Joris of the Rock [The Neustrian Cycle, Book II] (Forgotten Fantasy Library) Read online

  Tiphaine giggled; to disappoint her kinsman seemed a kind of duty, and yet she had no real mind to loose the shafts of murder. Huskily she spoke.

  "Uncle, I pray you rise up. One would say you adored the steed of this – this gallant here. But–"

  She turned again to Joris of the Rock, and her voice sharpened.

  "But I pray you let him go. The memory of this hour should job his pride forever."

  Gaston de Volsberghe made a little sound of laughter behind resolute lips, and the outlaw fixed him with a not unfriendly stare.

  "You hear that gentle doom?" he said. "Lording, I keep your horse, lest you boast of standing scatheless in my power. But for yourself, begone in peace."

  This time the pointed hunting hat was swept from the auburn thatch; the Sieur Gaston bowed to flushed Tiphaine and to unsmiling Joris. Thereafter, with no glance at friar or bowmen, he turned on his heel and sauntered off along the road.

  Five pairs of eyes watched sunlight stripe and slide from head to foot of him as he receded; when the blue-clad figure had passed from sight, the broken-nosed outlaw snorted and spat and thrust his arrow back into its quiver.

  "Plague on that clemency," he growled. "A lordly ransom thrown away. And now he will raise the fair on us."

  "Not he," muttered the little dark man, showing white canines in a mirthless grin. "The – the demoiselle has the truth of it; Gaston will keep a close tongue on this day's encounter."

  "Ay, ay," said Joris softly in his beard. Then he turned to the friar and spoke with a certain rough courtesy.

  "Madoc here is right, and Herbrand wrong," he said. "Nevertheless it were not wise to tarry. If you will, the demoiselle and you shall come with us; we can give you a night's lodging and set you on your road again past Ververon, beyond the Olencourt domain. If not, then plod along this track to your next misadventure. Choose."

  "I – I cannot than you, Master Joris, for I have no words," fluted Tiphaine before the friar could speak. "But we will come with you; and every night henceforth I shall pray to the Blessed Virgin, and to good Saints Michael and Christopher, that – that you may abide in honour and escape all danger of man or beast."

  "That is fair hearing, demoiselle," was the outlaw's laconic rejoinder as he turned to shorten the mare's near stirrup; but Tiphaine saw that the fine lines at the corners of his eyes could on occasion deepen as with silent kindly laughter.

  "Come now," he said to her a moment later. "Ride in his place who has made you free of the forest."

  Clumsily he swept her aloft, depositing her in the saddle somewhat as though she were a live coal; and Tiphaine, with perception sharpened by the blast of her late danger, could have sworn that his nostrils twitched as with pain above the set line of his bearded mouth. She sat astride and tugged at her caught-up gown, praying to sweet Saint Catherine that any holes in her stockings were above the knee; for Joris moved round to shorten the off stirrup, and the long pheasant's feather in his high fawn hat danced at her shoulder as she lifted rein. Presently he glanced up, and the girl smiled a reply to his unspoken question. But his eyes were grave – and tired she decided – beneath their heavy sunburned lids; and then Tiphaine became aware of Brother Eugenius, standing apart with sorrow in his face and with hands clasped in the nervous gesture hatefully familiar to her.

  "Eh, some new holy agony," was her impatient thought, and as Joris motioned to his men to take the lead the friar broke into quick speech.

  "May the Sieur God requite you, friend," he cried. "He in His wisdom grows the nettle and the dock together; so in the path of yonder lawless man stood you to vindicate God's mercy on the innocent and helpless. Nevertheless I may not rightly hold my peace…"

  "I see the sting of this discourse is in its tail," said Joris blandly. "Nevertheless, what now?"

  "Nevertheless, this is a stolen horse."

  "Uncle Blaise, for shame!" cried Tiphaine; but the outlaw only turned a quizzical glance upon the painful truth-speaker, while his comrades stared in dumb derision.

  "Nay, now," protested Joris solemnly. "I honour you for that word, Friar; but surely ?God's requital may take the form of a horse. In any case–"

  Brother Eugenius blushed, but his gaze was steady.

  "You mock me and would make me seem ungrateful," he retorted. "But God is not mocked, and no good deed ever justified a deed of evil. I spoke of spiritual requital."

