Hungry Hours

IS shame is, to have stopped a very promising disputation. Dominus Ranulfus de Dubraco had held the Schools three days in debate, Utrum esuriens jocosus esse possit, whether a hungry man can see a joke, when Laurent Osbern put his head into the room and all confessed that the problem was solved. He was lean as Cassius, and black-browed. His chin was a magnet of interest. His green eyes were deep-set and too adjacent. He had also a way of looking down his nose, which was long, and thin, and nowhere high, but had point. He was Earl of Newbury in the days when every earl was fighting for the red rose or the white; and fighting made him yawn.

The wind surged with the roar of wanton strength. All down the valley, under a seething silver sky, dark trees plunged in a weird, wild dance, and the rivers gleamed like tossing chains of jewels. Laurent came delicately through the gorse of the hillside. His cap was lost and his black hair mad, but he addressed to himself a low and placid recitation. It was lachrymose Latin out of Propertius, concerning the certainty that love (which cuts to the bone) will come to every miserable man, and it affected the green eyes of Laurent with calm delight.

Then a horse shied at him. A cloud of grey and green sped by. A fierce voice cried, “Who art thou, in the fiend's garb?”

Laurent looked down at himself with modest satisfaction. His doublet and hose were all dull black, but the flowing sleeves of his surcoat made his arms come out of a bell of flame. “I am a jocose angel come to test thy virtuous affections,” said he,

“Angel, quotha! I could make a better angel with two wheat straws.”

Laurent's legs were certainly lean. He contemplated them with contempt. The lady by this time was close again, high on her great destrier—a sinuous thing in Lincoln green, with a face like cream.

Grey shrew's eyes struck at him. A wimple, no more than a foot high, designed for comfort and not for fashion, and other tokens of the practical mind about her irritated Laurent, who smiled amiably. “The making of angels is indeed women's work. That is why we find so few.”

“What part hast thou in angel or woman?”

“You suggest a man cannot do business with both? You surprise me by being right.”

“I suggest thou art the fiend's skeleton. What art doing?”

“Of a surety looking for his body. Prithee, have I found it?”

Her eyes contracted. “Hast found more than thou'lt welcome, knave.”

“That may not be. I am ready to welcome a woman. No man can find more. Few have the luck to get less.”

“What should a sapling like thee do with a woman?”

“Firstly, my daughter””—Laurent put his fingers together—“I would teach her the absurdity of her sex. Secondly, I would console her for it. Lastly, I would make her repent it; for of such is the kingdom of love.”

“What does a scarecrow know of love?”

“Thine is indeed a lonely lot,” Laurent sympathised benignly. “Yet do not despair. The world doubtless holds some man to whom you would be a new emotion.”

“Indeed,” says she, her eyes narrowing again, “I think it does. Prithee, what are now thine emotions?”

“Somnolent. Remark here the ill logic of things. Till you came, my blood was leaping with the joy of the wind, so that I had a passion to find a thing of thy nature. Thou art come, and behold me at once dully calm. Tell me, why did you come, and why was Eve made? On the soul of your mother, was it not a blunder? What wouldst give for the right to shave?”

“Not a bone of your body.”

“Oh! never blame them. It was no rib of mine went to thy making, though, for what I know, they may sigh for thee yet. They have yearned for stranger creatures. But art thou a maid content with thyself? If it be so, I'll cross myself and begone, thanking God for one miracle. Or by good fortune, a wife, that I may go rejoicing in another man's disaster. Resolve me, before I cease to want to know.”

“I am what I am”

“The woman's everlasting error, Thou art what some fool of a man can make thee. I do not wonder at your ill temper. I am of a sweet temper, and have always been sorry for you.”

“And thou wilt follow me.”

“The second error that damns. The woman which deems herself the guide of man goes straightway into the pit. Trust me, I have agility not to follow.”

She swore roundly, and plucking with passionate haste at her bosom chain, caught a gold whistle to her lips and blew a peal. Laurent was aware of half a score falconers closing upon them. “De far Jehanne!” (The oath was new and it pleased him.) “Shalt follow me now, nigaud.”

“Observe that I have not denied it. My whole heart will follow thee, while thou canst make my brain laugh. Verily I will share all that thou hast except thy sorrows.”

She laughed. “It is thine which are to amuse me,” and reined round crying: “Bring the knave in, Robin.”

A sturdy falconer ranged up and gripped Laurent's collar, who smiled at him amiably: “How the poor wench humbles herself, my friend.”

