Chapter 16

Into the midst of the Michaelmas festivities at Halvergate that night, burst a mud-splattered fellow in search of Sir Hugh Vernon. Roger Darke brought him to the knight. The fellow then related that he came from Simeon de Beck, the master of Castle Rising, with tidings that a strange boat, French-rigged, was hovering about the north coast. Let Sir Hugh have a care of his prisoner.

Vernon swore roundly. “I must look into this,” he said. “But what shall I do with Adelais?”

“Will you not trust her to me?” Roger asked. “If so, cousin, I will very gladly be her escort to Winstead. Let the girl dance her fill while she may, Hugh. She will have little heart for dancing after a month or so of Falmouth’s company.”

“That is true,” Vernon assented; “but the match is a good one, and she is bent upon it.”

So presently he rode with his men to the north coast. An hour later Roger Darke and Adelais set out for Winstead, in spite of all Lady Brudenel’s protestations that Mistress Vernon had best lie with her that night at Halvergate.

It was a clear night of restless winds, neither warm nor chill, but fine September weather. About them the air was heavy with the damp odors of decaying leaves, for the road they followed was shut in by the autumn woods, that now arched the way with sere foliage, rustling and whirring and thinly complaining overhead, and now left it open to broad splashes of moonlight, where fallen leaves scuttled about in the wind vortices. Adelais, elate with dancing, chattered of this and that as her gray mare ambled homeward, but Roger was moody.

Past Upton the road branched in three directions; here Master Darke caught the gray mare’s bridle and turned both horses to the left.

“Why, of whatever are you thinking!” the girl derided him. “Roger, this is not the road to Winstead!”

He grinned evilly over his shoulder. “It is the road to Yaxham, Adelais, where my chaplain expects us.”

In a flash she saw it all as her eyes swept these desolate woods. “You will not dare!”

“Will I not?” said Roger. “Faith, for my part, I think you have mocked me for the last time, Adelais, since it is the wife’s duty, as Paul very justly says, to obey.”

Swiftly she slipped from the mare. But he followed her. “Oh, infamy!” the girl cried. “You have planned this, you coward!”

“Yes, I planned it,” said Roger Darke. “Yet I take no great credit therefor, for it was simple enough. I had but to send a feigned message to your blockhead brother. Ha, yes, I planned it, Adelais, and I planned it well. But I deal honorably. Tomorrow you will be Mistress Darke, never fear.”

He grasped at her cloak as she shrank from him. The garment fell, leaving the girl momentarily free, her festival jewels shimmering in the moonlight, her bared shoulders glistening like silver. Darke, staring at her, giggled horribly. An instant later Adelais fell upon her knees.

“Sweet Christ, have pity upon Thy handmaiden! Do not forsake me, sweet Christ, in my extremity! Save me from this man!” she prayed, with entire faith.

“My lady wife,” said Darke, and his hot, wet hand sank heavily upon her shoulder, “you had best finish your prayer before my chaplain, I think, since by ordinary Holy Church is skilled to comfort the sorrowing.”

“A miracle, dear lord Christ!” the girl wailed. “O sweet Christ, a miracle!”

“Faith of God!” said Roger, in a flattish tone; “what was that?”

For faintly there came the sound of one singing.

Sang the distant voice:

“Had your father’s household been

Guelfic-born or Ghibelline,

Beatrice were unknown

On her star-encompassed throne.

“For, had Dante viewed your grace,

Adelais, sweet Adelais,

You had reigned in Bice’s place⁠—

Had for candles, Hyades,

Rastaben, and Betelguese⁠—

And had heard Zachariel

Chant of you, and, chanting, tell

All the grace of you, and praise

Sweet Adelais.”