Edward Arundale’s widow, still chatelaine of Follymead, had come to the final concert. They were there in the same room together, there was only about fifteen yards of air between them, and yet they could not communicate.
Or was there still a way? That curious conversation with Felicity had started a tune running in Liri’s head, and it would not be quieted. It plagued her with reminders of the rogue page who tossed just such an apple of discord in among Lord Barnard’s household “where they were sat at meat.” The verse ranged through her head, in the light of what she had just learned, with a new and terrifying aptness. If they talked to her, they could talk to another person, one, the only one except George Felse and Lucien Galt, who knew the whole story, and would recognise only too well the full implications. She might still misunderstand; but that had to be risked. Liri could not leave her to step over the edge of the pit without so much as reaching a hand to her. Whatever her own wrongs, she owed Audrey that and more. She was indebted to her for a world, and she could make so little repayment now.
Liri folded her hands on her guitar, and waited. She knew now what she had to do.
CHAPTER XI
« ^
PAST SIX O’CLOCK. The darkness was purplish, thundery, the air still as before a storm. It must be her turn soon. Why had the old man kept her until last?
“And now for Liri. She promised to sing us ‘The Queen’s Maries’ in the full text, which is by way of being a marathon performance, so I’ve reserved enough time for her to do herself justice. But now she’s whispering in my ear that she’d like to change her choice. It’s a woman’s privilege. So I’ll leave any introduction to Liri.”
“I thought,” she said, clearly and quietly, “that everyone knows the story of Mary Hamilton, and there are so many fine stories that very few people know. I warn you, this is a marathon performance, too, but I hope you won’t find it dull. I’d like to sing the ballad of ‘Gil Morrice.’ Anybody know it?”
Thank God, nobody did. She knew the proud, proprietary emanations of those who find themselves one up on the rest, and here there was nothing like that, only pleased expectancy. It’s still true, people love to be read to, to listen to stories. Even those kids who are so with it that they’ve completely lost contact with most of it – “it” being the total body of mental and spiritual fulfilment and delight, the mass of music, the body of books, the entire apparition of art – even they will shiver and thrill to this blood-stained tragedy, though they won’t recognise their excitement as something dating back into prehistory. They’ll think it’s because this is “folk,” of all the odd labels. This is human, which is more than being folk.
“Here goes then. ‘Gil Morrice’.”
She curled over the guitar, felt along its strings with a sensuous gesture, and raised her face, filling her lungs deep. The guitar uttered one shuddering chord, and that was all. She began in the story-teller’s level, lilting voice:
“Gil Morrice was an Erle’s son.
His name it waxed wide;
It was not for his great riches
Nor for his mickle pride.
But it was for a lady gay
That lived on Carron side.”
So much for the introduction, and straight into the story. The guitar took up a thin, fine line of melody, low beneath the clear voice, that had as yet no passion in it, but remained a story-teller, uninvolved, unwrung:
“ ‘Where shall I find a bonny boy
That will win hose and shoon.
That will go to Lord Barnard’s hall
And bid his lady come?
‘And you must run my errand, Willie.
And you may run with pride.
When other boys gae on their feet
On horseback ye shall ride.’
‘Oh, no, oh, no, my master dear.
I darena for my life
I’ll not go to the bold baron’s
For to tryst forth his wife.
‘But oh, my master dear,’ he cried.
“In greenwood ye’re your lane.
Give o’er such thoughts, I would you rede.
For fear ye should be ta’en.’ ”
The guitar had enlarged its low comment, the thick chords came in rising anger. A stillness began to bud in the centre of the audience, and opened monstrous petals in the gloom. A little more, and she would know she had them; but whether she had Audrey she had no way of knowing. The pulsing excitement of the telling took her like a trance. She heard her own voice deepen and grow harsh, and she had done nothing at all, issued no orders:
“ ‘My bird Willie, my boy Willie.
My dear Willie,’ he said.
“How can ye strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyed.
‘Haste, haste, I say, go to the hall.
Bid her come here with speed.
If ye refuse my high command
I’ll gar your body bleed.’
‘Yes, I will go your black errand.
Though it be to your cost.
Since you by me will not be warned.
In it ye shall find frost.
‘And since I must your errand run
So sore against my will.
I’ll make a vow, and keep it true.
It shall be done for ill.’ ”
The guitar came crashing in now with the dark themes of the page’s hate and love, and the rapid, rushing narrative of his ride to Lord Barnard’s castle. He swam the river and leaped the wall, and burst in upon the household at table. She had them in her hand, and the instrument sang for her, passionate and enraged beneath the far-pitched thread of her voice stringing in the words like pearls. Oh, God, let her understand what’s coming before he does, let her listen with every nerve. All I want is that she should have time to get her armour on, and be ready for him.
The page was in the hall now, striding in upon the assembled company. The voice sang full and clear, almost strident to ride over the meal-time talk:
“Hail, hail, my gentle sire and dame.
My message will not wait.
Dame, ye maun to the good greenwood
Before that it be late.
‘See, there’s your sign, a silken sark.
Your own hand sewed the sleeve.
You must go speak with Gil Morrice.
Ask no bold baron’s leave.’
The lady stamped with her foot
And winked with her ee.
But for all that she could say or do.
Forbidden he wouldna be.
‘It’s surely to my bower woman.
It ne’er could be to me.’
‘I brought it to Lord Barnard’s lady.
I trow that you are she.’
Then up and spake the wily nurse.
The bairn upon her knee:
‘If it be come from Gil Morrice
It’s dear welcome to me.’
‘Ye lied, ye lied, ye filthy nurse.
So loud I heard ye lee.
I brought it to Lord Barnard’s lady.
I trow you are not she.’
Then up and spake the bold baron.
An angry man was he.
He’s thrust the table with his foot.
So has he with his knee.
Till silver cup and mazer dish
In flinders he gar’d flee.
‘Go bring a robe of your clothing
That hangs upon the pin.
And I’ll go to the good greenwood
And speak with your lemman.’ ”
Her mouth, as always when she attempted these appalling feats, was sour and raw with the myriad voices that spoke through it, and the bitterness that century upon century could not sweeten or abate. There was sweat running on her lips, and until this moment she had not been able to raise her head and rest, letting the guitar speak for her again. Now it sang softly, unalarmed, waiting in serenity, and she cast one urgent glance towards where Audrey sat beside the open window. There was a tension there, something braced and ready and wild, to which her own heart rose with answering passion; but whether it was really more than the tension that held them all was more than she could guess. There was so little time, because the thread of this compulsion rested in her, and she must not let it flag. The sylvan song had been prolonged enough, and here came the ultimate test of her powers, the key verse that must reach Audrey before the rest had time to aim at understanding: