II
WHEN Gorlois and his knights had gone, Igraine unbarred the door, and passed down the narrow stair to the state chamber of the house, where a fire was burning. It was a solemn room, shadowed with many arches, with vaults inlaid with marble, its walls painted green and gold, its glimmering casements lozenged with fine glass. Furs were spread upon the mosaic floor; painted urns held flowers that bloomed in the mock summer of the room.
Igraine stood and warmed herself before the fire. From an altar-like pillar near she took storax and galbanum from brazen bowls, and scattered the resinous tears upon the flames. A pungent fragrance rose up into her nostrils. The flicker of the fire played upon her face, and set a lustre in her eyes. It was winter weather, and the warmth was welcome.
The refrain of her talk with Gorlois still ran at fever heat like a wild song through her brain. She was stirred to the deeps of her strong soul. For Gorlois she had no measure of pity. He was a rotten tree to her, a slab of granite, anything but quick flesh and blood capable of aspiration and desire. She hated him more for his pleading than for his tyranny, fearing to be pleased by one she dreaded. He was strenuous and obstinate. She knew that it would be great joy to her if she saw his face no more, and if his body crumbled in the rain on some bleak coast in Wales.
As she stood by the fire and looked into it with pondering eyes she heard a curtain drawn and the sound of a footstep on the threshold. Turning briskly, like one accustomed to suspicions, she saw the man Brastias in the doorway looking at her half-furtively, as though none too proud of the office thrust upon him. He had great grey eyes and a calm face. Bending stiffly to Igraine with his hand over his heart, he turned aside to a cabinet by the wall, took therefrom an illumined scroll of legendary tales, and sat down on a bench to read, as though he had no other business in the room.
Igraine's long lip curled. She knew the meaning of the man's presence there shrewdly enough. Going to a window she opened the casement frame and looked out on the winter scene. Usk winding silver to the sea, the purple roll of the bleak bare woods, the far sea itself dying a sullen streak into a sullen sky. It was dreary enough, and yet it suited her; she could have welcomed thunder and the rend of forked fire above the woods. Thought was fierce in her with the wind crying about the house like a wistful voice, the voice of days long dead.
To be free of Gorlois!
To cast off her present self like a rotten cloak!
To adventure liberty, though the peril were shrill as the wind through the swaying pines on the hillside!
To deal with Brastias!
Now Brastias was a grave-faced knight, neither young nor old, but a very boy in the matter of the mock wisdom of the world. He was possessed of one of those generous natures that looks kindly on humanity with a simple optimism born of a contented conscience. He was a devout man, a soldier, and a gentleman. Moreover, he owned a holy reverence for women, a reverence that led him into a somewhat extravagant belief in the sincerity of their truth and virtue. He was blessed too in being nothing of a cynic in his conceptions of honour.
Gorlois knew the man to the heart, and trusted him, a fact well proven by the faith imposed upon him in his wardenship of the Lady Igraine. Brastias hated the task as much as he hated the telling of a lie. There are some men whose whole instinct is towards truth. They are golden souls, often too easily deceived with a gross dross that makes an outward show of kindred colour.
Brastias was no stranger to Igraine, for he had served her as one of the knights of the guard in the great castle of Tintagel. He was a man who could look into a woman's eyes and make her feel instinctively the clear honour of his soul. There was nothing of the flesh about Brastias. And it was in this chivalrous faith of his that Igraine discovered a credulity that might make him prone to believe a certain profession of faith that was taking sudden and subtle form within her mind. Months ago, she would have hesitated before the man's grey eyes. But feeling herself sinned against, and stirred by the shame of the past, she found ample justification for herself in the lie Gorlois had practised for her undoing.
She left the window, and went and stood by the fire, with her back to the man.
"Brastias," she said, quite softly.
The man looked up from the scroll, and seemed ill at ease.
"I trust your duty is pleasant to you?"
Brastias's eyelids flickered nervously, and he cleared his throat.
"May the Virgin witness," he said, "I have no love of the task."
"My Lord Gorlois trusts you?"