  "I also, if you had not interrupted me," went on the outlaw quietly. "The safety of this maid is my reward. I ask no other, save it may be the prayers she has promised."

  "That you deserved, oh stupid Uncle," thought Tiphaine, coldly surveying her kinsman's confusion and distress.

  "Stop his fool's chatter, Joris, and let us go!" begged the fat archer, grunting as his comrade's elbow took him in the ribs.

  "Courtesy, Herbrand!" said Joris softly, eyeing the surly rogue from head to foot.

  The golden beard was tilted away from Tiphaine, who only saw the effect of that scrutiny. Herbrand backed a pace, turned clumsily, and began to climb from the road.

  "Well, Friar," demanded the outlaw chief, "are you coming with us and our stolen horse? Or can you not see God's dock leaf for God's mire upon it?"

  Brother Eugenius sighed and bowed his head. He had made his protest and would contend no further.

  And presently contentment fell upon Tiphaine as she swayed at ease through sunlight-shafted aisles of the high forest. Already she could scarcely credit, much less recapture, that moment of sick dread when the shape of the Sieur Gaston darkened all the day. Joris, the infamous outlaw, paced beside or behind her with his hunter's easy stride – his scabbard tip agleam, his longbow swaying backward from the feather-crested quiver at his hip. His sword hilt was of plain bone, but the mouthpiece of his hunting horn seemed silver bright and chased; men said he was a bastard of the great house of Montcarneau … and he had lifted her as though he were afraid. Plainly this Joris was not so black as he was painted; Tiphaine felt even a little disappointment, since the wickeder he, the stranger was his rescue of Tiphaine de Ath. Yet that was strange enough to justify her silliest dream.

  "At the Tower they might not believe this tale," she reflected, "but that Uncle Blaise will establish the fact with copious dissertation, with examples from the Fathers, and may references to Holy Writ … so that in a day or two my lord my uncle and his family will all be tired to death of rescue, and of Joris, and of me."

  * * * *

  Dusk fell early in the heathery ravine where Joris had his camp. Some thirty men, diversely clad and armed, sprawled upon gorse-strewn sand above a brawling stream, or stood to watch their chief's incoming by huts of logs and turf. And if Joris himself was no boor, these his followers were crows of carrion kind; their evil hairy faces twitched and leered at sight of the girl and friar, and murmurs of gross comment threaded the still air that smelled of wood smoke, cooking meat, and wine.

  "Plump goods," chuckled one ruffian as the mare stalked past him. "If they are peddling these at Olencourt I am for the fair to-morrow. I wonder is the nag thrown in?"

  Tiphaine's contentment was already jarred, but at that she shivered and pulled up her hood, finding herself tired and hungry and forlorn.

  "Are all men brutes or fools," she wondered, "excepting only Joris of the Rock?"

  But at the end of half an hour, when a first blue star hung straight above the darkening lip of the ravine, and when she had dug her teeth into juicy venison smoked over pine cones, Tiphaine recovered a joy in life which she had not known since her father's death a week before. The main encampment was thirty yards away, cut off from the chief's own hut by a steep sandstone crag and a sharp bend of the stream; laughter and reckless speech were blurred by monotone of water and of wind, and all was peaceful round the new-lit fire, whereby the girl sat between Joris and Brother Eugenius, with three of the outlaw's lieutenants to complete their circle.

  True, the Franciscan's scruples ruffled her tranquillity once more when he begged their
host to serve him last; but Joris seemed to have the measure of that recalcitrance.

  "Come, Master Friar," he said, "seek not to make me slave to your humility. Here none eats last who has stood between Volsberghe and his quarry. Will you drink wine?"

  "Water, I thank you," came the flustered answer, as Brother Eugenius accepted the meat held out to him on the point of the outlaw's knife, and scrabbled in the sand as if to rise.

  "Madoc, serve our guest," commanded Joris; and the little bandy-legged rogue snatched up a drinking horn and vaulted over a shelf of rock to the water's edge before the protesting friar was on his feet.

  Tiphaine laughed ruefully; Joris actually smiled, and with him the fourth outlaw, a haggard youth named Gandulf. Madoc grinned as he swung the dripping horn to the Franciscan's hand, and only Herbrand's prominent eyes held a ferocious sneer.

