Via Crucis | Page 8

days were simple.
But on a morning at the end of April, there came a messenger from
King Stephen, bidding all earls, barons, bannerets, and knights, upon
their oath of fealty, join him with their fighting men in Oxford. For
form's sake, the messenger came to Stoke Regis, as not admitting that
any Norman knight should not be on the king's side; and the
drawbridge being down, he rode under the gateway, and when the
trumpeter who was with him had blown three blasts, he delivered his
message. Then the steward, bowing deeply, answered that his lord was
absent on a journey; and the messenger turned and rode away, without
bite or sup. But, riding on to Stortford Castle, he found Sir Arnold, and
delivered the king's bidding with more effect, and was hospitably
treated with meat and drink. Sir Arnold armed himself slowly in full
mail, saving his head, for the weather was strangely warm, and he
would ride in his hat rather than wear the heavy steel cap with the
broad nose-guard. Before an hour had passed he was mounted, with his

men, and his footmen were marching before and behind him on the
broad Hertford road. But he had sent a messenger secretly to the Lady
Goda, to tell her that he was gone; and after that she heard nothing for
many days.
In the morning, and after dinner, and before sunset, she came every day
to the little garden under the west wall of the manor, and looked long
toward the road--not that she wished Sir Raymond back, nor that she
cared when Gilbert came, but she well knew that the return of either
would mean that the fighting was over, and that Sir Arnold, too, would
be at leisure to go home.
On that fifth of May, as the sun was going down, she stood still and
looked out toward the road for the tenth time since Curboil had gone to
join the king. The sun sank lower, and still she saw nothing; and she
felt the chill of the damp evening air, and would have turned to go in,
but something held her. Far up the road, on the brow of the rising
ground, she saw a tiny spark, a little dancing flame like the corpse-
candles that run along the graves on a summer's night--first one, then
all at once three, then, as it seemed to her, a score at least, swaying a
little above a compact dark mass against the red sky. The lights were
like little stars rising and falling on the horizon, and always just above a
low, black cloud. A moment more, and the evening breeze out of the
west brought a long-drawn harmony of chanting to the Lady Goda's ear,
the high sweet notes of youthful voices sustained by the rich
counterpoint of many grown men's tones. She started, and held her
breath, shivered a little, and snatched at the rose bush beside her, so
that the thorns struck through the soft green gauntlet and pricked her,
though she felt nothing. There was death in the air; there was death in
the moving lights; there was death in the minor wail of the monks'
voices. In the first moment of imperfect understanding, it was Arnold
whom they were bringing home to her, slain in battle by her lawful
husband, or by Gilbert, her son; it was Arnold whom they were
bringing back to her who loved him, that she might wash his wounds
with her tears, and dry his damp brow with her glorious hair.
Wide-eyed and silent, as the train came near, she moved along by the
moat to meet the procession at the drawbridge, not understanding yet,

but not letting one movement of the men, one flicker of the lights, one
quaver of the deep chant, escape her reeling senses. Then all at once
she was aware that Gilbert walked bareheaded before the bier, half
wrapped in a long black cloak that swept the greensward behind him.
As she turned the last bastion before reaching the drawbridge, the
funeral was moving along by the outer edge of the moat, and between
the procession and her there was only the broad water, reflecting the
lights of the moving tapers, the dark cowls of the monks, the white
surplices of the song- boys. They moved slowly, and she, as in a dream,
followed them on the other side with little steps, wondering, fearing,
starting now with a wild thrill of liberty at last, now struggling with a
half conventional, half hysterical sob that rose in her throat at the
thought of death so near. She had lived with him, she had played the
long comedy of love with him, she had loathed him in her heart, she
had smiled at