moonlight; Rosamund felt sure of that, and she went on cautiously, her eyes at gaze. The solitudes of the forest, its shadows, the ghostly splashes of light upon the trees, had begun to chasten the girl's audacity. It was so different groping about alone at midnight to riding a palfrey on a summer morning with young men eager for a glance from her eyes.

The foggy light ahead of her grew more distinct as she approached, and she recognised it as from the glow of a fire thrown up against the foliage of the oak trees, though the fire itself was hidden from her by the rising ground. The forest had come so near to scaring her that she felt glad of the light of a fire, taking it to be that of a charcoal burner or of some of the king's rangers.

None the less she decided that she would try to get a glimpse of the folk before she trusted them with that goodly gem—herself. People had run to wait on Rosamund ever since she could remember, and she had grown accustomed to obsequious faces. An inviolable serenity had kept her above all knowledge of the rougher and coarser realities of life.

She had come to a low bank close to the fire when a sound from the surrounding darkness startled her very shrewdly. It was only the loud snorting of a horse, but it brought a surprised cry from Rosamund's mouth. And before she could repent of it, a black figure appeared on the bank, stood there a moment outlined against the glow of the fire, and then dropped down like a hawk upon a rabbit.

Rosamund was caught by the wrist and girdle.

"Hallo—hallo! What's here?"

In the dusk she could see the whites of a man's eyes and an exuberant shadow that looked like hair.

"Let go of my wrist, dog!" said she.

"Dog, indeed!" quoth the man, holding her the tighter. "Let us see what gay moth has flown into our fire."

Heads appeared as black circles above the bank, and Rosamund found this very insolent rogue hauling her briskly into the firelight. She was too astonished for the moment to give the gentleman his due. Then she struck him across the face, and made an effort to twist herself free.

"Dog! To dare to touch the body of a great lady!"

Great lady or no, the "dog" held her the tighter, and dragged her over the bank into the full light of the fire. Rosamund found half a score rough figures crowding round her, staring in her face and fingering her clothes. There were women among the men—rough, mop-headed women, whose eyes looked red and hungry in the firelight.

"Heaven save us, here is a fine treasure!"

"Good stuff, by the feel of it!"

"Bring her to the fire, gossips, and let us see what she be made of."

The creatures hustled her into the firelight, crowding round her with a gloating and boisterous eagerness. A hand clutched at her girdle, tore it off, and brandished it in triumph. Then, in the taking of a breath, Rosamund Basset felt herself being pulled this way and that by ten pairs of hands. It was a grotesque and greedy scramble in which she was the thing scrambled for, and these creatures hounds that snapped and scuffled about the body of a fox.

In a trice her cloak and tunic were torn off, the rings slipped from her fingers, her very shoes twisted from off her feet. She was as helpless as a straw in the swirl of a mill-pool, and though she struck at the faces round her, they did not seem to feel her blows. The spoiling of this great lady was soon accomplished, and when they had stripped her to her shift, the creatures made a circle round her, mocking her to her face, and gloating over their plunder.

So Rosamund stood there under the oak trees, her black hair hanging about her, her body quivering with anger and great shame. She tried to cover her bosom with her arms, feeling herself red as the fire under the eyes of these rough men. Never had pride been stripped more thoroughly.

She still had anger in her eyes.

"Dogs," she said to them, "know that I am a ward of the king, and that you shall hang for this!"

Then they began to laugh—loud, gaggling, brutal laughter that filled her with vague fear and made her shiver. The women came round her, thrusting at her with their fingers and putting out their tongues. One of them struck her upon the bosom.

"Dogs, madame, dogs!" they shouted.

"This fine lady will have us hanged!"

"Ah, we are not such lambs! We know how to take care of our own wool!"

They grew less noisy and less threatening anon, and the man who had taken the girdle and seemed the old dog of the pack, told one of the women to bring some clothes. A dirty bundle was unrolled before the fire, and a ragged brown smock brought out. The smock was all holes and patches. The woman flung it at Rosamund's feet.

"Fine feathers for a great lady," she said. "Put it on and be thankful."

Rosamund, wondering at her own humility, and at the hot tears that began to flow, obeyed the woman, and clad herself in the ragged smock.

The men were whispering together. Two of them went off into the forest and returned with a horse and several rough ponies. Others began scattering the fire, while the man who had taken the girdle went up to Rosamund and thrust his face close up to hers.

