The White Ladies of Worcester: A Romance of the Twelfth Century

"Our Lady grant it," he said. "If you decide to stay, one word will bring me back. If not, Mora—this is our final parting."

He took a step toward her.

She covered her face with her hands.

In a moment his arms would be round her. She could not live through a third of those farewell kisses. She had not yet faced out the second question. But—vision or no vision—if he touched her now, she would yield.

"Go!" she whispered. "Ah, for pity's sake, go! The heart of a nun might endure even this. But I ask thy mercy for the heart of a woman!"

She heard the sob in his throat, as he knelt and lifted the hem of her robe to his lips.

Then his step across the floor.

Then the ring of horses' hoofs upon the paving stones.

She was trembling from head to foot, yet she rose and went to the window overlooking the courtyard.

Mark was shutting the gates. Beaumont held a neglected stirrup cup, and laughed as he drained it himself. Zachary, stout and pompous, was mounting the steps.

Hugh, her husband—Hugh, faithful beyond belief—Hugh, her dear Knight of the Silver Shield—had ridden off alone, to the home to which he so greatly longed to take her; alone, with his hopeless love, his hungry heart, and his untarnished honour.

Turning from the window she gathered up the habit of her Order and, clasping her cross of office, mounted to her bedchamber, there to face out in solitude the hard question of the second issue.

CHAPTER LVI

THE TRUE VISION

To her bedchamber went Mora—she who had been Prioress of the White Ladies—bearing in her arms the full robes of her Order, and in her hand the jewelled cross of her high office. She went, expecting to spend hours in doubt and prayer and question before the shrine of the Virgin. But, as she pushed open the door and entered the sunlit chamber, on the very threshold she was met by a flash of inward illumination. Surely every question had already been answered; the second issue had been decided, while the first was yet wholly uncertain.

She had said she must have a divine vision. Had she not this very day been granted a two-fold vision, both human and divine; the Divine, stooping in unspeakable tenderness and comprehension to the human; the Human, upborne on the mighty pinions of pure love and stainless honour in a self-sacrifice which lifted it to the Divine?

In the lonely chapel on the mountain, she had seen her Lord. Not as the Babe, heralded by angels, worshipped by Eastern shepherds, adored by Gentile kings, throned on His Mother's knee, wise-eyed and God-like, stretching omnipotent baby hands toward this mysterious homage which was His due; accepting, with baby omniscience, the gold, the frankincense, the myrrh, which typified His mission; nor as the Divine Redeemer nailed helpless to the cross of shame; dead, that the world might live. These had been the visions of her cloistered years.

But in the chapel on the mountain she had seen Him as the human Jesus, tempted in all points like as we are, His only visible halo the "yet without sin," which set upon His brow in youth and manhood the divine seal of perfect purity, and in His eyes the clear shining of uninterrupted intercourse with Heaven.

As she had left the chapel, turning from the sculptured figure which had helped her to this realisation, she had become wondrously aware of the Unseen Presence of the Christ, close beside her. "As seeing Him Who is invisible" she had come down from the mount, conscious that He went on before. She seemed to be following those blessèd footsteps over the heather of her native hills, even as the disciples of old followed them through the cornfields of Judea, and over the grassy slopes of Galilee. Yet conscious also that He moved beside her, with hand outstretched in case her spirit tripped; and that, should a hidden foe fling shafts from an ambush in the rear, even there that Unseen Presence would be behind her as a shield. "Lo I am with you always, even unto the end of the world."

Strong in this most human vision of the Divine, she had come down from the Holy Mount, prepared to face the dumb demon she dreaded, the silent acquiescence in deception, which threatened to tear her happiness, bruise her spirit, and cast into the fire and into the waters to destroy them, those treasures which her heart had lately learned to hold so dear.

Prepared for this, she came; and lo, Heaven granted her the second vision. She saw deep into the heart of a true man's faithfulness; an example of chivalry, of profound reverence for holy things, which shamed her doubts of him; a self-sacrifice which lifted the great human love, to which she, in her cloistered sanctity, had pictured herself as stooping, far above her, to the ideal of the divine. Was not this indeed a Vision of Truth?

Crossing the room, Mora laid the robes she carried upon the couch. While mounting the stairs she had planned, in the secret of her own chamber, to clothe herself in them once again, to hang her jewelled cross about her neck, and thus—once more Prioress of the White Ladies—to kneel at our Lady's shrine, and implore guidance in this final decision. But now, she laid them gently down upon the bed.

She could not stand fast in this new liberty, with the heavy folds of that white habit entangling her feet in a yoke of bondage.

