Joan of the Sword Hand

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER XLI

  THERESA KEEPS TROTH

  But they had reckoned without Theresa von Lynar.

  Conrad and Joan came back from the ruined fortification, silent mostly,but thrilled with the thoughts of that which their eyes had seen, theirears heard. Each had listened to the beating of the other's heart. Bothknew they were beloved. Nothing could alter _that_ any more for ever. Asthey had gone out with Theresa watching them from the dusk of the gardenarcades, their hands had drawn together. Eyes had sought answering eyesat each dip of the path. They had listened for the finest shades ofmeaning in one another's voices, and taken courage or lost hope from thedroop of an eyelid or the quiver of a syllable.

  Now all was changed. They knew that which they knew.

  The orchard of the lonely grange on Isle Rugen was curiously out ofkeeping with its barren surroundings. Enclosed within the same wall asthe dwelling-house, it was the special care of the Wordless Man, whosemany years of pruning and digging and watering, undertaken each at itsproper season, had resulted in a golden harvest of September fruit. WhenJoan and Conrad came to the portal which gave entrance from without, lo!it stood open. The sun had been shining in their eyes, and the placelooked very slumberous in the white hazy glory of a northern day. Thepath which led out of the orchard was splashed with cool shade. Greenleaves shrined fair globes of fruitage fast ripening in the blowing airsand steadfast sun. Up the path towards them as they stood together cameTheresa von Lynar. There was a smile on her face, a large and kindlygraciousness in her splendid eyes. Her hair was piled and circled abouther head, and drawn back in ruddy golden masses from the broad whiteforehead. Autumn was Theresa's season, and in such surroundings shemight well have stood for Ceres or Pomona, with apron full enough offruit for many a horn of plenty.

  Such large-limbed simple-natured women as Theresa von Lynar appear togreatest advantage in autumn. It is their time when the day ofapple-blossom and spring-flourish is overpast, and when that which theseforeshadowed is at length fulfilled. Then to see such an one emerge froman orchard close, and approach softly smiling out of the shadow of fruittrees, is to catch a glimpse of the elder gods. Spring, on the otherhand, is for merry maidens, slips of unripe grace, buds from theschools. Summer is the season of languorous dryads at rest in the greengloom of forests, fanning sunburnt cheeks with leafy boughs, their darkeyes full of the height of living. Winter is the time of swiftlithe-limbed girls with heads proudly set, who through the white weathercarry them like Dian the Huntress, their dainty chins dimpling out ofsoftening furs. To each is her time and supremacy, though a certainfavoured few are the mistresses of all. They move like a part of thespring when cherry blossoms are set against a sky of changeful Aprilblue. They rejoice when dark-eyed summer wears scarlet flowers in herhair, shaded by green leaves and fanned by soft airs. Well-bosomed Ceresherself, smiling luxuriant with ripe lips, is not fairer than they atthe time of apple-gathering, nor yet dainty Winter, footing it lightlyover the frozen snow.

  Joan, an it liked her, could have triumphed in all these, but her naturewas too simple to care about the impression she made, while Conrad wastoo deep in love to notice any difference in her perfections.

  And now Theresa von Lynar, the woman who had given her beauty and herlife like a little Saint Valentine's gift into the hand of the man sheloved, content that he should take or throw away as pleased himbest--Theresa von Lynar met these two, who in their new glory ofrenunciation thought that they had plumbed the abysses of love, when asyet they had taken no more than a single sounding in the narrow seas.She stood looking at them as they came towards her, with a sympathy thatwas deeper far than mere tolerance.

  "Our Joan of the Sword Hand is growing into a woman," she murmured; andsomething she had thought buried deep heaved in her breast, shaking heras Enceladus the Giant shakes Etna when he turns in his sleep. For shesaw in the girl her father's likeness more strongly than she had everseen it in her own son.

  "You have faced the sunshine!" Thus she greeted them as they came. "Sitawhile with me in the shade. I have here a bower where Maurice loved toplay--before he left me. None save I hath entered it since that day."