"You will go a little journey with us, my dear," he said; "and be sure to keep that mouth of yours shut, or——" and he showed her a knife that he had hidden in his sleeve.

Rosamund looked into his insolent eyes, and knew what it was to be afraid.

"You would not kill me!" she said.

"Good manners, my dear, may save us that."

None the less, he made her stretch out her two hands, and then tied them together with a long leather thong. The other end of the thong he wrapped round his own wrist. Then they set off through the forest.

Now, it was eight of the clock next morning when Jasper Botterel rode into Winchester city, feeling himself a better man for being free of Roger de Quintet and the king. Being by no means a complete fool, he had taken the trouble to possess himself of his uncle's purse, encouraging himself with the reflection that his guardian in chivalry had probably stolen more out of his ward's manors than Jasper would ever steal from him. The young man meant to buy arms in Winchester that morning, and such gear as the war in Gascony required. He had heard it said at the king's table that ships were to put out from Portsmouth in a week to carry arms and men to Earl Simon de Montfort in Gascony.

Jasper left his horse at a hostelry, made a meal there, and was directed by the hosteler to an armourer's shop in the lower town. He soon had a hauberk under his surcoat, a shield at his back, and a helmet hanging by its laces from the crook of his left elbow. He was returning towards the hostelry, and was within forty paces of the place, when he came upon a goldsmith's shop with a fine hauberk of plated gold hanging from a beam above the counter. Jasper was looking at this splendid coat when a man in a grey cloak came up the footway, paused outside the goldsmith's door, and began to grope for something in a leather bag. And in dragging out some cloth of Lincoln green he dragged out more than he intended, for a girdle set with purple gems fell with a clatter on the stones.

Jasper caught sight of the girdle before the man could snatch it up, and the very way the fellow snatched at it made Jasper scent him for a thief. It was the very girdle that Rosamund Basset had worn, or its twin in every way. Jasper remembered how the size of the stones had astonished him. Moreover, there was the cloth of Lincoln green.

"Heaven save us," he said to himself, as the man in the grey cloak disappeared into the goldsmith's inner door, "that was Rosamund Basset's girdle. The fellow has a villainous, thieving face. If he has stolen that girdle, how did he come by it? I have a mind to look further into this."

He reflected a moment, and, walking on to the hostelry, called for his horse, and ordered the hosteler to fill his wallet for him. When the horse was brought out to him, Jasper slung the helmet by its laces to the pommel of the saddle, but he did not mount the beast till he saw the man in the grey cloak reappear out of the goldsmith's shop.

"Here is a mad whim!" he said to himself, as he followed the man down the main street. "What is the shrew to me—or the colour of the stones in her girdle? Certainly, we men are fools. None the less, I have a mind to get the truth out of that fellow yonder."

So Jasper followed the man in the grey cloak out through the east gate of the city and over the hills into the open country. He did not hurry to come up with the gentleman till the track ran over a lonely waste, where there was no sound save the quivering song of the larks.

"Friend," said he, "I have watched your back for some miles this morning. Two on the road make the way less lonely."

The man eyed him over a surly shoulder, nor did Jasper trust the gentleman's eyes. "A poor man must go on his own feet, lording," he said, "for the lack of an ass or a mule."

Jasper laughed as though the man had said something that was very shrewd.

"If you are so poor," he said, "how can you carry gold or precious stones in that bag of yours?"

The fellow screwed up his eyes.

"I, lording? Heaven order my good star, would that I had such stuff inside my bag!"

"Ah," said Jasper, "perhaps there is more in it than you think!"

The man blinked at him, and his eyes were like the eyes of a suspicious dog.

"Well, lording," said he, "I will gladly show you what I have in my bag."

Jasper looked the most simple and good-natured of men. The fellow came close to the horse, pretending to unfasten the bag from his girdle, but letting the folds of the cloak cover his hands.

"See here, lording," said he.

There was the flash of a knife, but Jasper had been waiting for some such trick. He caught the man's wrist, and twisted it until the sinews cracked at the shoulder joint.

"Wasp, drop that sting of yours!" he said.

The man cursed him, but dared not move because of his wrenched shoulder. He dropped the knife and began to whimper.

"I am an honest man, lording," he said; "you will not rob a poor man on the road?"