The falconer gaped indignation. Her repartee was to put her horse to the trot. Laurent's lean legs were not indisposed; he held the pace so easily that she drew rein in petulant disgust. Her grey eyes stabbed at him.

They had come in sight of the sharp, grey towers of Lambourne Castle, and the horn of the chief falconer was answered by a trumpet from the walls. Laurent looked at his Lincoln-green dame critically. “Ay, I guessed thee Red Roger's daughter.”

“The man who guessed was a fool to dare,” she laughed, and they crossed the drawbridge.

When they halted in the courtyard, Laurent went blandly to take her from the saddle, but she was down before him, and swept him aside with a swirl of her whip. “Set the knave to scour my harness, Robin,” she cried, and was gone.

The falconers and the grooms were something at a loss to deal with Laurent, who was altogether puzzling; but he gave them no trouble save his amiability, and you behold him sitting on a chest in the stables, smiling at the harness of the Lady Clotilde Malpas. He read allegories into bit and bridle, while Robin, the big falconer, gaped at him, and he was taken by a great idea. Bridle and bit, stirrup and stirrup leather, he made bright and then linked all together, and, with an engaging smile, assured Robin that the Lady Clotilde desired to see his work. Robin departed speechless, and Laurent took up his chain of leather and iron and tripped after him. On the great stone stair of the hall there was some discourse with a squire and a steward and a page and a waiting-woman, who were all very intent upon Laurent; but at last he was brought to the bower.

The Lady Clotilde was now in grey velvet of the hue of her eyes, and disposed herself at ease in a great chair hung with a mantle of peacocks' feathers. Long white fingers dallied with a string of black pearls. “This is the new fool, Ursula,” she said languidly to her woman.

To the woman Laurent bowed. “Lady, do not forsake the old for the new.” He was aware again of the threat of the grey eyes as Clotilde waved the page out, and he laughed gently. “Ay, wrath befits quaking maidenhood. See how nobly I have read thy heart.” He flung his chain of harness about her wrists and drew it pitilessly tight, and struck a conqueror's attitude before her.

She started to her feet, her bosom surging delicately, all her body a-quiver. She tore herself free. Her eyes flashed like the sea in starlight. “Thou impudent hound,” she panted. “Ho, Maurice! Maurice! Have this boy whipped on the pages' block.”

A squire came running and laid hands on Laurent truculently.

He laughed. “Good fellow, I'll not withstand thee. 'Tis wholesome for a maid to have a surfeit of her own folly.”

“Have him away,” cried Clotilde; and he heard the chain groan in her hand.

The squire hauled him away to the courtyard, and there, many hands eagerly aiding, he was drawn across the whipping- block. He yielded himself so politely that the affair lacked spice; but you will agree that it was hard for him to maintain his dignity.

“Sweet fool,” he murmured gently, “what ignominy for her.” Then the squire laid on.

The pages and yeomen lounging about the inner bailey applauded joyfully, and crowded to watch with experienced, critic eyes. A narrow window in the tower showed the cream face of Clotilde. So Laurent was held like a bent frog and castigated. His face, if any one could have seen it, betrayed a rueful smile.

The squire dealt out the flogging common to pages, and then, doubtful whether he ought to do more or to have done so much, let his hazel fall. Laurent arose, red in the face and sore elsewhere, The pages were jocose. Laurent bowed to them and placidly made his way toward the bower again. None hindered him. He was too much the enigma. Only the castigating squire followed close, in case of accident.

Clotilde saw him come and—did she care to hide that she had watched?—sped to the bower before him. Upon the threshold he bowed low. “I give thanks for a new joy.”

Her face was pale and impassive, her eyes grave. “Come hither,” she said, and set upon him a solemn, searching gaze that made his mouth twitch. They were alone within a shut door. “What wouldst thou of me?”

Laurent flung wide his arms. “Oh, thou hast given me full measure: laughter and a throbbing pulse. What more hath the noblest woman?”

“I am not she?”

“Lady,” said Laurent demurely, “a man's love-praise comes daintiest unsought.”

“Is it knightly to play at insolence?”

“Oh, I come to thee no knight but raw man. Best know him first.”

“Who art thou?”

“A man that is hungry for all life, because he must needs laugh or die.”

“What wert seeking on the down?”

“Some wild quarry like thee.”

She smiled. “And lo, the hawk is pierced on the heron's beak.”

“As I humbly conceive, it is my nose that is long,” said Laurent blandly.