  So saying, she led the way along an alley of pleached green, at the farend of which they could see the solitary figure of Max Ulrich, in thefull sun, bending his back to his gardening tasks, yet at the same time,as was his custom, keeping so near his mistress that a flutteringkerchief or a lifted hand would bring him instantly to her side.

  It was a small rustic eight-sided lodge, thatched with heather, itslatticed windows wide open and creeper-grown, to which Theresa led them.It had been well kept; and when Joan found herself within, a suddenaccess of tenderness for this lonely mother, who for love's sake hadoffered herself like a sacrifice upon an altar, took possession of her.

  For about the walls was fastened a child's pitiful armoury. Home-madeswords of lath, arrows winged with the cast feathers of the woodland,crooked bows, the broken crockery of a hundred imagined banquets--these,and many more, were carefully kept in place with immediate and lovingcare. Maurice would be back again presently, they seemed to say, andwould take up his play just where he left it.

  No cobwebs hung from the roof; the bows were duly unstrung; and thoughwooden platters and rough kitchen equipage were mingled with warlikeaccoutrements upon the floor, there was not a particle of dust to beseen anywhere. As they sat down at the mother's bidding, it was hard topersuade themselves that Maurice von Lynar was far off, enduring thehardships of war or in deadly peril for his mistress. He might have beeneven then in hiding in the brushwood, ready to cry bo-peep at themthrough the open door.

  There was silence in the arbour for a space, a silence which no one ofthe three was anxious to break. For Joan thought of her promise, Conradof Joan, and Theresa of her son. It was the last who spoke.

  "Somehow to-day it is borne in upon me that Kernsberg has fallen, andthat my son is in his enemy's hands!"

  Joan started to her feet and thrust her hands a little out in front ofher as if to ward off a blow.

  "How can you know that?" she cried. "Who----No; it cannot be. Kernsbergwas victualled for a year. It was filled with brave men. My captains arestaunch. The thing is impossible."

  Theresa von Lynar, with her eyes on the waving foliage which alternatelyrevealed and eclipsed the ruddy globes of the apples on the orchardtrees, slowly shook her head.

  "I cannot tell you how I know," she said; "nevertheless I know. Here issomething which tells me." She laid her hand upon her heart. "Those whoare long alone beside the sea hear voices and see visions."

  "But it is impossible," urged Joan; "or, if it be true, why am I kepthere? I will go and die with my people!"

  "It is my son's will," said Theresa--"the will of the son of Henry theLion. He is like his father--therefore women do his will!"

  The words were not spoken bitterly, but as a simple statement of fact.

  Joan looked at this woman and understood for the first time that she wasthe strongest spirit of all--greater than her father, better thanherself. And perhaps because of this, nobility and sacrifice stirredemulously in her own breast.

  "Madam," she said, looking directly at Theresa von Lynar, "it is timethat you and I understood each other. I hold myself no true Duchess ofHohenstein so long as your son lives. My father's compact and conditionare of no effect. The Diet of the Empire would cancel them in a moment.I will therefore take no rest till this thing is made clear. I swearthat your son shall be Duke Maurice and sit in his father's place, as isright and fitting. For me, I ask nothing but the daughter's portion--agrange such as this, as solitary and as peaceful, a garden to delve anda beach to wander upon at eve!"

  As she spoke, Theresa's eyes suddenly brightened. A proud high look saton the fulness of her lips, which gradually faded as some other thoughtasserted its supremacy. She rose, and going straight to Joan, for thefirst time she kissed her on the brow.

  "Now do I know," she said, "that you are Henry the Lion's daughter. Thatis sp
oken as he would have spoken it. It is greatly thought. Yet itcannot be."

  "It shall be!" cried Joan imperiously.

  "Nay," returned Theresa von Lynar. "Once on a time I would have given myright hand that for half a day, for one hour, men might have said of methat I was Henry the Lion's wife, and my son his son! It would have beenright sweet. Ah God, how sweet it would have been!" She paused a momentas if consulting some unseen presence. "No, I have vowed my vow. Herewas I bidden to stay and here will I abide. For me there was no sorrowin any hard condition, so long as _he_ laid it upon me. For have I nottasted with him the glory of life, and with him plucked out the heart ofthe mystery? That for which I paid, I received. My lips have tasted bothof the Tree of Knowledge and of the Tree of Life--for these two growvery close together, the one to the other, upon the banks of the Riverof Death. But for my son, this thing is harder to give up. For on himlies the stain, though the joy and the sin were mine alone."