"What of that girdle set with purple stones, my friend, that you took to the goldsmith's at Winchester?

"Girdle, lording? Stones, lording? What would a poor man like me——"

Jasper gave another twist to the rogue's arm.

"Speak the truth, you dog! I will have it out of you if I have to break every bone in your body!"

The fellow began to squeal like a stuck pig.

"Give over, lording, and I will tell you everything. Dear saints, that I will! And not one lie off the tip of my tongue!"

"Very well, my friend. Yesterday that girdle belonged to a great lady. Let us hear how you came by it, and what has befallen her."

With that great brown hand gripping his wrist, the fellow appeared to be in an incoherent hurry to tell Jasper all that he knew. He cowered under the shoulder of the young man's horse, glancing at the dropped knife that he dared not touch, and so told his story. Jasper had no doubt that it was Rosamund Basset whom these rogues had robbed and stripped in the forest.

"Heaven 'a' me," he thought to himself, "here is a pretty tangle! Confound the woman, she might have left the running away to me! What's to be done? I can't leave her to these kites."

He sat his horse in silence, holding the man's wrist and staring at the horizon. Presently a curious slow smile began to spread across his face. His blue eyes hardened, and a gleam of audacity came into them that made the brown face look grim yet comely. The humour of the thing had found its way to Jasper's heart.

"Look you here, dog," said he, "you shall lead me to this lady."

"It shall be done, lording."

"Hold up; you may leave your knife there on the ground. Give me that bag of yours. And if you play me any tricks, my friend, you will never play another!"

So they set out, these two—Jasper with his drawn sword over his shoulder, the footpad walking two paces ahead of him, yet tied like a dog to his master by fear of that master's wrath. For Jasper Botterel in the saddle, with a sword in his hand, was not the Jasper Botterel who blundered in serving at the table of a king. The lad was a lad of the woods and moors; and the man who seems a fool under the eyes of insolent girls may be keen and grim enough when there is something to be accomplished.

The thief in the grey cloak led Jasper that day towards one of the most rogue-haunted corners in all the southern shires. Towards Alton the great road from Winchester to London plunged through the wooded defiles on the borders of two counties. Here would gather half the cut- throats in the kingdom—broken men who were ready to break the heads of all who passed along the road. The wilds about Alton were notorious. No sheriff had ever yet purged them clean of thieves and footpads. And so bold and sturdy were these gentry of the woods, that when the great fair of St. Giles was held at Winchester, five hundred armed men were mounted and sent out to keep the road open for merchandise to pass.

Jasper had heard of Alton, and as the dusk drew on, he kept a hold on his guide's grey cloak.

"Play me false, and there shall be an end of you," he said. "How much further before you show me the lady?"

"Hardly an arrow's flight, lording. But you will have to fight for her; I promise you that."

"That is my concern," said Jasper, staring into the dusk.

Presently the thief turned aside from the road, and followed a path that plunged into the woods. It began to be very dark, and Jasper kept a firm hold on the fellow, and was on his guard against any trick. Through the gloomy tangle of the woods he saw a faint light shining, and Jasper guessed it to be the light of a fire.

Jasper drew in and considered the matter, holding the footpad by the cloak. He knew that the fellow would betray him at the first chance, but there was one rough way of silencing a dog, and Jasper chose it, since no other offered. He brought the pommel of his sword down on the man's pate—not hard enough to crack it, but sufficiently hard to keep him quiet for half an hour. Then he rode on softly towards the fire, dismounted, and tied his horse to a tree.

When Jasper came crawling up on his belly, he saw three men and two women sitting within the circle of light cast by the fire. One of the women sat a little apart, and Jasper could see that her wrists were tied to her ankles. And a transfigured Rosamund was this, wrapped in a dirty smock that covered hardly her bosom, her bare feet blistered and scratched, her black hair hanging about her face. She looked so forlorn and chastened that Jasper felt sorry for the girl, though he guessed that it was good for pride to go in rags for a day.

The three men and the other woman were bending over something that they had unwrapped from a cloth, when Jasper sprang on them out of the shadows. The men tumbled aside, cursing and groping for their arms. The woman pulled a brand from the fire, and hurled it at Jasper's head. But Jasper caught the burning wood on his shield, and cut down the first man who came up against him.

