The Grey Man. Crockett Samuel Rutherford
the young Lady Marjorie came walking by, fairer of face than the flower of the hawthorn hedge on a moonlight night, but with hair tossed about her temples blacker than the sky on a night of stars. Her eyes were bright and large when she turned them on me.
'Launcelot, come and walk with me awhile,' she said kindly, 'unless you have something better to do – with your arms and war gear as it may be,' she added. And her way of speaking thus of my calling as a soldier pleased me. Also in spite of my renunciation of all pleasure in women's society, my heart gave a great stound at her marked favour. Perhaps, also, at the way she had in walking, which was with her head high and her bosom set well forward in its openwork bodice of fair linen, and all her sweet body swaying lightly to the side as a willow wand that bends in the wind.
Her voice, the voice of Marjorie Kennedy, sounded like the running of deep water in a linn under the dusk of trees, with undercurrents of sobs and pitifulness in it, for all that it was so proud. For even thus, in her youth, walking as the fairest maid the sun shone on, Marjorie seemed ever to be 'fey,' trysted to some lot beyond that of maids who are to be good men's wives and mothers.
But enough of speaking about her and about. Better that I should tell what she said to me as we walked up and down, while the young buds were cracking open that gracious May gloaming.
'It was a good fight, I hear, and well fought,'she said.
'Which fight may it please you to speak of, my Lady Marjorie?' said I, making as though I had been in many.
'The battle in the High Street of Edinburgh,' she made answer, and methought smiled as she said it. But there was no bairnly scorn or raw coltish ignorance in Marjorie's smile, as there mostly was in the face of her sister – who was nothing but a child at any rate, and still wore her hair without a snood, flying daft-like about her shoulders.
Then I told Marjorie Kennedy of all the fight, and she listened with face turned away from me to the sea, looking to the hills of Arran that were so blue in the distance, so that for a space I thought she hearkened not to what I said.
But in a little she interrupted me. 'And you speak thus with admiration of Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany, he that is an enemy to our house and name! How say ye then that such an one is noble and worthy?'
For I had been telling her of meeting him coming from the king's palace.
'Ay, noble and generous is Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany, as well as the handsomest man that walks, with a spring to his feet as one that goes upon the deep twigs of the pine trees in the woods. He can twirl a lance in one hand on horseback – for I myself have seen him – never was there such a man!'
For I had given him all my heart and admiration, being then young – or at least not very old in years – and I wished with all my strength that such an one had been chief of our side and Earl of Cassillis, instead of he that was. Though my lord is a good man also, and I deny it not.
Then it was that my Lady Marjorie showed me the greatest favour that ever she showed to any man, and caused my heart to beat high with love and hope. For she took my hand in hers, holding it to her side as she walked – ay, and stroked and touched it gently with her other hand as we went along, being hidden by the screen of the leaves in the pleasaunce hedges. Now this was so sweet to me and precious, that I slept with my right hand in a glove of silk for many days – ay, and even forbore to wash it. For I bethought me that though, as a man of war, I had forsworn the society of silly girls, yet every true knight had a lady for his heart's mistress, whose colours he might wear in his helmet, and whose lightest word he might treasure in his heart.
Thus we two walked and talked, while the sun was going down and the colours of a dove's breast crept over the water from the west.
'And this Gilbert of Bargany – tell me of him – for, being the great enemy of our house, I desire to hear more of him,' she said.
So I told her, being nothing loth to speak of so brave an enemy.
'Was he at all hurt in the combat, think you?' she asked again, carelessly, as one that thinks of other things.
'Wounded? No,' I replied, with a laugh; 'on the contrary, he pursued us down to the ford of the Nor' Loch, and defied us all to come back and have it out. But I think that not he but another, had a hand in the craven's trick of letting loose on us the offscourings of the prisons – Highland catherans and Border hedgethieves.'
'And who might that other be?' she asked.
'That,' I replied, with dignity, 'I am not at liberty to tell. It is yet a secret under trust.'
'Tell it me,' she said, bending her eyes on me, that were beautiful as I know not what.
And this, indeed, I should very gladly have done at that moment, but truly I knew nothing of the matter. So I made haste to answer that I would readily die for her, but that it was a soldier's duty that he should keep the secrets with which his honour had been entrusted.
'Then tell me what you can,' she said, so quietly that I was ashamed of my subterfuge. Though that is the way that all wise men must talk to women, so as to keep the peace, telling them (mostly) the truth, but seldom the whole truth.
'It was,' said I, 'the Grey Man!'
'Ah,' she replied, quickly drawing away her hand, and laying it upon her heart, 'the Grey Man!'
'What ken ye of the Grey Man?' I asked her, in surprise.
'Nothing,' she said, giving me back her hand; 'I know not why, but for the moment something came upon me, and I felt as it had been a little faint. It is nothing. It has already passed.'
Then I wished to bring her a cup of wine from the house. But she laughed more merrily than ever I had heard her, and tossed back the lace kerchief which confined her hair, so that it lay about her white neck with the ends dropping over her bosom.
'Let us two walk here yet a space, Launcelot,' she said, 'for it is lonely within the great house.'
A saying which made my heart swell with gladness and pride, for she had never thus distinguished any man before, so that I forgot all about my vows and about forswearing to company with women. But this was indeed very different.
'My Lady Marjorie,' I said (I much desired to say 'My sweet lady' as they do in the stage plays, but dared not), 'My Lady Marjorie,' I said, 'I, even I, will be your true knight, and fight for you against all, if so be that coming home I may see the pleasure in your eyes.'
'Ah, will you truly?' she asked, and sighed. Then she was silent for a moment but drew not away her hand, which I took of be a good omen.
'No, you must not – you must not. It would not be fair!' she said.
'I love you with all my heart!' I whispered, trying to reach her hand; but somehow, though it was very near, I could not again take it in mine.
She seemed not to hear me speak.
'Well,' she said at last, as if to herself, 'perhaps it will be good for the lad.'
I could not conceive what she meant.
'Launcelot,' she continued, and her voice had music in it such as I never heard in any kirk or quire, at matins or at laud, – 'Launcelot, do not think of me, I pray you – at least, not if you can help it – '
'Help it I cannot,' answered I; 'it is far beyond that!'
And so I thought at the time.
'But, Launcelot, my sweet squire,' she said again, 'hast thou already forgotten thy vow? It is better for thee to be a squire of arms than a squire of dames! At least,' she added, smiling, 'till you win your spurs.'
'I will win them for your sake, an you will let me, Marjorie!' I cried.
'Win them, then, Launcelot,' she made me answer, suddenly breaking from her reserve, 'win them for my sake – and see, meantime you shall wear my colours.'
And she undid a brooch of gold whereon were the lilies of France, that were the badge of her house, and setting it on the velvet collar of my coat she gave a little dainty pat to the place where she put it.
'It sets you well,' she said, pushing my hair to one side to look at me; 'two such I have. Wear you one