  "Maurice of Hohenstein shall sit in his father's seat," said Joanfirmly. "I have sworn it. If I live I will see him settled there with mycaptains about him. Werner von Orseln is an honest man. He will do himjustice. Von Dessauer shall get him recognised, and Hugo of Plassenburgshall stand his sponsor before the Diet of the Empire."

  "I would it could be so," said Theresa wistfully. "If my death couldcause this thing righteously to come to pass, how gladly would I endlife! But I am bound by an oath, and my son is bound because I am bound.The tribunal is not the Diet of Ratisbon, but the faithfulness of awoman's heart. Have I been loyal to my prince these many years, so thatnow shame itself sits on my brow as gladly as a crown of bay, that Ishould fail him now? Low he lies, and I may never stand beside hissepulchre. No son of mine shall sit in his high chair. But if in anysphere of sinful or imperfect spirits, be it hell or purgatory, he and Ishall encounter, think you that for an empire I would meet him shamed.And when he says, 'Woman of my love, hast thou kept thy troth?' shall Ibe compelled to answer 'No?'"

  "But," urged Joan, "this thing is your son's birthright. My father, forpurposes of state, bound my happiness to a man I loathe. I have castthat band to the winds. The fathers cannot bind the children, no morecan you disinherit your son."

  Theresa von Lynar smiled a sad wise smile, infinitely patient,infinitely remote.

  "Ah," she said, "you think so? You are young. You have never loved. Youare his daughter, not his wife. One day you shall know, if God is goodto you!"

  At this Joan smiled in her turn. She knew what she knew.

  "You may think you know," returned Theresa, her calm eyes on the girl'sface, "but what _I_ mean by loving is another matter. The band you brokeyou did not make. I keep the vow I made. With clear eye, undulled brain,willing hand I made it--because he willed it. Let my son Maurice breakit, if he can, if he will--as you have broken yours. Only let him nevermore call Theresa von Lynar mother!"

  Joan rose to depart. Her intent had not been shaken, though she wasimpressed by the noble heart of the woman who had been her father'swife. But she also had vowed a vow, and that vow she would keep. TheSparhawk should yet be the Eagle of Kernsberg, and she, Joan, ahome-keeping housewife nested in quietness, a barn-door fowl about theorchards of Isle Rugen.

  "Madam," she said, "your word is your word. But so is that of Joan ofKernsberg. It may be that out of the unseen there may leap a chancewhich shall bring all to pass, the things which we both desire--withoutbreaking of vows or loosing of the bands of obligation. For me, being nomore than a daughter, I will keep Duke Henry's will only in that whichis just!"

  "And I," said Theresa von Lynar, "will keep it, just or unjust!"

  Yet Joan smiled as she went out. For she had been countered andcheckmated in sacrifice. She had met a nature greater than her own, andthat with the truly noble is the pleasure of pleasures. In such thingsonly the small are small, only the worms of the earth delight to crawlupon the earth. The great and the wise look up and worship the sun abovethem. And if by chance their special sun prove after all to be but astar, they say, "Ah, if we had only been near enough it would have beena sun!"

  All the while Conrad sat very still, listening with full heart to thatwhich it did not concern him to interrupt. But within his heart he said,"Woman, when she is true woman, is greater, worthier, fuller than anyman--aye, were it the Holy Father himself. Perhaps because they drawnear Christ the Son through Mary the Mother!"

  But Theresa von Lynar sat silent, and watched the girl as she went downthe long path, the leafy branches spattering alternate light and shadowupon her slender figure. Then she turned sharply upon Conrad.

  "And now, my Lord Cardinal," she said, "what have you been saying to myhusband's daughter?"

  "I have been telling her that I love her!" answered Conrad simply. Hefelt that what he had listened to gave this woman a right to beanswered.