Her choked laugh gurgled delectably. “Sir, on behalf of my maiden nose, I demand thy purpose.”

Laurent made a gesture of despair. “Why, then you undo me. What is my purpose, who need I know not what, and find new ventures every hour, and still am hungry? What is thy purpose with the wild strength of that lithe, live body? What”

A big fellow with a thicket of red hair and beard broke in like a storm.

“And what is the use of being third?” Laurent asked him sadly.

The man, who was leather-clad and hot and bloody-handed from the chase, replied with an oath, but an oath in which surprise was dominant: “The eyes of Newbury! Laurent Osbern, by my head!”

“A light oath that.”

The red brows knotted. “Thou false, wanton knave, what dost thou in my castle with my daughter?”

“Good sir, I wake her passions. I tingle to her emotions. In fine, I laugh at her. The which she chiefly needs.”

“By the bones of St. Michael”

“But hath an angel bones? A nice point,” Laurent suggested.

It did not allure Sir Robert Malpas, from whom inarticulate oaths exploded, and whose face made roaring discord in red with his hair and beard. When he became intelligible it was to this effect: “Shalt learn to bring thy ribaldry to Lambourne. What, Stephen! What, Hugh! Why do ye linger, ye foul knaves?” Men-at-arms came tumultuously.

“Hale him away,” Sir Roger stormed. “Down to the Little Lair with him! Away! Away!”

Laurent, dragged away, saw him turn foaming upon his daughter. “'Tis indeed time that she were taught to laugh,” he said benignly. “Well, gentlemen, with Heaven's help he may burst.” Then they were violent.

He picked himself from the floor of a dungeon and it seemed that he was encompassed by a cloud. The place was hewn out of the chalk, and walls and floor and roof were all white. It was chill and damp, with a charnel smell. Laurent sat himself down and drew his knees to his chin. “The family of Malpas,” he concluded, “is very good for a sluggish stomach. But they must give each other a colic.” He had time enough for meditation on the digestive and other qualities of the blood of Malpas: his own was crying loudly for an opportunity of digestion before his solitude was broken. The pallid gloom of the cell had faded into dark with the death of the short winter day, when the door creaked. The light came upon him in a dazzling flash, but it was no more than one dim lantern. Clotilde held it, Clotilde, tall and stately, her face very pale. Laurent cuddled his knees and grinned up at her. “Against my will I am sent to thee with an order that is no will of mine.”

“This promises sport for us all,” said Laurent with relish.

“My father hath an old despite upon thee, and, now thou hast madly ventured into his power, is minded to take vengeance.”

“Now mark how one pleasure leads to another, and never seek anything else.”

“This is no pleasure, sir, unless death be a pleasure.”

“Who knows? It must needs be a new venture. I have thought that. If thy father would but die twice or thrice he would live more sweetly. His life is now too strong liquor for his wit.”

“O sir, wilt thou jest through heaven and hell?”

Laurent sighed. “I have no hope to know both, and so doubt which to choose.”

“Thou art to die on St. Thomas's Day unless thou wilt marry me.”

“Prithee, would that be heaven or hell?” asked Laurent, with his head on one side. “I would fain believe thy father holds me high, but I fear it is that he holds thee low.”

“Oh, thou wouldst babble the world away!” she cried fiercely. “Thou, what art thou to him? A thing of nought of thyself, but the lord of broad acres.”

“I give thee surety that though thou wert my wife, I should be still thy lord.”

“Who weds with the Malpas blood oft dies betimes.” She looked down at him with contempt. “Well, sir, well, how say you? What answer do I bear back?”

“Why, right kindly, thanks: and say withal that I will make heaven by my own virtue or earn hell by my own sin: and so God be with you!”

She came nearer. Her voice fell low upon another note: “Thou wilt fling me back to shame then?”

Laurent waited a moment. “Nay, I hold shame from thee,” he said.

The door clanged.

Then Laurent knew tribulation. A spiritual hunger, a hunger of the emotions, mirthful and other, was his through life, but the carnal hunger that now beset him lacked dignity. He was not starved. Crusts and bones were flung in to him, and twice stealthily a basket of rare dainties came. But all was little for a healthy man, and his stomach whined.

