Chapter XII
The long-cherished dream of the astute and far-seeing François Dunois, Comte de Longueville, had apparently been brought to an untimely end by the imperious will of a young girl. In spite of the representations of her guardian and trusted councillors, as well as those of her faithful friend, the Count Dunois himself, Anne remained firm in her rejection of the proposal to unite herself with the King of France, and thus form an indissoluble bond of union between the kingdom and duchy.
“King Charles,” she said, “is an unjust prince, who wishes to despoil me of the inheritance of my fathers. Has he not desolated my duchy, pillaged my subjects, destroyed my towns? Has he not entered into the most deceitful alliances with my allies, the Kings of Spain and England, endeavouring to overreach and ruin me? And have I not, by the advice of all of you who now counsel the contrary, just contracted anew a solemn alliance with the King of the Romans, approved by you and all my people? Do not believe that I will so falsify my word, nor that I will burthen my conscience with an act which I feel to be so reprehensible.”
In vain her council urged upon her the necessity of yielding to their suggestions; in vain de Rieux, de Montauban, and the Prince of Orange joined with Dunois in pleading the state of Britanny, the impossibility of its defending itself, the certainty of its falling a prey to the first ambitious neighbour who attacked it, since their Duchess would be in a distant country, married to a man whose own subjects were continually in a state of rebellion.
Anne haughtily refused to listen to these arguments. In spite of her tender years, her will was indomitable, and her mind clear as to what her actions should be.
“Rather,” she replied at length to her discomfited council, “than be found wanting in the honour and duty I owe to the King of the Romans, whom I look upon as my husband, I will set forth to join him, since he finds it impossible to come hither to fetch me.”
Such a reply was decisive, and Dunois was fain to ride back chagrined and discomfited, but not yet baffled, to give Anne’s answer of defiance to her royal wooer.
So also seemed to terminate the vague hopes to which Gwennola de Mereac had clung during those summer days—days which were bringing, alas! fresh sorrows to the lonely maiden of the old Breton château. For, scarce two months after her lover’s departure, a fall from his horse during a boar hunt had left her to mourn a father who had ever been tender and loving to his daughter, although for the past few weeks somewhat sterner than his wont at her—to him—obstinate refusal to listen to the command he laid on her to accept the hand—if not the heart—of the young Comte de Laferrière, a betrothal which might indeed have been forced upon her had not death intervened to save her from an unwelcome lover, at the same time that he deprived her of a tenderly loved parent.
The mourning of those days was long, and sufficiently trying even for those whose grief was the most sincere; etiquette demanding that a daughter should retire to bed for six weeks in a funereally draped chamber, at most only being permitted to rise and sit upon a couch, also hung with trappings of woe.
Deeply as she mourned her father, Gwennola could not but breathe a sigh of relief as she stole out into the September sunshine at the conclusion of the stated period of retirement. How dreary all seemed, she told herself, and yet,—why, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and after all life was young, and death,—she shuddered as she glanced down at her black robe; but even whilst the tears dimmed her eyes, her thoughts, with the inconsequence of youth, flew back to the lover from whom she had parted, and wondered when he would come again a-wooing, and what Yvon would say when he asked her hand of him. Those months of rest and peace had wrought a great change in her brother. Much of the lost beauty of youth had returned, and the attenuated limbs had regained their strength and vigour, but still in the blue eyes there lurked that vague terror which three years of haunting dread and suffering had indelibly stamped within them. Neither would Yvon de Mereac ever be the noble, gallant knight his boyhood had foreshadowed. Cruelty and mind-torture had crushed and enfeebled a strong, brave nature in their ruthless clutch, and Gwennola’s own eyes would often fill with tears of sympathy as they met the restless, anxious glance of her brother’s, which betokened a mind still clouded with nervous fears. Yet, in spite of weakness, Yvon possessed an obstinate determination, when once his mind was set, from which neither argument nor entreaty would move him, and it was this vein of obstinacy which Gwennola trembled to evoke by mention of her lover’s name, seeing that her brother inherited all his father’s implacable animosity to their natural foes of France. Still, the love of brother and sister for each other was strong, and it would often seem as if Yvon would lean on the stronger nature of Gwennola for guidance and advice, whilst her own sisterly affection had, at times, the motherly instinct of protection for one whose mind still became shadowed with dread of an unseen, indefinable fear.