  "And what, I pray you, have princes of Holy Church to do with love? Theyseek after heavenly things, do they not? Like the angels, they neithermarry nor are given in marriage."

  "I know," said Conrad humbly, and without taking the least offence. "Iknow it well. But I have put off the armour I had not proven. The burdenis too great for me. I am a soldier--I was trained a soldier--yetbecause I was born after my brother Louis, I must perforce become bothpriest and cardinal. Rather a thousand times would I be a man-at-armsand carry a pike!"

  "Then am I to understand that as a soldier you told the Duchess Joanthat you loved her, and that as a priest you forbade the banns? Or didyou wholly forget the little circumstance that once on a time youyourself married her to your brother?"

  "I did indeed forget," said Conrad, with sincere penitence; "yet youmust not blame me too sorely. I was carried out of myself----"

  "The Duchess, then, rejected your suit with contumely?"

  Conrad was silent.

  "How should a great lady listen to her husband's brother--and he apriest?" Theresa went on remorseless. "What said the Lady Joan when youtold her that you loved her?"

  "The words she spoke I cannot repeat, but when she ended I set my lipsto her garment's hem as reverently as ever to holy bread."

  The slow smile came again over the face of Theresa von Lynar, the smileof a warworn veteran who watches the children at their drill.

  "You do not need to tell me what she answered, my lord," she said, forthe first time leaving out the ecclesiastic title. "I know!"

  Conrad stared at the woman.

  "She told you that she loved you from the first."

  "How know you that?" he faltered. "None must hear that secret--none mustguess it!"

  Theresa von Lynar laughed a little mellow laugh, in which a keen earmight have detected how richly and pleasantly her laugh must once havesounded to her lover when all her pulses beat to the tune of gladnessand the unbound heart.

  "Do you think to deceive me, Theresa, whom Henry the Lion loved? Have Ibeen these many weeks with you two in the house and not seen this?Prince Conrad, I knew it that night of the storm when she bent her overthe couch on which you lay. 'I love,' you say boldly, and you thinkgreat things of your love. But she loved first as she will love most,and your boasted love will never overtake hers--no, not though you loveher all your life.... Well, what do you propose to do?"

  Conrad stood a moment mutely wrestling with himself. He had never feltJoan's first instinctive aversion to this woman, a dislike even yetscarcely overcome--for women distrust women till they have proventhemselves innocent, and often even then.

  "My lady," he said, "the Duchess Joan has showed me the better way. Likea man, I knew not what I asked, nor dared to express all that I desired.But I have learned how souls can be united, though bodies areseparated. I will not touch her hand; I will not kiss her lips. Once ayear only will I see her in the flesh. I shall carry out my duty, madeat least less unworthy by her example----"

  "And think you," said Theresa, "that in the night watches you will keepthis charge? Will not her face come between you and the altar? Will nother image float before you as you kneel at the
shrine? Will it not blotout the lines as you read your daily office?"

  "I know it--I know it too well!" said Conrad, sinking his head on hisbreast. "I am not worthy."

  "What, then, will you do? Can you serve two masters?" persisted theinquisitor. "Your Scripture says not."

  A larger self seemed to flame and dilate within the young man.

  "One thing I can do," he said--"like you, I can obey. She bade me goback and do my duty. I cannot bind my thought; I cannot change my heart;I cannot cast my love out. I have heard that which I have heard, and Icannot forget; but at least with the body I can obey. I will perform myvow; I will keep my charge to the letter, every jot and tittle. And ifGod condemn me for a hypocrite--well, let Him! He, and not I, put thislove into my heart. My body may be my priesthood's--I will strive tokeep it clean--but my soul is my lady's. For that let Him cast both souland body into hell-fire if He will!"

  Theresa von Lynar did not smile any more. She held out her hand toConrad of Courtland, priest and prince.

  "Yes," she said, "you do know what love is. In so far as I can I willhelp you to your heart's desire."

  And in her turn she rose and passed down through the leafy avenues ofthe orchard, over which the westering sun was already casting rood-longshadows.