  "Holy Mary," prayed Tiphaine, "let not the folly of my Uncle Blaise bring too much scorn upon his gentleness."

  "In the name of the Pope, be seated," urged Joris; and the friar obeyed, spilling half his hornful in the act.

  Thereupon hunger was appeased and thirst quenched in silence, or at least without speech. Tiphaine stared happily about her at the bleak and pensive mask of Joris, at the starting flames and the dark munching faces on their further side, at the white smoke curling aloft against pine-crested heather, and at a heap of yellow sand that gleamed beside the rocks like sunlight spilled and forgotten at the end of the strange day.

  "Uncle Blaise said no grace," she reflected, "because the meat and drink were doubtless stolen. Oh, but that bitter wine was good! Let Joris plunder the rich, say I, so be it he does such courtesy to the poor. How fierce and sad he is grown – or is it only the trick of firelight? I wonder, has he ever loved a woman? Small place for women here; how could any but the baser sort companion him, who may not marry, lacking benefit of clergy, lacking house and land and peace for all his days? He drinks and drinks, and yet is only sadder than before."

  But then the outlaw chief laid down an empty flask, tore up a handful of coarse grass, and fell to cleansing the meat-stained blade of his long hunting knife. Presently he glanced aside, so that Tiphaine prepared another shy smile for him; yet his graze went past her as though she were not there.

  "Friar!" he said suddenly.

  Brother Eugenius was nodding, but his shaven head came up, and his sleepy eyes quickened with good will.

  "At your service, Master Joris," he responded.

  Joris was staring into the heart of the fire when his bright beard moved again.

  "Setting apart your vows, which I find more forbidding than inspiring – setting apart your rule, and short of heavenly aid or hope of Paradise – what is your first intention of the day?"

  "Set apart God's air, my rule, and hope of Paradise, and there is not much left. But I take it you mean – what is my own first step to bring these weapons into play against the Devil?"

  "Ay, put it so."

  "Each day to behave as thought it were my last; each year to root out of my life another sin."

  Joris pointed his knife blade at the flames and squinted lovingly along it.

  "You are not now at confession," he went on, "but it would please me mightily to hear against what sin you at present contend."

  Brother Eugenius considered the grass between his sandalled feet; a sidelong and uncertain grin passed between Madoc and Gandulf, and at sight of it double perception awoke in Tiphaine. Joris might or might not mock her kinsman, and his followers might or might not know the mind of Joris; but she was lulled by wine and comfort, and cared not greatly where the truth might lie. She listened idly when the friar looked up and spoke.

  "A sin insidious enough," he promised gravely. "A daughter sin of pride. When rich men stalk abroad I find it in me to despise them; their gait and gear and clattering steel betray their desolate ignorance of all that makes for a true joy and a right liberty. But it is very evil for me, who profess humility, to itch with scorn of any man; not only by the reason of the Rule of Blessed Francis, but also because there dwells in every soul – be it of king or prelate or commander – the seed of a great saintliness, which if it come to flower must rightly abash me before the throne of the Sieur God."

  Joris laughed abruptly, but his laugh was not of the kind to infect his lieutenants with mirth. None of them stirred or responded; and after a moment Joris slid his knife into its sheath, propped elbows on his knees, and cupped his bearded chin in his strong hands, as though he offered tribute of golden bristles to some exacting spirit of the fire.

  "Eh, Friar," he commented, "I find your sin elaborate, and so maybe will Father Adam; but perhaps it will serve as evidence of his paternity. Myself, I am glad of the rich, and so are these my men. And in your way of life and mine I find a sameness and a difference; I, too, must live as though each day were my last … but for the rest, my only rule is to be supreme in all that befits my station. Of my following, Herbrand is stoutest wrestler, Madoc truest archer, and Gandulf fleetest runner; but I can throw Herbrand, outshoot Madoc, and pass Gandulf. Is it not so?"

  "It is so, Joris," answered Gandulf smoothly, while Madoc nodded and Herbrand grunted assent.

  "I am indeed as good as a king, though my writ run only a bowshot from my furthest man, Nay, no king can say more than that."

  "There is a King of kings," the friar reminded him. "Yourself has served him well this day."