"He has said so, madame."
"And am I not his wife?"
Brastias put the scroll aside with a constrained deliberation. He felt himself wholly in the wrong, as he always did before a woman, and his wit ran clumsily on such occasions. It had needed but the observation of a child to mark the gulf between Gorlois and his wife. Gorlois had spoken few words on the matter, had given commands and nothing more. Brastias was not the man to tamper officiously with the confidences of others. He thought much, said little, and bided quiet for Igraine to speak.
She stood half-turned towards the fire, with her face in profile, and her hands hanging limply at her side. Looking for all the world like a penitent, she spoke with a certain unconscious pathos, as though she touched on a matter that was heavy upon her heart.
"Brastias, I may call you a friend?"
"I trust so, madame."
"Then there is no reason for me to be backward in speaking of the truth?"
The man bowed and said nothing.
"Come then, Brastias, tell me honestly, have I seemed to you like a woman who loved her husband?"
The girl's blue eyes were staring hard into the man's grey ones. There was little chance of prevarication before so blunt a question, and Brastias's courtesy, like Balaam's ass, refused to deny the scrutiny of truth. Igraine could read the man's face like a piece of blazened parchment.
"Never fear to be frank," she said; "your belief hangs on your face like an alphabet, and that shows me how much you know of a woman's heart."
"Pardon me, madame."
"Never blush, man, you would have said that I had as little love for Gorlois as for the dirtiest beggar in Caerleon?"
Brastias frowned mildly and agreed with her, remembering as he did a certain wild scene on the battlements of Tintagel.
"And doubtless you would say that it pained me not a whit to see Gorlois my lord ride out from Caerleon into the wilds of Wales?"
There was such reproach in her voice that Brastias fell into confusion before her eyes, reddened, and began to excuse himself.
"Your ladyship's behaviour," he said, with an ingenuous look and an intense striving after propitiation,--"your ladyship's behaviour would hardly warrant me in believing that my Lord Gorlois was vastly dear to you. And, pardon me, a woman does not seek to run away from her husband."
"You insinuate--"
Brastias felt himself in the mire, and groaned in spirit.
"Madame, I would say--"
"Yes, Yes, I understand you."
"Give me leave--"
"Not another word."
Igraine smiled softly to herself, turned her back on Brastias and stared long into the fire. The man stood by, watching her with a humbled look, his fingers twisting restlessly at the broidery of his black tunic. Igraine traced out the mosaic patterns on the floor with the point of her shoe.
"I think you men are all fools," she said.
Brastias's silence might have suggested contradiction.
"Have you ever loved a woman?"
The man shifted, and went red under his straight fair hair. His eyes took a dreamy look.
"Yes," he said, as though half-ashamed.
Igraine hung her head and sighed.
"Perhaps," she said, growing suddenly shy and out of countenance, "perhaps you may have learnt the lesson of the froward heart, the heart that comes by love when it is in peril of great loss."
Brastias drew a quick, deep breath.
"By the Virgin, that's true," he said.
Igraine turned to the fire and hid her face from the man. There was a pathetic droop about her shoulders, a listless curving of her neck, that made Brastias picture her as burdened with some immoderate sorrow. He was an impressionable man, not in any amorous sense, but in the matter of sympathy towards his fellows. He thought he heard a catch in the girl's breathing that boded tears. Her hair looked very soft and lustrous as it curved over her ears and neck.
"Madame Igraine."
No answer. Brastias went a step nearer.
"Listen to me."
A slight turning of the head in response.
"What ails you, madame?
"Never trouble."
"I beseech you, tell me."
The man was quite afire; his face looked bright and eager, and his eyes shone.
"Gorlois has gone to the war."
The words were jerked out one by one.
"Madame! "
"War--and death."
"Courage, madame, courage. On my soul, you are not going to say--"
"Brastias, you understand."
"Then? "
"Man, man, don't drag it out of me; don't you see? are you blind?"
