The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (free books to read .txt) 📕

All This Points To Some Public Excitement. The Town Gate Was Opened Full

Early, The Booths About It Did A Great Trade; At A Quarter Before Seven

Sir Gilles De Gurdun Rode In, With His Father On His Right Hand, The

Prior Of Rouen On His Left, And Half A Dozen Of His Kindred, Fair And

Solid Men All. They Were Lightly Armed, Clothed In Soft Leather, Without

Shields Or Any Heavy War-Furniture: Old Gurdun A Squarely Built,

Red-Faced Man Like His Son, But With A Bush Of White Hair All About His

Face, And Eyebrows Like Curved Snowdrifts; The Prior (Old Gurdun's

Brother's Son) With A Big Nose, Long And Pendulous; Gilles' Brother

Bartholomew, And Others Whom It Would Be Tedious To Mention. Gilles

Himself Looked Well Knit For The Business In Hand; All The Old Women

Agreed That He Would Make A Masterful Husband. They Stabled Their Horses

In The Inn-Yard, And Went Into The Church Porch To Await The Bride's

Party.

A Trumpet At The Gate Announced Her Coming. She Rode On A Little Ambling

Horse Beside Her Brother Saint-Pol. With Them Were The Portentous Old

Lady, Dame Gudule, William Des Barres, A Very Fine French Knight,

Nicholas D'eu, And A Young Boy Called Eloy De Mont-Luc, A Cousin Of

Jehane's, To Bear Her Train. The Gossips At The Gate Called Her A Wooden

Bride; Others Said She Was Like A Doll, A Big Doll; And Others That They

Read In Her Eyes The Scorn Of Death. She Took No Notice Of Anything Or

Anybody, But Looked Straight Before Her And Followed Where She Was Led.

This Was Straightway Into The Church By Her Brother, Who Had Her By The

Hand And Seemed In A Great Hurry. The Marriage Was To Be Made In The

Lady Chapel, Behind The High Altar.

Twenty Minutes Later Yet, Or Maybe A Little Less, There Was Another

Surging To The Gate About The Arrival Of Four Knights, Who Came Posting

In, Spattered With Mud And The Sweat And Lather Of Their Horses. They

Were Quite Unknown To The People Of Gisors, But Seen For Great Men, As

Indeed They Were. Richard Of Anjou Was The First Of Them, A Young Man Of

Inches Incredible To Gisors. 'He Had A Face Like King Arthur's Of

Britain,' Says One: 'A Red Face, A Tawny Beard, Eyes Like Stones.'

Behind Him Were Three Abreast: Roussillon, A Grim, Dark, Heavy-Eyed

Man, Bearded Like A Turk; Béziers, Sanguine And Loose-Limbed, A Man With

A Sharp Tongue; Gaston Of Béarn, Airy Hunter Of Fine Phrases, Looking

Now Like The Prince Of A Fairy-Tale, With Roving Eyes All A-Scare For

Adventure. The Warders Of The Gate Received Them With A Flourish. They

Knew Nothing Of Them, But Were Certain Of Their Degree.

By Preconcerted Action They Separated There. Roussillon And Béziers Sat

Like Statues Within The Gate, One On Each Side Of The Way, Actually Upon

The Bridge; And So Remained, The Admired Of All The Booths. Gaston, Like

A Yeoman-Pricker In This Hunting Of The Roe, Went With Richard To The

Edge Of The Covert, That Is, To The Steps Of Saint Sulpice, And Stood

There Holding His Master's Horse. What Remained To Be Done Was Done With

Extreme Swiftness. Richard Alone, Craning His Head Forward, Stooping A

Little, Swaying His Scabbarded Sword In His Hand, Went With Long Soft

Strides Into The Church.

At The Entry He Kneeled On One Knee, And Looked About Him From Under His

Brows. Three Or Four Masses Were Proceeding; Out Of The Semi-Darkness

Shone The Little Twinkling Lights, And Illuminated Faintly The Kneeling

People, A Priest's Vestment, A Silver Chalice. But Here Was Neither

Marriage Nor Jehane. He Got Up Presently, And Padded Down The Nave,

Kneeling To Every Altar As He Went. Many An Eye Followed Him As He

Pushed On And Past The Curtain Of The Ambulatory. They Guessed Him For

The Wedding, And So (God Knows) He Was. In The Shadow Of A Great Pillar

He Stopped Short, And Again Went Down On His Knee; From Here He Could

See The Business In Train.

He Saw Jehane At Prayer, In Green And White, Kneeling At Her Faldstool

Like A Painted Lady On An Altar Tomb; He Just Saw The Pure Curve Of Her

Cheek, The Coiled Masses Of Her Hair, Which Seemed To Burn It. All The

World With The Lords Thereof Was At His Feet, But This Treasure Which He

Had Held And Put Away Was Denied Him. By His Own Act She Was Denied. He

Had Said Yea, When Nay Had Been The Voice Of Heart And Head, Of Honour

And Love And Reason At Once; And Now (Close Up Against Her) He Knew That

He Was To Forbid His Own Grant. He Knew It, I Say; But Until He Saw Her

There He Had Not Clearly Known It. Go On, I Will Show You The Deeps Of

The Man For Good Or Bad. Not Lust Of Flesh, But Of Dominion, Ravened In

Him. This Woman, This Jehane Saint-Pol, This Hot-Haired Slip Of A Girl

Was His. The Leopard Had Laid His Paw Upon Her Shoulder, The Mark Was

Still There; He Could Not Suffer Any Other Beast Of The Forest To Touch

That Which He Had Printed With His Own Mark, For Himself.

