Chapter XVI Within the Castle Walls
The Lady Aliva had been carried off to Bedford in a half-unconscious state; for though she had awoke from her sleep refreshed and restored—thanks to the kind care of Mistress Hodges—the treacherous priest had so arranged that nothing should hinder him from carrying out his part of the shameful contract.
After the departure of the lay-brother he returned to the chapel.
“Daughter,” he said to Aliva, through the half-open door of the sacristy, “thou hast done well in seeking the protection of Mother Church, and I, the humble minister of this altar, will see that thou art well guarded if thou remainest here.”
“Thanks, reverend father,” replied the maiden; “but a short time since, towards dawn of day, methinks (but I have slept since), this faithful woman’s son offered to set off to my father’s house at Bletsoe and warn the household there of my whereabouts.”
“Thy messenger will be yet some time ere he returneth,” answered the priest, “and if thou art minded to depart at once, we needs must find some other means of conveyance for thee, lady. I have looked round about since it grew light, and thy pursuers have departed,” he added, revolving in his mind how best to induce Aliva to enter the horse-litter from Bedford, which he guessed would by now not be far off.
“Thanks for the hospitality of this holy sanctuary,” Aliva replied, “but I would fain depart as speedily as may be,” she added, not caring to occupy the sacristy of a chapel as her apartment any longer than was necessary, and with an indefinable dislike, if not distrust, of the speaker.
“So be it, lady,” Bertram hastened to answer. “I will myself to Bedford. Doubtless from some of the burghers can I procure a conveyance suited to thy rank. Moreover, thou art doubtless weak in body, and I have taken upon myself to order food to be brought thee.”
So saying he moved to the door and beckoned to some one without. A woman from the village entered, bringing such food and wine as the hostelry could supply.
“Thou mayest eat yonder in the sacristy, my daughter, for it is not consecrated to holy purposes.”
He followed the woman into the priest’s room and then dismissed her. This left him alone for a few moments, for Aliva had entered the chapel to kneel down before the rude altar, and offer up a heartfelt thanksgiving for her preservation.
Father Bertram took a small vial from within his robe and poured some drops from it into the wine-flask.
He had not studied the art of drug-concocting in the infirmary of his late monastery in vain.
Then he passed out of the chapel, saying that he was going to Bedford.
Aliva rose from her knees and went into the sacristy and found the food awaiting her. But she could not swallow, famished though she was, the rough village fare copiously seasoned with garlic.
“Alack!” exclaimed Goody Hodges. “But thou wilt die of weakness. See the wine-flask, lady! Drink, if thou canst not stomach the food.”
Aliva did as she advised; and when the priest shortly returned, having brought the litter which he had found waiting on the bridge, and having received back again the pledge of the crucifix, he found the maiden in a half-unconscious state.
“Alack, alack! father, she hath swooned again!” cried the deluded peasant woman.
“She is overwrought with her hardships,” replied the priest. “We must get her home with all speed. I have found a litter on the road, and it is in readiness. Help me to bear her to it.”
The fresh morning air outside the chapel door partially revived Aliva. Opening her eyes she moaned,—
“Where am I? where are you taking me?”
“Home, daughter, to Bletsoe. Let me lay you in the litter!” exclaimed Bertram hurriedly, and rudely pushing back Dame Hodges, who had stopped short when she too recognized the De Breauté livery, and saw that she had been deceived.
Aliva sank back languidly on the cushions, and her eyes closed again. She was deaf to a well-known voice imploring her to stay, and unaware of the lay-brother’s gallant attempt to detain her.
When she recovered her senses again, the litter was jolting fearfully, for the horses were going at the top of their speed. Bertram rightly conjectured that Aliva had taken but little of the drugged wine, and was alarmed lest its numbing influence should wear off ere his captive was safely secured. So he urged the postillion along, galloping by his side.
With returning consciousness Aliva drew aside the curtains of the litter and looked out. They were certainly not on the road to Bletsoe; she saw that at once. They were swinging through streets, and curious burgesses came to their house doors, marvelling what brought the litter of the Lady Margaret out so early.