  Joris hiccoughed, and Tiphaine knew not if the sound were chance or blasphemy; but she felt that Joris was not given to idle boasting. Indeed, his tone was so reflective that he might have been alone before his hut.

  "I warrant," he added a moment later, "that even Ishmael found much to do besides the breaking of the Ten Commandments."

  "When Ishmael set his hand against mankind," murmured Brother Eugenius, "the Commandments were not given. He erred in blindness"

  Joris chuckled, and caught up the other's words.

  "He erred in blindness. Well, take it thus. I have found much to do besides. Plague on it, Friar, may not the very Devil have this holiday?"

  "Nay, that he may not," came the spirited rejoinder. "He is damned to wrong doing till the sound of the Doom Trumpet."

  "All work and no play, eh? Grant him at least a savour of delight."

  "I pray you, Master Joris, jest no more in this wise. He is the Adversary, and his delight is in his labour."

  Joris spat loudly into the heart of the flames, and for a space there was no word spoken. Tiphaine began to drowse, and the noise from the other campfires dwindled in her ears until it seemed a great way off and powerless to disturb her. Dimly, she heard the voiced of Madoc and Gandulf; then someone threw a log upon the reddening pile, and she started fully awake to catch the key words peasants and Olencourt Fair.

  "To me," said Brother Eugenius, "it seemed they were content as ever I knew them. Theirs is a hard life, well we know; yet there was money in their pockets, and joy of a sort in their faces."

  "Oh, ay," admitted Gandulf. "The hay was good, the corn is like to be better, the murrain has held off these three years past. Nevertheless there is much enslavement of freemen holding land by servile tenures; and for some reason hidden from my understanding, hinds will slave forever so be it they are not called serfs. Then there are those who go about the country stirring up unrest, saying the lords and bishops are not like Christ – and well for them they are not, or the hinds would nail them up as He was nailed. And again, those lords, and bishops are all at feud with each other or with the communes. Saulte and Barberghe remember their old quarrel…"

  Name after haughty name the outlaw quoted, with swift malicious comment to adorn his tale; and the friar's face grew reproachful of this loose chatter.

  "And so, across the north, there is strife brewing," finished Gandulf. "When the cats fight, the mouse shall preen his whiskers. I had rather sit in the forest with my captain Joris."

  "Ay," snickered Madoc, "I wager an equal crown with any man that the next
year brings bloodshed to Honoy or Nordanay or both together."

  "How say you, Master Joris?" asked the friar sadly. "Are the serfs so deluded as to rise in time of plenty?"

  Joris looked blankly round at the last speaker, and again it seemed to Tiphaine that his eyes went through as much as past her. She stirred, resentful of this slight upon a beauty not often overlooked by men; half consciously she jerked back her cloak and twisted up a strand of straying hair, turning big eyes attentively upon the shining golden beard.

  "I have heard sermons in my time," drawled Joris. "Was there not one in Holy Writ who waxed fat and kicked? An empty belly drives a poor pike, Friar. Lend Jacques an ear and he will shout in it. Treat him better than a dog and he feels himself good as his master. Rot him, say I, if he scare away the merchants; for I lose more than any by disturbance of the twined strands of hatred of which this life is woven."

  "Life woven of hatreds?" faltered the friar. "What riddle is that?"

  "No riddle at all. Have you not listened to Gandulf? Do not nobles, clergy, townsmen and serfs hate each and the rest? Ay, and the king away in Hautarroy – each fears him a little, and hates him just as much."

  "Now that is truth," said Tiphaine boldly; and she loved herself for sitting for sitting by an outlaw's campfire and facing harsh realities of life beneath the starlit forest sky.

  The five men looked at her, but she regarded Joris only. Behind her the Franciscan's shocked voice cleft a momentary pause.

  "God pity you, child, you know not what you say. Master Joris is in error. Only as we are intent upon this miserable and corruptible life do we find occasion for hatred of one another. There are those content to be esteemed fools in this world, who humble themselves beneath the mighty hand of God and carry His Word from generation to generation. Charity is yet fruitful, and many a heart holds kindliness beneath a biting tongue. At Santloy, a year ago, I saw a man-at-arms, half drunken and very foul of speech, who broke into a burning house and saved a child and a kitten, himself being grievously burned about the hands and shoulders…"