The White Ladies of Worcester Part 57

The Bishop pa.s.sed along the gallery, after the messenger had left the library, mounted to the banqueting hall and watched him ride away, from that cas.e.m.e.nt, overlooking the courtyard, from which Hugh had looked down upon the arrival of Roger de Berchelai, bringing the letter from Rome.

A great relief filled the mind of the Bishop as he heard the clattering hoofs of the fastest nag in his stables, ring on the paving stones without, and die away in the distance.

A serious danger would be averted, if the Knight were warned in time.

The Bishop prayed that his letter might reach Hugh's hands before Mora was moved to speak to him of Mary Antony's vision.

He blamed himself bitterly for not having sooner recalled that conversation on the lawn. How easy it would have been, after hearing Mora's story in the arbour, to have given Hugh a word of caution before leaving Warwick.

Just after sunset, one of the Bishop's men, who had remained behind at Warwick, reached the Palace, bringing news that the Knight, his Lady, and their entire retinue, had ridden out from Warwick in the afternoon of the previous day.

The Bishop chafed at the delay this must involve, yet rejoiced at the prompt beginning of the homeward journey, having secretly feared lest Hugh should find some difficulty in persuading his bride to set forth with him.

After all, they were but two days ahead of the messenger who, by fast riding, might overtake them on the morrow. Mistress Deborah, even on a pillion, should prove a substantial impediment to rapid progress.

But, alas, before noon on the day following, Brother Philip appeared in haste, with an anxious countenance.

The messenger had returned, footsore and exhausted, bruised and wounded, with scarce a rag to his back.

In the forest, while still ten miles from Warwick, overtaken by the darkness, he had met a band of robbers, who had taken his horse and all he possessed, leaving him for dead, in a ditch by the wayside. Being but stunned and badly bruised, when he came to himself he thought it best to make his way back to Worcester and there report his misadventure.

The Bishop listened to this luckless tale in silence.

When it was finished he said, gently: "My good Philip, thou art proved right, and I, wrong. Had I been guided by thee, I should not have lost a good horse, nor--which is of greater importance at this juncture--twenty-four hours of most precious time."

Brother Philip made a profound obeisance, looking deeply ashamed of his own superior foresight and wisdom, and miserably wishful that the Reverend Father had been right, and he, wrong.

"However," continued the Bishop, after a moment of rapid thought, "I must forgo the melancholy luxury of meditating upon my folly, until after we have taken prompt measures, so far as may be, to put right the mischief it has wrought.

"This time, my good Philip, you shall be the bearer of my letter. Take with you, as escort, two of our men--more, if you think needful. Ride straight from here, by the most direct route to Castle Norelle, the home of the n.o.ble Countess, lately wedded to Sir Hugh. I will make you a plan of the road.

"If, when you reach the place, Sir Hugh and his bride have arrived, ask to have speech with the Knight alone, and put the letter into his own hands. But if they are yet on the way, ride to meet them, by a road I will clearly indicate. Only be careful to keep out of sight of all save the Knight or his body-servant, Martin Goodfellow.

"The letter delivered, and the answer in thy hands, return, to me as speedily as may be, without overpressing men or steeds. How soon canst thou set forth?"

"Within the hour, my lord," said Brother Philip, joyfully, cured of his shame by this call to immediate service; "with an escort of three, that we may ride by night as well as by day."

"Good," said the Bishop; and, as the lay-brother, bowing low, hastened from the chamber, Symon of Worcester drew toward him writing materials, and penned afresh his warning to the Knight; not at such length as in the former missive, but making very clear the need for silence concerning Mary Antony's previous knowledge of his visit to the Nunnery, lest Mora should come to doubt the genuineness of the vision which had brought her to her great decision, and which in very truth had been wholly contrived by the loving heart and nimble wits of Mary Antony.

So once again the Bishop stood at the cas.e.m.e.nt in the banqueting hall; and, looking down into the courtyard, saw faithful Philip, with an escort fully armed, ride out at the Palace gates.

No time had been lost in repairing the mistake. Yet there was heavy foreboding at the Bishop's heart, as he paced slowly down the hall.

Greatly he feared lest this twenty-four hours' delay should mean mischief wrought, which could never be undone.

Pa.s.sing into the chapel, he kneeled long before the shrine of Saint Joseph praying, with an intense fervour of pet.i.tion, that his warning might reach the Knight before any word had pa.s.sed his lips which could shake Mora's belief in that which was to her the sole justification for the important step she had taken.