Accompanied by Marie and the faithful Gloire Gwennola was returning some few days later from her weekly visit to the now bed-ridden old peasant dame, Mère Fanchonic, when she was surprised to note the signs of an arrival at the gates of the château. Two strange men-at-arms were leading away horses, on the backs of which were pillions.
“See, Marie,” Gwennola exclaimed, as she hurried forward, “what can it mean? It is without doubt visitors who have but lately arrived, and look, pillions also! Verily, what dames can so unexpectedly have honoured us, here at Arteze?”
“Some travellers doubtless who have lost their way,” suggested Marie. “But see, lady, here cometh Job, with his foolish face all agog with news.”
“Which we are as fain to hear as he to tell,” cried Gwennola, laughing gaily, for her spirits had risen to hail any change which came to break the monotony of existence; besides, might this strange visit not be in some way connected with her absent lover?
“Perchance ’tis the Dame of Laferrière come hither with her noble son,” suggested Marie slyly, as she watched the flush of annoyance which instantly rose to her young mistress’s brow.
“’Tis little likely,” retorted Gwennola with some asperity, “seeing that the good dame hath been as bed-ridden as Mère Fanchonic these past two years. An thou hast no better suggestion to give, wench, ’twere wisest to bear in mind the good Father Ambrose’s homily on the virtue of silence, which he delivered last Sunday.”
Marie did not reply to this rebuke, though she pursed her rosy mouth, round which the dimples played, and tossed her dark, comely head with an air of great sagacity, as one who knew well what lay in her mistress’s thoughts behind the sharp speech.
But the maidens’ curiosity was in no way gratified by the worthy Jobik, who conveyed only the intelligence that a dame had but lately arrived at the château, and that his master had bidden him speedily seek his mistress and acquaint her with the news.
“A dame? Alone and unattended?” queried Gwennola eagerly. “Tell me then, good Jobik, what name did she give? and what appearance hath she? Is she old or young? and hath knowledge of her features?”
To which Job Alloadec responded that to his knowledge the lady had given no name, and that so closely was she hooded that he had not seen her features, but that she was tall and slender, and spoke with the air of a great lady, very haughtily and proudly. For the rest, he knew naught save that she had come in company with a waiting damsel and three men-at-arms, and that the Sieur de Mereac had bidden him hasten.
Seeing that it was useless to waste time in further questions, Gwennola hastened on, wondering greatly what such a visit portended, and who the lady might be who thus rode in such troublous times with so small an escort and unattended by any cavalier.
The hall of the château was deserted, save for two men-at-arms who lounged near the lower end, and Pierre the fool, who lay on his stomach sporting with his ape, and emitting from time to time shrill screams of merriment in mimicry of his wizened little companion’s cries of anger at being thus mocked, much to the amusement of little Henri, the page, who squatted opposite him. In reply to his mistress’s inquiries, the page informed her that his master was awaiting her coming in the solar room, whilst he ran before her to raise the tapestries which hung before the inner apartment.
The solar room was one in which Gwennola most often sat with her maidens over her tapestry or embroidery work, and was more sumptuously furnished than the rest of the château; the floor being covered with a fine Flemish carpet, and the hangings of dark velvet, whilst in the corner stood a harp and embroidery frame.
Standing by the high, narrow window, his head leaning against the stone work, as if he strove to see beyond into the courtyard, was Yvon de Mereac, and Gwennola noted the restless, uneasy expression of his handsome face as he turned to greet her.
“Fair sister,” he began nervously, as he bowed with the courtesy which in those days of chivalry even brothers paid to their sisters. “Pardon me for so hasty a summons, but—but——”
“Jobik bade me hasten to greet an unexpected guest,” replied Gwennola, glancing round the room in surprise at seeing no other occupant saving her brother.
“Ay,” replied Yvon with growing uneasiness. “I pray you, my Gwennola, of your courtesy, greet the lady graciously, for——”
“Nay,” retorted his sister with some haughtiness. “Am I then accustomed to treat guests so unbecomingly, that thou needest to school me in my manners, Yvon?”
“Nay, nay,” he replied anxiously. “Again thy pardon, little sister, but methought,—methought perchance the name might strike unpleasingly upon thine ear, did I not first explain.”