The woman tried to trip him by throwing herself under his feet, but Jasper was not to be fooled. He sprang over her at the second man—sent him staggering with a thrust of the shield, and cut his legs from under him before he could recover. The third man did not wait for Jasper's sword, but took to his heels and ran, followed by the woman who had flung the burning brand at Jasper's head.

Rosamund Basset, her mouth a black oval in a white face, waited for what should follow. Jasper had no badge upon his surcoat, and no arms upon his shield, and his helmet hid his face. He bent over Rosamund, cut with his sword the thongs that bound her, and, picking her up in his arms, walked off into the woods.

"Have no fear," said he; "it is all for the best."

When he came to his horse, he lifted her on to the, beast's back, mounted behind her, and made for the road. The moon was coming up above the trees, huge and tawny, and Jasper saw the road like a white ribbon before him. As for Rosamund, she clung to him and said nothing.

Jasper pricked up his horse to a canter, thinking many thoughts under that helmet of his. For a moment he was half tempted to laugh over the shrewd suggestiveness of the adventure, but they were not out of the Alton woods as yet, and the girl's frightened face sobered him.

"Courage!" said he, deepening his voice so as to deceive her. "We must get away from this wasps' nest."

Rosamund shivered as though with cold. She held to Jasper with both her hands, her hair blowing over his shoulder.

"Sir," she said quite humbly, "out of my heart I thank you for this."

"You can thank me presently," he answered, "when we have put seven miles between us and these woods."

Jasper drew in his tired horse at last, and got down out of the saddle to ease the beast, leaving Rosamund up above. There was not a light to be seen, and Jasper remembered the many miles that his horse had covered, and the warmth of the moonlight night. Rosamund had come near falling asleep in his arms, and, with the moonlight on her tired face, it had seemed to Jasper that she looked far less shrewish.

"Madame," he asked her, "where would you have me take you?"

She glanced at him trustingly.

"To Winchester."

"We shall not reach Winchester to-night," he said, "and I must rest my horse. There are no lights to be seen. I can shelter you in some wood."

Rosamund shivered.

"The woods are so dark and terrible, and these wretches frightened me so brutally in the forest."

"There is the moon," he answered, "and I shall watch."

"Ah," she exclaimed, "how much I owe you! But for your strength and hardihood——"

"Say nothing of that," he said. "If you will rest here, I will keep you from all peril."

They came to a beech wood by the road, and Jasper tied his horse to a tree, gathered dry leaves together, spread his surcoat upon them, and so made her a bed. Then he brought out bread and wine from his wallet, and bade her eat and drink.

"You, too, must be hungry?" she asked him.

"That is a sensible question," he retorted.

"Ah, then, I have something more to ask you."

"Well?" said he, breaking a crust of bread.

"Tell me the name of the man who has saved me from something worse than death."

Jasper sat amid the dead beech leaves and stared at the moon. His face was still hidden from Rosamund by his helmet.

"To-morrow I will tell it you," he said. "Go to sleep now and have no fear."

Rosamund laid herself down, wrapping the surcoat round her, and Jasper wandered off into the moonlight to see if he could find a stream or a pool where he could water his horse. He found a spring not very far away, and led his horse down to it to drink. When he returned to the beech wood, he heard the girl's voice calling him.

"Where are you—where are you?"

"Truly," thought Jasper, "how things have changed with her!"

He tethered his horse where the beast could crop some grass, and went back to Rosamund.

"Did you call?" he asked.

"Oh, I was afraid you had left me!"

"I had gone to water my horse."

She was sitting up and shivering, her eyes looking large and restless.

"I am so greatly afraid," she said. "I never used to be afraid, but these rough people seem to have frightened the heart out of me. Being alone makes me shiver. You do not know how I envy you being so strong and brave."

Jasper smiled in the darkness.

"I will sit near you all night and watch," he said.

"Then I shall have no fear. My heart is very grateful."

So Rosamund Basset fell asleep; and the moonlight found its way between the beech trees and touched her face, making it look soft, white, and even desirable. Jasper sat there, thinking his own thoughts, and smiling over the whimsical contradictoriness of it all, in that they had run away from each other only to fall into such a gallant adventure.

"Madame Rosamund," he said to himself, "you look a fine lady lying there asleep. Who would have thought this morning that I should carry you in my arms? And, by my soul, it was not unpleasant! What will you say, good wench, when I let you see my face?"