The heart, filled with a love so full of glowing tenderness for her Knight of the Silver Shield proved worthy, could not beat beneath a scapulary. Nor could her cross of office lie where his dear head had rested.

She stood before the shrine. The Madonna looked gravely upon her. The holy Babe gazed with omniscient eyes, holding forth tiny hands of omnipotence.

Even so had they looked in her hour of joy, when she had kneeled in a transport of thanksgiving.

Even so had they looked in her hour of anguish, when she had poured out her despair at having been twice deceived.

Yet help had not come, until she had lifted her eyes unto the hills.

She turned from the shrine, went swiftly to the open casement, and stood looking over the green tree tops, to the heavenly blue beyond, flecked by swift moving clouds.

She, who had now learned to "look . . . at the things that are not seen," could not find help through gazing on carven images.

Thoughts of our Lady seemed more living and vital while she kept her eyes upon the fleecy whiteness of those tiny clouds, or watched a flight of mountain birds, silver-winged in the sunshine.

What was the one command recorded as having been given, by the blessèd Mother of our Lord, to men? "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it." And what was His last injunction to His Church on earth? "Go ye into all the world and preach glad tidings to every creature. . . . And lo, I am with you always."

Mora could not but know that she had come forth into her world bringing the glad tidings of love requited, of comfort, and of home.

By virtue of this promise the feet of the risen Christ would move beside her "all the days."

It seemed to her, that if she went back now into her Convent cell, she would nail those blessèd feet to the wood again. In slaying this new life within herself, she would lose forever the sense of living companionship, retaining only the religion of the Crucifix. Enough, perhaps, for the cloistered life. But this life more abundant, demanded that grace should yet more abound.

A great apostolic injunction sounded, like a clarion call, from the stored chancel of her memory. "As ye have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in Him."

She flung wide her arms. A sense of all-pervading liberty, a complete freedom from all bondage of spirit, soul, or body, leapt up responsive to the call.

"I will!" she said. "Without any further fear or faltering, I will!"

She passed to the couch, folded the robes she had worn so long, and laid them away in an empty chest.

This done, she took her cross of office, and went down to the terrace. Her one thought was to reach Hugh with as little delay as possible. She could not leave that noble heart in suspense, a moment longer than she need.

The sun was still high in the heavens. By the short way through the woods, she could reach the castle long before sunset.

She owed Hugh much. Yet there was another to whom she also owed a debt; how much she owed to him, this day's new light had shewn her. She would go forward to her joy with a freer heart if she gave herself time to discharge, by acknowledgment and thanks, the great debt she owed to her old and faithful friend, Symon, Bishop of Worcester.

She sent for her steward.

"Zachary," she said, "Sir Hugh has ridden on before. I follow by the short way through the forest, and shall not return to-night. Bid them saddle my white palfrey, Icon. I shall be ready to start within an hour. But first I must despatch to Worcester, a packet of importance. Bid two of the men, who rode with us from Worcester, prepare to mount and return thither. If they start in an hour's time, they can be well on their way, and make a safe lodging, before nightfall."

She passed into the library, laid the cross before her on the table, and began her letter to the Bishop.

Straight from her hand to his, that letter went; straight from her heart to his, that letter spoke; and Symon's comfort in it, lies largely in the knowledge that she was alone when she wrote it, alone when she sealed it, and that none in this world, saving they two, will ever know exactly what the woman, whom he had loved so purely and served so faithfully, said to him in this letter.

Bare facts, however, may be given.

She told him, as briefly as might be, of that morning's great experience; of Hugh's return, and noble self-effacement; of the clear light she had received, and the decision to which she had come; and of how she was now going forward, with a free heart, to her great happiness.

And then, in glowing words, she told him all she owed to his faithful, patient friendship, to the teaching of long years, the trend of which had always been life, light, liberty; a wider outlook, a fearless judgment, a clear knowledge of God, based on inspired writings; and, above all, belief in those words, often on his lips, always in his heart: "Love never faileth."

"Truly, my dear lord," she wrote, "your love–" Nay, it may not be quoted!

She told him how his teaching, following along the same lines as that of Father Gervaise years before, had prepared her mind for this revelation of the ever-living Saviour.

"Now the mystery is unveiled to me also," she wrote, "I realise that you knew it all along; and that, had I but been more teachable, Reverend Father, you could have taught me more. Oh, I pray you, take heart of grace, and teach these great truths to others."

She blessed him for his faithfulness in striving to make her see her duty to Hugh, and her life's true vocation.