Twi-Form Is The Leopard; Twi-Natured Was Richard Of Anjou, Dog And Cat.

Now Here Was All Cat. Not The Wolf's Lust, But The Lion's Jealous Rage

Spurred Him To The Act. He Could See This Beautiful Thing Of Flesh

Without Any Longing To Lick Or Tear; He Could Have Seen The Frail Soul

Of It, But Half-Born, Sink Back Into The Earth Out Of Sight; He Could

Have Killed Jehane Or Made Her As His Mother To Him. But He Could Not

See One Other Get That Which Was His. His By All Heaven She Was. When

Gurdun Squared Himself And Puffed His Cheeks, And Stood Up; When

Jehane, Touched By Saint-Pol On The Shoulder, Shivered And Left Staring,

And Stood Up In Turn, Swaying A Little, And Held Out Her Thin Hand; When

The Priest Had The Ring On His Book, And The Two Hands, The Red And The

White, Trembled To The Touch--Richard Rose From His Knee And Stole

Forward With His Long, Soft, Crouching Stride.

So Softly He Trod That The Priest, Old And Blear-Eyed As He Was, Saw Him

First: The Others Had Heard Nothing. With Jehane's Hand In His Own, The

Priest Stopped And Blinked. Who Was This Prowler, Afoot When All Else

Were On Their Knees? His Jaw Dropped; You Saw That He Was Toothless.

Inarticulate Sounds, Crackling And Dry, Came From His Throat. Richard

Had Stopped Too, Tense, Quivering For A Spring. The Priest Gave A

Prodigious Sniff, Turned To His Book, Looked Up Again: The Crouching Man

Was Still There--But Imminent. 'Wine Of Jesus!' Said The Priest, And

Dropped Jehane's Hand. Then She Turned. She Gave A Short Cry; The Whole

Assembly Started And Huddled Together As The Mailed Man Made His Spring.

It Was Done In A Flash. From His Crouched Attitude He Went, As It

Seemed, At One Bound. That Same Shock Drove Gilles De Gurdun Back Among

His People, And The Same Found Jehane Caged In A Hoop Of Steel. So He

Affronting And She Caught Up Stood Together, For A Moment. With One

Mailed Hand He Held Her Fast Under The Armpit, With The Other He Held A

Fidgety Sword. His Head Was Thrown Back; Through Glimmering Eyelids He

Watched Them--As One Who Says, What Next?--Breathing Short Through His

Nose. It Was The Attitude Of The Snatching Lion, Sudden, Arrogant,

Shockingly Swift; A Gross Deed, Done In A Flash Which Was Its Wonderful

Beauty. While The Company Was Panting At The Shock--For Barely A

Minute--He Stood Thus; And Jehane, Quiet Under So Fierce A Hold, Leaned

Not Upon Him, But Stood Her Own Feet Fairly, Her Calm Brows Upon A Level

With His Chin. Shameful If It Was, At That Moment Of Rude Conquest She

Had No Shame, And He No Thought Of Shame.

Nor Was There Much Time For Thought At All. Gurdun Cried On The Name Of

God And Started Forward; At The Same Instant Saint-Pol Made A Rush, And

With Him Des Barres. Richard, With Jehane Held Close, Went Backwards On

The Way He Had Come In. His Long Arm And Long Sword Kept His Distance;

He Worked Them Like A Scythe. None Tackled Him There, Though They

Followed Him Up As Dogs A Boar In The Forest; But Old Gurdun, The

Father, Ran Round The Other Way To Hold The West Door. Richard, Having

Gained The Nave And Open Country (As It Were), Went Swiftly Down It,

Carrying Jehane With Ease; He Found The Strenuous Old Man Before The

Door. 'Out Of My Way, De Gurdun,' He Cried In A High Singing Voice, 'Or

I Shall Do That Which I Shall Be Sorry For.'

'Bloody Thief,' Shouted Old Gurdun, 'Add Murder To The Rest!' Richard

Stretched His Sword Arm Stiffly And Swept Him Aside. He Tumbled Back;

The Crowd Received Him--Priests, Choristers, Peasants, Knights, All

Huddled Together, Baying Like Dogs. Count Richard Strode Down The

Steps.

'Alavi! Alavia!' Sang Gaston, 'This Is A Swift Marriage!' Richard,

Cooler Than Circumstances Warranted, Set Jehane On His Saddle, Vaulted

Up Behind Her, And As His Pursuers Were Tumbling Down The Steps,

Cantered Over The Flags Into The Street. Roussillon And Béziers, Holding

The Bridge, Saw Him Come. 'He Has Snatched His Sabine Woman,' Said

Béziers. 'Humph,' Said Roussillon; 'Now For Beastly War.' Richard Rode

Straight Between Them At A Hand-Gallop; Gaston Followed Close, Cheering

His Beast Like A Maniac. Then The Iron Pair Turned Inwards And Rode Out

Together, Taking The Way He Led Them, The Way Of The Dark Tower.

The Wonder Of Gisors Was All Dismay When It Was Learned Who This Tall

Stranger Was. The Count Of Poictou Had Ridden Into His Father's Country

And Robbed His Father's Man Of His Wife. We Are Ruled By Devils In

Normandy, Then! There Was No Immediate Pursuit. Saint-Pol Knew Where To

Find Him; But (As He Told William Des Barres) It Was Useless To Go There

Without Some Force.