When Rosamund Basset woke, the dawn was up, and all the world aglitter with sunlight and with dew. The beech leaves shivered above her head, and white clouds moved across the sky. She started up, looking about her as though frightened, and then smiled when she saw Jasper wiping the dust and dew from his harness. He turned his head and glanced at her, and Rosamund wondered why he still wore that helmet.

Suddenly her eyes fell upon the rags that covered her, and she went red from bosom to forehead. Were there ever such rags and such a tangle of hair? Her bare feet, too, were covered with dust and blood, and the shame of her body made her humble.

"Dear Heaven," said she, drawing the ragged smock up over her bosom, "I am not fit for the daylight!"

"There is my surcoat," he said; "it will serve to cover that smock."

He looked away while she slipped into the surcoat.

"If you could bring me some water?"

Jasper filled a stone bottle at the spring. He came and knelt down by Rosamund and washed her feet, binding them up with some linen that he had in his wallet, and doing it very cleverly, as one used to imping the wing of a hawk. Rosamund's eyes dilated and filled with a curious soft light. She watched the great brown hands, and for a moment they seemed familiar.

"How very gentle you are!" she said.

"And yet you called me a fool," he answered.

"I? Never! You, who fought three men!"

"They were poor stuff. Nevertheless, you called me a fool."

Her eyes dilated.

"Let me see your face," she said.

And Jasper uncovered his head to her.

At the sight of his face, Rosamund went as red as the heart of a pomegranate. The coy tenderness went out of her eyes, the red mouth hardened, the black brows approached one another.

"Sir," said she, "what trick have you been playing me?"

"No trick at all," he answered her. "I was running away to the wars for fear of having to marry you. As for the king and his people, they had turned my man's blood into milk."

Rosamund stared at him, and then burst out laughing.

"To think that—you—ran away!"

"It was honest sense," he retorted. "You thought me a fool, and I saw that you were a shrew. Only Heaven's chance put me upon this adventure. A thief came to a goldsmith's in Winchester to sell your girdle. I happened to set eyes on that girdle. I thought I would follow that thief a little way before I went to the wars."

Rosamund was silent a moment, looking at him with intent and questioning eyes.

"You took my rescue upon you," she said.

"Jasper, the double fool!"

"Forget that word for a moment. Heaven help me, what a fright I have had! And but for you——"

Jasper cut short her reflections by getting up to untether his horse.

"There is nothing for me to boast about," he said; "it was just an adventure that a man meets with on the road. You are for Winchester, are you not?"

"Winchester," she echoed, eyeing him with critical interest.

"When you are safe in Winchester, we can laugh and go our ways. You will be rid of the fool, and I of the shrew!"

It was noon before they came to a hill that overlooked the city. Jasper had walked beside his horse, and had told her of his plans for the Gascon wars, talking gravely of the sea passage, and of the honour a man might gain by serving under Earl Simon. Rosamund had looked down under her lashes at Jasper, and wondered at the change that had come over him since yesterday. Her woman's heart felt vague stirrings of penitence and regret, and the quiet, smiling light in his eyes troubled her.

"So you will go to the wars?" she said at last, piqued in spite of herself by the young man's composure.

He looked up at her with a gleam of the eyes.

"Am I not saving a shrew from marrying a fool?"

"Jasper!"

"Well,madame?"

"Do you think I look so ill-tempered? I am not such a shrew, really."

"Ah," said he, "perhaps, too, I am not such a fool! But let us forget that. And now that I am come to look at you, I am almost ready to be scolded."

Rosamund was silent a while, with her eyes turned towards Winchester. She was thinking of Réné, the Frenchman, with his peaked beard and nimble ways, and, somehow, this Réné appeared to her suddenly as a pitiable fop.

"They do not make men at the king's court," she said.

"You are very generous," he answered.

"Am I? Well, Jasper, you can run away from me now as soon as you please."

Jasper's brown face showed that he was thinking.

"Supposing that I do not choose to run away?" he asked.

"Well—oh, well!" she answered vaguely.

He looked up at her, and in his eyes there was something of mastery. A brown hand was stretched out to touch her fingers, and Rosamund suffered it.

"May I be called a fool if I run away," he said. "As for Roger de Quintet, my uncle—if you ask me, I will pull his beard!"

Copyright 1910, by Little, Brown Co.in the United States of America.