While she was doubting whether she should cry for help or fling herself from the litter, it turned under an echoing gateway, and stopped in a courtyard before the entrance of a castle keep.
A girl of about her own age came down the steps.
“Lady, please to alight and follow me to the apartment prepared for you.”
Aliva descended from the litter and looked around her, bewildered. A group of men-at-arms were drawn up at a respectful distance, and the grooms who had brought her stood silent by their horses. The priest had vanished as soon as he had seen her safe into the castle.
Aliva turned to the girl beside her.
“Where am I?” she murmured, still half dazed. “Is this not Bedford Castle? There has been treachery—treachery by that ill-looking priest! This is more of De Breauté’s doings, damsel.”
“Nay, lady, I can tell thee naught, save that my lord Sir Fulke bade me prepare a lodging in the keep for a lady who was to arrive in my lady’s litter. Thy chamber is ready on the floor above the great hall, next to my lady’s bower. Prithee, let me lead thee thither.”
Aliva felt somewhat reassured by this reception. At least she found herself in the care of women.
Silently she allowed her conductress to show her the way across the hall and up a turret stair to her apartment, where she sank wearily on a couch.
The pretty waiting-woman bustled about, offering the unhappy girl various attentions. She brought her articles of dress from her mistress’s coffer, and assisted Aliva to remove her travel-stained garments and clothe herself in becoming attire.
The latter eyed her curiously.
“And who art thou, maiden?” she inquired.
“My name is Beatrice Mertoun. I am the waiting-woman of the Lady Margaret, the wife of Sir Fulke. And thou, lady, if I might make so bold?”
“I am Aliva de Pateshulle from Bletsoe,” returned Aliva.
“From Bletsoe!” echoed Beatrice. “Methought I remembered your face and figure as one of the nuns at Elstow when I attended my mistress to the retreat there. We returned but yesterday. But thou art no nun—no sister of an abbey?”
“Nay,” replied Aliva, “but I wore the habit of a novice as a penitent during the retreat. Doubtless,” she added, sighing, “this trouble which hath come upon me is the reward of my sins.”
“Fair lady,” said Beatrice gently, “you look sad;” and she came and knelt down at her feet.
“Sad!” exclaimed Aliva, raising herself on her elbow and gazing down at the waiting-maid with horror-stricken face; “I am miserable—betrayed—undone! Ah, I see it all now—this foul plot! William de Breauté hath encompassed my ruin!”
“William de Breauté!” cried Beatrice. “It is he who is at the bottom of this, forsooth! By my halidom, I see daylight now! I overheard him speaking of you with his brother—and then the chapel, repaired and cleaned. That was what Sir Fulke meant as he watched the men at work and said in jesting mood that from his own experience an unwilling bride was all the sweeter for the trouble of snaring and catching her, and William de Breauté answered that for his part he cared not for a ripe plum that fell into one’s mouth without the picking.”
“The chapel—an unwilling bride!” gasped poor Aliva. “The Lady Margaret was such! I see it all, alas! Does my father know of this? Does he give his consent?”
“Alas, fair lady, I know naught! It pains me to see thee in such grief, and in good sooth I mind me well of the stories I have heard of the unwilling wooing, the hasty bridal of my mistress. But, lady, cheer thee. Thou art weary and mazed. Rest here awhile, and talk no more, and I will watch by thee.”
The bright spring afternoon was already waning when, some hours after the events related above, the two maidens walked out upon the south wall of the castle. Beatrice had persuaded Aliva to come thither, hoping that the fresh air might revive her drooping spirits; and Sir Fulke had given permission that his prisoner might repair thither when she pleased, though the precincts of the castle were forbidden.
As they paced up and down the terrace the fertile brain of Mistress Beatrice, already a warm partisan of the fair young prisoner, began to weave plans of escape.
“Canst swim, fair lady?” she inquired. “’Twould be naught to leap into Ouse water from yon turret! Or, better still, that thy knight (she took it for granted that Aliva had a knight) should bring hither a skiff some dark night, beneath the walls!”
At that moment they heard the twang of an archer’s bow sounding from the gate-house hard by.