She blessed him for her great happiness, yet thanked him for his care in sending her cross of office, thus making all easy in order that, had her conscience so required, she could have safely returned. She herewith sent him the cross, and begged that he would keep it, remembering when he chanced to look upon it–

She also begged him to forgive her the many times when she had tried his patience, and been herself impatient of his wise counsel and control.

And, finally, she signed herself – – –

Mora held the cross to her lips, then placed it within the letter, folded the packet, sealed it with her own seal, addressed it with full directions, and called for the messenger.

Thus, fully four days before he had looked to have it, the answer for which he waited, reached the Bishop's hand. As he opened it, and perceived the gleam of gold and emeralds, he glanced across to the deed chest, where lay the Knight's white stone.

The rose beside it had not yet faded. It might have been plucked and placed in the water that morning, so fair it bloomed—a red, red rose. Ah, Verity! Little Angel Child!

* * * * * *

It was said in sunny Florence in the years that followed, and, later on, it was remarked in Rome, that if the Lord High Cardinal—kindest of men—was tried almost beyond bearing, if even his calm patience seemed in danger of ruffling, or if he was weary, or sad, or disheartened, he had a way of slipping his hand into the bosom of his scarlet robe, as if he gently fingered something that lay against his heart.

Whereupon at, once his brow grew serene again, his blue eyes kindly and bright, his lips smiled that patient smile which never failed; and, as he drew forth his hand, the stone within his ring, though pale before, glowed deep red, as juice of purple grapes in a goblet.

CHAPTER LVII

"I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE"

Mora escaped from the restraining arms of old Debbie, and appeared at the top of the steps leading down to the courtyard.

Framed in the doorway, in her green riding dress, she stood for a moment, surveying the scene before her.

The two men bound for Worcester, bearing her packet to the Bishop, had just ridden out at the great gates. Through the gates, still standing open, she could see them guiding their horses down the hill and taking the southward road.

The porter was attempting to close the gates, but a stable lad hindered him, pointing to Icon, whom a groom was leading, ready saddled, to and fro, before the door; Icon, with proudly arched neck and swishing tail, as conscious of his snowy beauty as when, in the river meadow at Worcester, he found himself the centre of an admiring crowd of nuns.

At sight of his flowing mane, powerful forequarters, and high stepping action, Mora was irresistibly reminded of the scene in the courtyard at the Nunnery, when the Bishop rode in on his favourite white palfrey, she standing at the top of the steps to receive him. Never again would she stand so, to receive the Bishop; never again would Icon proudly carry him. The Bishop had given her to Hugh and Icon to her. A faint sense of compunction stirred within her. Perhaps at that moment she came near to realising something of what both gifts had cost the Bishop.

Bending her head, she looked across the courtyard and under the gateway. The messengers were riding fast. Even as she looked, they disappeared into the pine wood.

Her letter to Symon was well on its way. She remembered with comfort and gladness certain things she had written in that letter.

Then—as the pine wood swallowed the messengers—with a joyous bound of reaction her whole mind turned to Hugh.

Three steps below her, a page waited, holding a dagger which she had been wont to wear, when riding in the forests. She had sent it out to be sharpened. She took it from him, tested its point, slipped it into the sheath at her belt, smiled upon the boy, descended the remaining steps, and laid her hand upon Icon's mane.

Then it was that Mistress Deborah's agitated signals from within the doorway, took effect upon old Zachary.

Coming forward, he bared his white head, and adventured a humble expostulation.

"My lady," he said, "it is not safe nor well that you should ride alone. A few moments' delay will suffice Beaumont to saddle a horse and be ready to attend you."

She mounted before she made answer.

She kept her imperious temper well in hand, striving to remember that to old Debbie and Zachary she seemed but the child they had loved and watched over from infancy, of a sudden grown older. They had not known the Prioress of the White Ladies.

Bending from the saddle, her hand on Icon's mane:

"I go to my husband, Zachary," she said, "and I choose to ride alone."

Then gathering up the reins, she turned Icon toward the gates and so rode across the courtyard, looking, neither back to where Mistress Deborah alternately wrung her hands and shook her fist at Zachary; nor to right or left, where Mark and Beaumont, standing with doffed caps waited till she should have passed, to yield to the full enjoyment of Mistress Deborah's gestures, and of Master Zachary's discomfiture.

She rode forth looking straight before her, over the pointed ears of Icon. She was riding to Hugh, and, they who stood by must not see the love-light in her eyes.

Grave and serene, her head held high, she paced the white palfrey through the gates. And if the porter marked a wondrous shining in her eyes—well, the sun began to slant its rays, and she rode straight toward the west.