Day and night were dismally like, and he had lost count of time before Clotilde came again. The Little Lair was filled with light, and she stood in the midst like a strange, splendid creature of dream. Laurent was suddenly aware of his indurate squalor and evil savour, the swinish bristles of chin and cheek. He blinked like a mole. She stood over him, as fine a form of life as ever made a man glad to be no woman. The joyous lines of her were marked close in glossy green. One bare arm, a dainty shape, all cream, held a lantern aloft, and the mellow light played with the white wave of her shoulder. The rich red glory of her hair was bound with a coif of emeralds that glowed in it, as it were deep waves in the midst of a late summer sunset.

“I am at thy will, my lord,” she said softly—“life and I.”

Laurent, raising himself on his hand, drew a long breath. Then he staggered to his feet and fronted her with his filth. “I would not kneel to win either,” he said.

“Bethink thee”; her voice was low and fraught with the power of her sex: a subtle fragrance assailed him: “bethink thee. Thou must take me to-night or lie down with death in the dawn.”

“By the Virgin, I will choose my own bride,” cried Laurent. “Go back and publish the banns. The grave shall be my marriage-bed. My love must give me a true man's welcome.”

She came close, till her bosom touched his. “And if I swear thee that?”

“Thou canst give all but that, and so hast nothing. God help thee!”

She flung down her lantern, and they were whelmed in the dark. He felt her arm soft and warm about him.. Her breath was on his brow. Her lips touched him. “If I ask thee, if I pray thee, thee, all helpless and foul—to take me—take me”

Laurent drew away. “I will keep my own soul,” he said.

There was silence in the dark a long time.... He heard the lock creak. A blast of cold, clean air smote him. His hand was gripped fiercely, and he was drawn out. Stumbling, he followed up the black stair and by a dark passage where the stone scratched at either arm. She halted, and he fell against her. Again a lock creaked. The wall gaped at his side. He looked out upon a blue void. He was thrust away from her, and fell on frosty turf. As he rose, he saw the stars. Behind him a cruel voice spoke clear: “Fool! Fool!”

The door clanged.

After the stars and the wild delight of the windy sky, Laurent was first conscious of cold. It assailed body and soul, and for a while he stood numbed. Then, waking his wits, shivering, he made out north and south and strode away. It was very late when he came, wildly hungry but warm, to his castle at Donnington. The dawn found him gay.

A black frost held the world. The bare trees cowered beneath a steady tide of easterly wind. The sky was like dull steel. Nevertheless, Clotilde must needs go hawking. On the hillside they flushed a buzzard, and her Norway peregrine brought it down. She and her falconers galloped upon the quarry. While they gathered about it a thicket vomited men-at-arms. Themselves were encompassed and helpless as the stricken bird. Some were beaten down, some were bound upon their horses. Clotilde was torn from her saddle by steel arms, and crushed cruelly upon a steel-clad breast. She fought fiercely, but cords bit upon her limbs, and, writhing in impotent smarting rage, she looked up into the laughing contempt of Laurent's eyes. She shrieked a foul name at him, and then burnt with shame. She was tossed upon his saddle-bow as they sped away into the charge of the wind.

The drawbridge of Donnington Castle rose behind her, the portcullis fell. Laurent swung to the ground and, throwing her long body over his shoulder, strode heavily up the stair. To a room hung with rich, fragrant silk they came, where a fire of cedar glowed merrily. He set her down on the billowy cushions of an ivory couch, did off his helm, and stood over her in his gleaming mail, smiling. Her eyes were wild and fierce. Her bound limbs had an alluring grace. “Welcome to chains, Clotilde,” he said.

Her little teeth clenched. “Would that I had let thee hang,” she said, and her cheeks grew pale.

“Then thou wouldst have lost a woman's due—eternal prison; the which I graciously grant thee.”

“Thou cockscomb!” she cried, glaring womanly hate. “Thou base, unknightly knave!” and she writhed in her bonds.

Laurent knelt and kissed her ankles. Then with his knife upon the cords above, “Is it these so move thy humours? Fie! they are but an allegory. Even so must thy wild soul be bound that it may be brought to happiness. Art ready, body and soul, Clotilde?” He cut the cords from her legs and her wrists, and, sheathing his knife, swiftly caught her up and kissed her lips.

She was free again, and he bowing to her before she felt it. Then all white, with wide, troubled eyes, she cried out in a piteous voice, “Coward! Coward!”

“Not I. Man to thy woman, lord of thine all. Else are we most miserable. What! Shall I hold thee so cheap as to show thee mercy? Oh! Clotilde, thou hast much to learn.”

She flushed, and all the lithe body was tense and strong. “Learn of thee? Not I, by God's mother! Thy cold, mocking blood lord of me? Good fellow, thou wouldst go whining all the day long.”