Brastias invoked a certain saint by the name of Christopher, and straightway emphasised his words by failing down on his knees beside Igraine. She had contrived to conjure up tears as she bent over the fire. Brastias found one of her hands and held it.
"This will be my lord's salvation."
"Think you so?"
"On my soul, my dear lady., I thank our Lord Jesu from my heart. For I know my Lord Gorlois, and the bitterness that weighed him down, though he spoke little to me of this matter, being staunch to you, and to his courtesy. And by our Lord's Passion, madame, I love peace in a house, and quiet looks, and words like laughing water, for there is never a home where temper rules."
"Brastias, you shame me."
"God forbid, dear lady, there's no gospel vanity in my heart. I speak but out."
The man's quaint outburst of gladness touched Igraine's honesty to the core, but she had no thought of recantation, for all the pricking of her conscience. She passed back to the open window and leant against the mullion, while Brastias rose from his knees and followed her.
"I am faint," she said, " and the fresh wind comforts me."
"Courage, madame; Duke Gorlois fights for Britain and the Cross; what better blessing on his shield?"
Igraine was looking out toward the sea and the grey curtain of the sky cut in places by dark woods and the sweep of dull green hills. There was a wistful droop about her figure that made Brastias molten with intent to comfort, and dumb with words of sympathy that died inarticulate in his throat. He stood there, a man muzzled by his own sincerity, bankrupt of a syllable, though he commanded his wit to be nimble with stentorian cry of conscience. He felt hot in his skin and vastly stupid. By the time he had lumbered up some passable fancy, Igraine had turned from the window with a quick intelligence kindling in her eyes.
"Brastias."
"Madame."
"Listen to me, I have come by a plan."
A sudden flood of sunlight streamed through a rent in the grey canopy of clouds. The landscape took a warmer tinge, the purple of the woods deepened. Brastias saw the sudden gleam of light strike on Igraine's hair. Her head was thrown back upon her splendid neck, and her eyes seemed large with love.
"I will show Gorlois how I love him," she said.
Brastias's face was still hazed in conjecture.
"I will wipe out the past."
"Ah!"
"We will follow Gorlois to the war, you and I, Brastias, together. What say you to that?"
The man looked at her with clear grey eyes, and with a transient immobility of feature that changed swiftly to a glow of understanding. The words had gone home to him like a trumpet-cry; their courage warmed him, and he was carried with the wind.
"A great hazard--and a noble," he said, with a flush of colour; "the peril is on my neck, and yet--I'll bear it."
Igraine's face blazed.
"Brastias, you will go with me?"
"By my sword, to the death."
"Come hither man; I must kiss your forehead."
Brastias knelt to her again with crossed hands. She looked into his grey eyes and touched his forehead with her lips.
"Thus I salute honour," she said.
"My lord's lady!"
"You have trusted me."
"Else had I been ashamed."
The man went away to arm, warm at heart as any boy. Igraine stood a moment looking into the fire with an enigmatic calm upon her face. For Brastias she felt a throttled pity, an impossible admiration that only troubled her. Her lust for liberty bore her like a storm-wind, and her hate of Gorlois made her iron at heart. She could dare anything to fling off the moral bondage that cramped and bound her like a net.
While Brastias was away arming and ordering horses, she went to a little armoury on the stairs and filched away a short hauberk and a sheathed poniard. She wore these under a gown of black velvet bound with a silver girdle, and a cloak of sables hooded and lined with sky-blue cloth. She had a strange joy of the knife at her girdle as she passed down the stairway to the court.
A few silent servants gaped at her as she passed from the house. Brastias came out to her in armour. In the court she heard the cry of steel bridles, the sparking of hoofs on the stones. They were soon mounted and away under the great gate and free of Caerleon in the decline of the day. The west had no colour, and a wind pined in the trees as they swept into the twining shadows of the woods, and saw the boughs clutch each other against the sullen sky. Soon night came in a black cowl, and with a winter wind that roamed the woods like the moan of a prophecy. Igraine, riding with her bridle linked in that of Brastias, pressed on for the west with a mood that echoed the roar of the trees.