Zachary mounted the steps and hastened across the hall, followed by Deborah.

Mark thereupon enacted Mistress Deborah, and Beaumont, Master Zachary; while the page sat down on the steps to laugh.

The porter clanged to the gates.

The day's work was done.

CHAPTER LVIII

THE WARRIOR HEART

As Mora turned off the highway, and pressed Icon deep into the glades, she cried over and over aloud, for there was none to hear: "I go to my husband, and I choose to ride alone."

How wondrous it seemed, this going to him; a second giving, a deeper surrender, a fuller yielding.

When she went to him in the crypt, her body had recoiled, her spirit had shrunk, shamed, humbled, and unwilling. Her mind alone, governed by her will, had driven her along the path of her resolve, holding her upon the stretcher, until too late to cry out or to return.

Now—how different! Free as air, alone, uncoerced, even unexpected, she left her own home, and her own people, to ride, unattended, straight to the arms of the man who had won her.

A wild joy seized and shook her.

The soft, mysterious glades, beneath vast, leafy domes, seemed enchanted ground. The hoofs of Icon thudded softly on the moss. The stillness seemed alive with whispering life. Rabbits sat still to peep, then whisked and ran. Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring wings. Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang.

There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen. Yet all these varied sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the complete remoteness from human dwelling-place.

Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade.

The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon. He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an unseen way.

Mora rode as in a dream. "I ride to my husband," she cried to the forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an irrepressible burst of praise: "Jesu dulsis memoria!" Then, when she fell silent: "Dulsis! Dulsis!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy clerestories overhead. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid back his ears and cantered faster.

Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the very heart of the pine wood.

Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones.

Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and slipped again.

With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing through the undergrowth.

Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the tree trunks.

Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart was now so blissfully at rest.

Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty.

"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose to ride alone."

With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go forward.

At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view.

With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a swift canter.

Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open.

Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home.

* * * * * *

It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted in the courtyard.

She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck. For the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire confidence.

"Icon, brave and beautiful!" she whispered. "Thou hast carried me here where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire."

Then she turned, speaking quickly and low.

"Martin, where is my husband? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?"

"My lady," said Martin, "I saw him last in the armoury."

"The armoury?" she questioned.

"A chamber opening out of the great hall, facing toward the west, with steps leading down into the garden."

"Even as my chamber?"

"The armoury door faces the door of your chamber, Countess. The width of the hall lies between."

"Can I reach my chamber without entering the hall, or passing the armoury windows? I would rid me of my travel-stains, before I make my presence known to Sir Hugh."

"Pass round to the right, and through the buttery; then you reach the garden and the steps up to your chamber from the side beyond the armoury."

"Good. Tell no one of my presence, Martin. I have here the key of my chamber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?"

"Nay, my lady; nor guessed how often we rode hither. We reached the castle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty garments; then dined alone. After which he went into the armoury."

"When did you see him last, Martin?"

"Two minutes ago, lady. I come this moment from the hall."

"What was he doing, Martin?"

Martin Goodfellow hesitated. He knew something of love, and as much as an honest man may know, of women. He shrewdly suspicioned what she would expect the Knight to be doing. He was sorely tempted to give a fancy picture of Sir Hugh d'Argent, in his lovelorn loneliness.

He looked into the clear eyes bent upon him; glanced at the firm hand, arrested for a moment in its caress of Icon's neck; then decided that, though the truth might probably be unexpected, a lie would most certainly be unwise.

"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his armour, and sharpening his battle-axe."

As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious of a very definite sense of surprise. She had pictured Hugh in his lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth. She had seen herself coming softly behind him, laying a tender hand upon those bowed shoulders; then, as he lifted eyes in which dull despair would quickly give place to wondering joy, saying: "Hugh, I am come home."

But now, as she passed through the buttery, Mora had to realise that yet again she had failed to understand the man she loved.

It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost happiness. If she failed him finally, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man, going straight on, unhindered by vain regret.

Once again her pride in him, in that he was finer than her own conceptions, quickened her love, even while it humbled her, in her own estimation, to a place at his feet.

A glory of joy was on her face as, making her way through to the terrace, now bathed in sunset light, she passed up to the chamber she had prepared during Hugh's absence.

All was as she had left it.

Fastening the door by which she had entered from the garden, she noiselessly opened that which gave on to the great hall.

The hall was dark and deserted, but the door into the armoury stood ajar.

A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door.

She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice, singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the King's Minstrel.

With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast within.