“The name?” repeated Gwennola wonderingly. “In sooth, brother, I take not thy meaning.”
“It is Mademoiselle de Coray,” he muttered hurriedly. “Nay, sister, look not so angrily; she hath come, poor maid, on an errand of peace.”
“Peace!” echoed Gwennola, her face hardening into lines so proud and cold as to recall the stern look of her father, “a de Coray bound on peace? Sooner would I trust the serpent who spoke soft words to our Mother Eve to have come on an errand of love to mankind than the sister of Guillaume de Coray to be bound on such a mission.”
“Nay, thy words are unjust,” said Yvon hotly. “But stay, thou shalt not judge till thou hast seen her, for once look into her eyes and thou shalt read there such wells of innocence and truth as shall shame thee of suspicion.”
“Innocence and truth!” replied Gwennola scornfully. “So perchance thought Adam when he looked into Eve’s eyes and plucked the apple from her hand; but tell me, then, what hath brought this paragon of beauty and perfection to our poor Château of Mereac? There must e’en be good reason to bring so fair a dame across Brittany in these times.”
“Thy mocking becomes thee not,” retorted Yvon coldly. “As for the errand of Mademoiselle de Coray, thou shalt judge for thyself whether it augurs more of deceit than of such sweetness of disposition as I fear me thou wilt scarce appreciate in thy present wayward mood.”
“Wayward mood!” echoed Gwennola indignantly, for a seventeen-year-old châtelaine could hardly thus calmly brook being chidden as a child. “Wayward mood, forsooth! but we shall see in good time who is the wise one. Yet mayhap thou wilt tell me, most wise and well-discerning brother, of what import the story was? Whereof it was made I wot I know already.”
Perhaps Yvon did not hear the last few words, in his eagerness to convert his sister to a more amenable mood concerning their guest.
“She had heard,” he said, “that our father was no more, and would, in spite of her brother’s opposition, insist straightway on coming to Mereac, deeming the time a fitting one to heal a sore breach betwixt loving kinsmen, by an explanation which should have been made long since.”
“Loving kinsmen!” murmured Gwennola, plucking at the girdle round her waist. “Bah! I would have little of such love, I trow.”
“And so,” continued Yvon, heeding her not, “she hath come to Mereac, and told me her story.”
“Which thou hast believed with all the simplicity of a yearling babe.”
“Tush! child, thou pratest of what thou knowest not; little like was I to be deceived. Yet verily there was no deception in the eyes of mademoiselle; whilst, as for the story, it is simplicity itself.”
“As was the hearer,” whispered Gwennola. “And the story, brother?”
“Truly for the most part I knew it before. My sole enemy was François Kerden, who himself stole upon me in the wood, and would have killed me, for no reason but wanton cruelty, had not the fouler scheme entered his head. Yet, even as it came to him, fate furthered the plot, for Guillaume de Coray, seeing in part what was chancing, sprang to the spot, and would have revenged my death, as he supposed, on my murderer, had not the Frenchman intervened and robbed him of his prey and me.” Yvon stopped with a groan as the memory of those three years of imprisonment returned to him.
“But,” said Gwennola coldly, “the story scarce bears the light of truth, brother, seeing that Henri d’Estrailles saw the traitor blow struck; besides, if so innocent, why fled this so noble kinsman when he saw thee appear? and why did he strive to doom to death another, when he saw who had in reality struck thee down, according to this pretty fable?”
“Nay,” said Yvon, knitting his brows, “it is easily explained, didst thou but listen, girl. It was in this way. Guillaume had already been wounded, and, faint with loss of blood, could scarce distinguish betwixt Frenchman or Breton. Both wore closed vizors, and both were near at the time of my fall; which had struck the blow Guillaume could scarce realize. The Breton fled, however, and whilst he turned to strike him down in the act, the Frenchman opened his vizor, and de Coray clearly saw his features. Methinks it was this that confused him in claiming that d’Estrailles had done the coward’s act, for but one face was imprinted on his reeling memory, and surely ’twere easy thus to confuse which of the twain he had seen actually to perform the foul deed. That it was Kerden himself is shown by the part he afterwards played in so torturing me.”