The Bishop prayed and fasted; fasted, prayed, and kept vigil. And all the night through, in thought, he followed Brother Philip and his escort as they rode northward, through the forests, up the glens, and over the moors, making direct for Mora's home, to which she and Hugh were travelling by a more roundabout way.

CHAPTER XLIII

MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS

The moonlight, shining in at the open cas.e.m.e.nt, illumined, with its clear radiance, the chamber which had been, during the years of her maidenhood, Mora de Norelle's sleeping apartment.

It held many treasures of childhood. Every familiar thing within it, whispered of the love and care of those long pa.s.sed into the realm of silence and of mystery; a n.o.ble father, slain in battle; a gentle mother, unable to survive him, the call to her of the spirit of her Warrior, being more compelling than the need of the beautiful young daughter, to whom both had been devoted.

The chamber seemed to Mora full of tender and poignant memories.

How many girlish dreams had been dreamed while her healthy young body rested upon that couch, after wild gallops over the moors, or a long day's climbing among the rocky hills, searching for rare ferns and flowers to transplant into her garden.

In this room she had mourned her father, with her strong young arms wrapped around her weeping mother.

In this room she had wept for her mother, with none to comfort her, saving the faithful nurse, Deborah.

To this room she had fled in wrath, after the scene with, her half-sister, Eleanor, who had tried to despoil her of her heritage--the n.o.ble Castle and lands left to her by her father, and confirmed to her, with succession to her father's t.i.tle, by the King. These Eleanor desired for her son; but neither bribes nor cajolery, threats, nor cruel insinuations, had availed to induce Mora to give up her rightful possession--the home of her childhood.

Before the effects of this storm had pa.s.sed, Hugh d'Argent had made his first appearance upon the scene, riding into the courtyard as a King's messenger, but also making himself known to the young Countess as a near neighbour, heir to a castle and lands, not far distant, among the c.u.mberland hills.

With both it had been love at first sight. His short and ardent courtship had, unbeknown to him, required not so much to win her heart, as to overcome her maidenly resistance, rendered stubborn by the consciousness that her heart had already ranged itself on the side of her lover.

When at last, vanquished by his eager determination, she had yielded and become betrothed to him, it had seemed to her that life could hold no sweeter joy.

But he, hard to content, ever headstrong and eager, already having taken the cross, and being now called at once to join the King in Palestine, begged for immediate marriage that he might take her with him to the Court of the new Queen, to which his cousin Alfrida had already been summoned; or, if he must leave her behind, at least leave her, not affianced maid, but wedded wife.

Here Eleanor and her husband had interposed; and, a.s.suming the position of natural guardians, had refused to allow the marriage to take place.

This necessitated the consent of the King, which could not be obtained, he being in the Holy Land; and Hugh had no wish to make application to the Queen-mother, then acting regent during the absence of the King; or to allow his betrothed to be brought again into a.s.sociation with the Court at Windsor.

Mora--secretly glad to keep yet a little longer the sweet bliss of betrothal, with its promise of unknown yet deeper joys to come--resisted Hugh's attempts to induce her to defy Eleanor, flout her wrongful claim to authority, and wed him without obtaining the Royal sanction. Steeped in the bliss of having taken one step into an unimagined state of happiness, she felt no necessity or inclination hurriedly to take another.

Yet when, upheld by the ecstasy of those final moments together, she had let him go, as she watched him ride away, a strange foreboding of coming ill had seized her, and a restless yearning, which she could not understand, yet which she knew would never be stilled until she could clasp his head again to her breast, feel his crisp hair in her fingers, and know him safe, and her own.

This chamber then had witnessed long hours of prayer and vigil, as she knelt at the shrine in the nook between the cas.e.m.e.nts, beseeching our Lady and Saint Joseph for the safe return of her lover.

Then came the news of Hugh's supposed perfidy; and from this chamber she had gone forth to hide her broken heart in the sacred refuge of the Cloister; to offer to G.o.d and the service of Holy Church, the life which had been robbed of all natural joys by the faithlessness of a man.

And this had happened eight years ago, as men count time. But as nuns count it? And lovers? A lifetime? A night?

It had seemed indeed a lifetime to the Prioress of the White Ladies, during the first days of her return to the world. But to the woman who now kneeled at the cas.e.m.e.nt, drinking in the balmy sweetness of the summer night, looking with soft yearning eyes at the well-remembered landscape flooded in silvery moonlight, it seemed--a night.

A night--since she stood on the battlements, her lover's arms about her.

A night--since she said: "Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh. . . . My love will ever be around thee as a silver shield."