Chapter 7 ARCADES AMBO.

In the evening of the day on which the strange scene at St. Alban's Abbey just described had taken place, Sir Fulke de Breauté sat with his younger brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.

The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well satisfied with himself.

"By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have done a good morning's work;" and he reached across to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood on the table beside him, and poured himself out a deep draught. Then he passed the wine across to his brother, who sat moodily staring into the log-fire.

"Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering."

"'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the other sulkily. "I like it not overmuch. Give me the pure clarets of France and Italy," he added, but replenishing his horn all the same.

Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother. A great change had come over William since that eventful evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe in a perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses keeping time to the rattle of his horse's hoofs. First and foremost he had cursed Ralph de Beauchamp--for now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage he drove the rowels again and again deep into the flanks of his unfortunate steed. Next he cursed all the De Beauchamp family and all connected with it. Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De Pateshulle had urged him to prosecute the suit which had resulted in such dire humiliation. But here he had paused in his curses.

He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's daughter with an oath. Her face haunted him as he rode along: her face--first, cold and set as marble, as when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then, flushed and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, as she turned to him from the window, and took those six paces to confront him. Her scornful beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid passion seized him.

He had flung himself from his horse in the castle-yard, and strode into the hall, scattering curses right and left at the astonished servants, used only to such a display of anger from his elder brother.

For weeks after this outburst he lived in a state of brooding sullenness, broken only by occasional violent fits of rage. His sister-in-law, if she met him in the hall, turned and fled. Even pretty Beatrice Mertoun, whom he was wont to regard with more favour than perhaps the bold miner would have approved of, flitted past him as quickly as possible, with a mere nod.

Sir Fulke observed this change in his brother with grim satisfaction. In furtherance of his new evil schemes he determined to turn to good or bad account the dormant ferocity which had been aroused.

"Marry, brother," he remarked, "methinks there sits a cloud on your brow, as if your thoughts were far away--perchance over Bletsoe way?" he added, with a grim chuckle.

"What's that to you?" retorted William sullenly. "In good sooth you had better mind your own business, and attend to your masses, and your flagellations, and your retreats, along with the rest of the women folk, and leave my thoughts to myself!"

"I crave your pardon, brother," replied Sir Fulke, in mock humility. "Fill up again, man. I was a fool not to see that your meditations were too unpleasant to be connected with so fair a subject as the Lady Aliva."

"The Lady Aliva!" exclaimed William fiercely, leaning forward on the table eagerly, and confronting his brother, his chin supported on his hands, and his eyes gleaming--"the Lady Aliva! By the mass, I swear to you, brother, I cease not to think of her night and day! I see her ever before me, those eyes, those flashing eyes, that queenly form; I dream I clasp her, and I awake mad with despair! May the curses of St. Denis of France light for ever on that traitorous villain who dared supplant me, on that lying fool of a De Pateshulle, who--" And he buried his face in the deep flagon once more, as if to drown his feelings.

Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm.

"Hark ye, brother," he said; "calm yourself and lower your voice. I have somewhat to say unto you which I care not that all the varlets in the hall hear. Do you wish for vengeance on a De Pateshulle?"

"Do I?" gasped William. "Try me!"

"So be it. I will put vengeance within your reach. It shall lie with you to take it, if you carry out the plan I have in my head."

"Another fat abbey to sack!" cried the younger brother. "In good sooth, brother, you smite with your hands while you give your back to be smitten," he laughed.

"Not so," rejoined Fulke. "I am in no mind to meddle with churches for the nonce. This is quite another kind of deer to chase. You mind that special commission of the king's justices, convoked at Dunstable not long since to inquire into certain of my doings in these parts, which it seemed pleased not those most concerned with them. It hath come to my knowledge that the court has pronounced judgment against me. They may, by my troth, if it pleases them, for it does me no harm. No less than thirty verdicts did they bring against me," he went on chuckling, "and for these thirty verdicts some one shall suffer, I warrant me, though it shall not be he whom their worships had in their mind's eye when they delivered them!"

William gazed at his brother admiringly. His weaker, shallower brain, already somewhat fuddled with his copious libations of the past few weeks, followed him with difficulty.

"Beshrew me, brother, if I see what nail thou art hammering at. These justices will have none of me."

"But I fain will that you have some of them," Fulke went on. "It would beseem ill to the repentant son of Holy Church to lift his arm so soon against her after she has absolved him, for one of these justices is a priest. But you, brother, owe her naught. From trusty sources I learn that these three legal spiders are to meet again at Dunstable for further spinning as soon as this retreat at Elstow is over. Now, what say you, brother, to meeting them upon their journey thither, and to bringing to Bedford Castle, instead of to Dunstable town, the worshipful Thomas de Muleton, Henry de Braybrooke, and Martin de Pateshulle?"

"Martin de Pateshulle!" interrupted William eagerly. "Pardie! a De Pateshulle is a quarry that would please me well."

"He is learned in the law, this priest," Fulke continued, apparently not heeding how his fish had risen to his bait. "The king can fare ill without his counsel in these parts, and methinks, were he and his brother worships safe caged in our stronghold here, it would prove Fulke de Breauté to be a greater fool than men hold him for did he not get what ransom he named. But, certes, I would be merciful, as it beseemeth with a priest. I would ask neither silver nor gold, naught save the remission of the thirty judgments that are out against me. What say you, brother? Is the snaring this legal vermin to your mind?"

"'Twould be good sport, by my troth!" ejaculated William, "though methinks it is no easy emprise! To seize the king's justices! 'Tis a bold swoop, brother."

"Tush!" replied Fulke scornfully; "there speaks no brother of mine! I trow a De Breauté, bastard from a little Norman village, had ne'er sat in the seigneur's parlour of this, one of the fairest of English castles, had he piped in that strain. Take another draught, brother," he added, pushing the flagon across.

"In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood in this cursed land of fogs," apologized William, draining his horn. "But I must have some of your best varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the country, and plenty of them."

"Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks for such game as this, man! These reverend justices shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a noble train! Take heart o' grace. Think thee of thy vengeance. It is a De Pateshulle that is the booty!"

"Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing up his courage still further by another drink. Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the niece and not the uncle!"

Fulke smiled grimly.

"And why not?" he asked quietly.

William, half stupified as he was fast becoming, saw the development of a new plot.

"Pardie! That proud maiden here! Helpless--a prisoner! Niece snared with the uncle! Ha, ha!" he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly. "Ha, my lady! who would say me nay a second time? Not you, by St. Denis, I warrant me!" and he laughed wildly. "Travel they together, say you? Father Martin to Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay, beshrew me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"

Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a maudlin giggle. Sir Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon out of his reach, and called to two varlets from the hall to carry his brother off to bed.