“Nay,” said Gwennola shortly, “the story is false, my brother, and should not deceive a babe—false as the weaver of it. Did I not kneel beside this Kerden and listen to his dying words, which fitted so aptly with those of Monsieur d’Estrailles? It is impossible, Yvon, that for a moment thou couldest believe so lying a tale, or shelter beneath thy roof one who proves herself traitress with her first breath.”
“Nay, mademoiselle,” said a laughing voice in the doorway, and, turning, brother and sister perceived the object of their conversation standing there, the tapestry curtain half raised by one arm, as she smiled from one to the other, as if aware of the dainty picture she thus formed.
That Diane de Coray was beautiful there was no denying, but her beauty was not of the kind which perchance Gwennola had already imagined her to possess. No possibility of deceit seemed to lurk in her clear, hazel eyes, which shone with frankness and merriment. Her rosy cheeks, full red lips, and delicate features, all combined to give her an appearance of extreme youth, an embodiment of springtime, in truth, and a fair one to boot. The hair under the white head-dress was soft and wavy, and of a rich, dark brown; her figure was slender and tall, set off to advantage in a sleeveless gown of crimson velvet, edged with lettice, a fur much in vogue then amongst the fashionable, whilst round her waist she wore a handsome girdle with jewelled tassels.
As they turned to face her, Diane dropped the tapestry and with a deep curtsy towards her young hostess advanced with outstretched hands.
“Nay,” she cried, still laughing, “thou shalt not thus judge me unheard, little one. Fie on thee! thy kinswoman a traitress? I pray thee tell me wherein? See! I come as a hostage for my brother’s truth.”
“And one that we shall hope to keep for long,” responded Yvon courteously, as he placed a seat for her.
She laughed up at him, showing a set of small, pearly teeth as she did so.
“Thy sister would not too warmly echo thy words, fair kinsman,” she replied with a sly glance towards Gwennola.
But Mademoiselle de Mereac was not to be moved by roguish glances, dimples, or sweet words. She had responded to her cousin’s effusive greeting with a stiff curtsy, taking not the slightest notice of the outstretched hands.
“Mademoiselle,” she replied icily, in answer to Diane’s rallying words, “is as welcome as the sister of Guillaume de Coray is likely to be at Mereac.”
Diane pouted her lips, with the sweet coquetry of a spoilt child; there would even seem to have been tears in the eyes which she raised first to Yvon and from him to Gwennola.
“It is cruel,” she murmured softly, “that thou wilt not believe my word, but it is as Guillaume warned me, for oft he hath told me with sorrow of the hatred you bear him, sweet Gwennola. But no,” she cried, springing from her seat and clasping her slim hands together with a pretty little air of supplication, “thou shalt be convinced, fair cousin. See, I swear to thee it is true. Wilt thou not believe me?”
“If Monsieur de Coray were innocent, why did he fly?” demanded Gwennola inexorably.
“Fly?” echoed Diane innocently. “Nay, cousin, scarcely fly! That he left in haste it is true; yet not so much from fear as from another sin—shall I confess it?” Her arch smile was met by Gwennola’s grave, set face, which, however, seemed in no way to abash her. “It was jealousy,” she murmured, glancing up towards Yvon and addressing him more than Gwennola. “Fie! it is an evil passion. Is it not, monsieur? but one to which poor mortals are prone. He had verily proved, as he thought, that Monsieur d’Es—d’Es—monsieur the Frenchman was guilty of his cousin’s blood, and unworthy though it might be, he was the more glad to see him die as he fancied the lady of his love looked more kindly on him than he deemed befitting. So, when he found that his rival was like to be restored to liberty, in a foolish fit of unreasoning rage he hurried homewards, little dreaming how ill a construction so weak an act could have placed upon it.”
“And how knew he of such construction, seeing he fled in such haste?” demanded Gwennola shrewdly; but Diane de Coray had suddenly become afflicted with deafness.
“To such foolishness doth unrequited love lead us,” she sighed, addressing Yvon solely now. “Alas! ’tis a cruel passion at best, is it not, monsieur? and one better eschewed by the wise.”
“Nay,” replied he slowly, looking down with undisguised admiration into her face. “Not when it cometh in the guise of an angel of peace and love, mademoiselle.”
“Peace and love!” whispered Gwennola to herself as she withdrew. “Mary, Mother, grant that it be not strife and bitter hate; for, alas! she is false, this demoiselle, false to the heart’s core, for all her beauty.”