Laurent laughed gently. “This venture promises mirth. Come, bride, the priest waits thee.” But she tore herself away from his polite hand and stood defiant. His mirth passed. She saw the swarthy, lean face drawn in grim lines. “Thou art here in my hold, at my will. Thou art mine to take or cast away, and I have no mind to deny my need. Therefore make ready.”

“Oh, thou art brave to a woman! My father will be hammering at thy gates before dark.”

Laurent gave a sharp laugh. “What lord south of Trent can match himself against Laurent Osbern?” He crushed her wrists in his hands. “Thou art sped, Clotilde.”

“This is brave,” she cried; “this is honour; this is goodly requital! Was it for this I saved thee?—for this that I set thee free?”

“Ay, for this very joy: that I might be free to seize thee and conquer thee, and hold thee my bondwoman.”

Her throat was shaking. “Shame, shame to thee,” she faltered; and the blood ebbed and flowed fast in her brow. “Why, it was pity saved thee—pity and scorn.”

Laurent drew a long breath. “Why, then, the worse for thee now,” he said, and drew her closer.

She fought fiercely. “Thou wouldst not yield thyself, and never will I.”

“Fool, it is thy part, not mine. Women, not men, are made to be conquered.”

“Nay, nay, by God's mother; not unless he is conquered too. What saidst thou? 'I will keep mine own soul.' And so will I for ever.”

Laurent jerked back his head and stood with his eyes steady upon her. A trumpet blast broke upon them from the world beyond. Clotilde's troubled eyes were suddenly gay, and she gurgled laughter. “That was my father's call. Oh! my sweet lord, now thou hast affair with a man.”

Laurent gave back her laugh. He led her up to the battlements, and as they came out upon the thrust of the bitter wind the trumpets pealed again. Sir Roger Malpas had done well. A goodly company was gathered beneath the walls. Clotilde looked out over the ranks of steel, and kissed her hand to the banner flaunting its martlets gules. Gaily she turned upon Laurent: “Now learn fear, my lord.”

Laurent laughed again. “Oh, womanly eyes! Look on the other side.”

The banner of the azure falcon was broken from the keep. She saw an army of archers thronging to the walls. Already the towers were alive with steel, and the pied blue-green livery of Laurent's name. In the great courtyard was mustered a mailed host of men-at-arms, enough to whirl all the force of her father away down wind, and each moment a new troop came clattering from the stables. Her cheeks paled, her lips parted.

“And now, child?” said Laurent, looking at her curiously.

“Why, now, who would have me must fight for me!” she cried, with sparkling eyes.

Laurent came a step nearer. “Pardi; not one life shall be spilt for our caprice,” he said.

“What then, sir?” The full lip curled.

“Come and see.” Bowing, he took her hand and led her down. She found herself back in the fragrant room before a mirror. She stared at him. “Thy hair is wanton,” he said calmly. She flushed, and swiftly caught the straying tresses within her wimple. He handed her a golden brush. “There is dust upon thy habit.” The while his mail fell from him clattering, and he stood splendid in cloth of gold. When she was all neat and spotless, a slim, delectable thing in her close, betraying green, he led her on, unarmed as she.

In the courtyard the men-at-arms thundered them welcome. Laurent signed to the warder on the gateway tower. Portcullis went up and drawbridge down. Sir Roger Malpas, raging without, saw the mailed ranks ready, and was sobered. There came out to him, walking delicately, a man and a girl, unarmed, alone. Sir Roger blasphemed. He saw who they were, and blasphemed again.

Laurent came upto him. “Sir, Heaven knows why, but this is your daughter, who is free to go her way and do her will”; and he let go her hand.

“Bones of the saints!” Sir Roger roared. “Why, this is worse insult than the other.”

“Sir, that is very true. Indeed, I have had nought but insult from her since with the west wind she came. And this day the worst of all. I do profess before all this world I will not keep her with me one hour more. And the while my soul prays to her to stay....”

Clotilde looked into his eyes (Sir Roger was babbling vain matter). “That is humble, my lord.”

“I am humbled, lady,” said Laurent, “for all to hear.....”

Then with a strange, sobbing laugh she cast herself upon her knees before him, and lifting her hands cried out: “Good, my lord, keep me.”

Laurent lifted her to his heart.... “We shall welcome you on Twelfth Night, Sir Roger,” he said. Clotilde came back to her castle with downcast eyes.