第19章 THE WIFE OF FLANDERS(5)

"Nay I have not forgotten Cluny.Its Abbot shall have the gold flagons from Jerusalem and some wherewithal in money.But what is this talk? Philip will not die, and like his mother he loves Holy Church and will befriend her in all her works....Listen, father, it is long past the hour when men cease from labour, and yet my provident folk are busy.Hark to the bustle below.

That will be the convoy from the Vermandois.Jesu, what a night!".....................

Flurries of snow beat on windows, and draughts stirred the hot ashes in the braziers and sent the smoke from them in odd spirals about the chamber.It had become perishing cold, and the monkey among the bedclothes whimpered and snuggled closer into his nest.There seemed to be a great stir about the house-door.Loud voices were heard in gusts, and a sound like a woman's cry.The head on the pillow was raised to listen.

"A murrain on those folk.There has been bungling among the pack-riders.

That new man Derek is an oaf of oafs."

She rang her silver bell sharply and waited on the ready footsteps.But none came.There was silence now below, an ominous silence.

"God's curse upon this household," the woman cried.The monkey whimpered again, and she took it by the scruff and tossed it to the floor."Peace, ape, or I will have you strangled.Bestir yourself, father, and call Anton.

There is a blight of deafness in this place."The room had suddenly lost its comfort and become cold and desolate.The lamps were burning low and the coloured hangings were in deep shadow.The storm was knocking fiercely at the lattice.

The monk rose with a shiver to do her bidding, but he was forestalled.

Steps sounded on the stairs and the steward entered.The woman in the bed had opened her mouth to upbraid, when something in his dim figure struck her silent.

The old man stumbled forward and fell on his knees beside her.

"Madam, dear madam," he stammered, "ill news has come to this house....

There is a post in from Avesnes....The young master...""Philip," and the woman's voice rose to a scream."What of my son?""The lord has taken away what He gave.He is dead, slain in a scuffle with highway robbers....Oh, the noble young lord! The fair young knight! Woe upon this stricken house!"The woman lay very still, white the old man on his knees drifted into broken prayers.Then he observed her silence, scrambled to his feet in a panic, and lit two candles from the nearest brazier.She lay back on the pillows in a deathly faintness, her face drained of blood.Only her tortured eyes showed that life was still in her.

Her voice came at last, no louder than a whisper.It was soft now, but more terrible than the old harshness.

"I follow Philip," it said."Sic transit gloria....Call me Arnulf the goldsmith and Robert the scrivener....Quick, man, quick.I have much to do ere I die."As the steward hurried out, the Cluniac, remembering his office, sought to offer comfort, but in his bland worldling's voice the consolations sounded hollow.She lay motionless, while he quoted the Scriptures.Encouraged by her docility, he spoke of the certain reward promised by Heaven to the rich who remembered the Church at their death.He touched upon the high duties of his Order and the handicap of its poverty.He bade her remember her debt to the Abbot of Cluny.

She seemed about to speak and he bent eagerly to catch her words.

"Peace, you babbler," she said."I am done with your God.When I meet Him Iwill outface Him.He has broken His compact and betrayed me.My riches go to the Burgrave for the comfort of this city where they were won.Let your broken rush of a Church wither and rot!"Scared out of all composure by this blasphemy, the Cluniac fell to crossing himself and mumbling invocations.The diplomat had vanished and only the frightened monk remained.He would fain have left the room had he dared, but the spell of her masterful spirit held him.After that she spoke nothing....

.....................

Again there was a noise on the stairs and she moved a little, as if mustering her failing strength for the ultimate business.But it was not Arnulf the gold smith.It was Anton, and he shook like a man on his way to the gallows.

"Madam, dear madam," he stammered, again on his knees."There is another message.One has come from the Bredestreet with word of your lady daughter.

An hour ago she has borne a child...A lusty son, madam."The reply from the bed was laughter.

It began low and hoarse like a fit of coughing, and rose to the high cackling mirth of extreme age.At the sound both Anton and the monk took to praying.Presently it stopped, and her voice came full and strong as it had been of old.

"Mea culpa," it said, "mea maxima culpa.I judged the Sire God over hastily.He is merry and has wrought a jest on me.He has kept His celestial promise in His own fashion.He takes my brave Philip and gives me instead a suckling....So be it.The infant has my blood, and the race of Forester John will not die.Arnulf will have an easy task.

He need but set the name of this new-born in Philip's place.What manner of child is he, Anton? Lusty, you say, and well-formed? I would my arms could have held him....But I must be about my business of dying.I will take the news to Philip."Hope had risen again in the Cluniac's breast.It seemed that here was a penitent.He approached the bed with a raised crucifix, and stumbled over the whimpering monkey.The woman's eyes saw him and a last flicker woke in them.

"Begone, man," she cried."I have done with the world.Anton, rid me of both these apes.And fetch the priest of St.Martin's, for I would confess and be shriven.Yon curate is no doubt a fool, but he serves my jesting God."