The Charwoman's Shadow
by Lord Dunsany
XVII: The Three Fair Fields
The day dawned splendidly, and air and fields glittered all the morning with sunlight, which welled up over the world and was only stopped by the forest. Her mother called Mirandola to the room in which the draughts and the tapestries upheld their age-old antagonisms, and spoke with her of Gulvarez. She spoke awhile of his merits, and often paused, for it was her intention to answer her daughter’s objections, but Mirandola made no objections at all. It was of these objections that the Lady of the Tower had been better prepared to speak than of such merits as might be attributed to Gulvarez, and when there were no objections to answer, her pauses grew longer and longer; and soon she said no more at all, but sat and looked at her daughter. And that was a sight for which many would gladly have travelled far; yet the Lady of the Tower was puzzled as she looked, seeing no doubts in her daughter’s face, no hesitations, only a quiet acquiescence, and beyond that the trace of a smile that she could not fathom.
Then Mirandola went from her mother’s room, back to her own, with a quick glance as she went, through every window she passed that looked to the road. And she took the vial that she had had from her brother from the place in which she had hidden it overnight, and once more placed it secretly in her dress. And as she passed through a corridor, leaving her room, she saw from a sunlit window the horseman they all awaited hurrying home.
At once there was a stir of feet in the Tower. The four men with the boar-spears ran to the door; and Father Joseph came out and blessed their gathering, and showed them where to stand and how to hold the spears; and all the while a certain flash in his eye showed them that blessing was not his only work. And the three maids ran to their baskets, that were all full of wild flowers gathered by them in the dew; and Mirandola came with them carrying a basket of rose-petals. As the maidens came through the door Father Joseph blessed the baskets. Then they went slowly up the road all four, strewing the way with flowers.
Once more Father Joseph had seen in Mirandola’s face a look of wonder and awe and joy, as though something had come to her that was new and strange. What should it be but love? And yet he deemed that it was something else, but knew not what it was. It was that she carried in the vial that her brother brought her a magical thing, the first she had ever owned.
As Father Joseph mused and failed to find an answer, there began to arrive the folk from neighbouring cots, coming across the fields: they gathered a little way off from the door and began to talk of Gulvarez. They were a folk much as other folk are, and yet they were as it were maimed of half their neighbourhood, for none dwelt in the forest. It may be because of this they gossiped more eagerly of what neighbours they had: it may be that all gossip everywhere runs to its limit, and is nowhere more or less. They spoke of Gulvarez, who was so strangely honoured; and some said that the only cause of the visit was that his castle chanced to stand by the Duke’s journey, while others said nay, arguing that in his youth there must have been some sprightly quality that Gulvarez had had, some excellence of mind or limb, for the sake of which the Duke remembered him now. How else they said would this exquisite hidalgo, the mirror of all that followed the chase whether of wolf, stag, or boar, whose mind was brightly stored with the merriest songs of the happiest age Spain knew, whose form, when mounted on one of his own surpassing horses, was the form of a young centaur, how else would he tolerate the gross Gulvarez? Thus merrily flew the gossip, passing backward and forward lightly from mouth to mouth.
And suddenly, where a hump of the road appeared white against the blue sky, all saw two horsemen. At once Father Joseph called sharply to the improvised men-at-arms in a voice unlike the one wherewith he was wont to bless. They stiffened under it and became more like the guard they were meant to be. The Lord of the Tower and his lady came out and stood before their door. The girls went on strewing flowers. And then was seen the velvet cloak and cap of the Duke, and the great plume, and the clear thin face, and his peerless chestnut horse aglow in the sun, and the plump figure and coarse whiskers of Gulvarez. These two were seen and recognized by all before one of the chiefs of the bowmen had yet been discerned. But two of these were nearer to the Tower than anybody knew; they slipped quietly from bush to bush and went carefully over horizons; two were far before the Duke and two close behind him: it was the way of the bowmen. And then, a little way behind the riders, straggled Gulvarez’s two men-at-arms. At first they had marched in front, but the horses of the Duke and Gulvarez ambled rather than walked, and the two men-at-arms in their green plush and cuirasses, with the heat of the sun on the iron helmets they wore, soon fell a little behind. And now a bowman coming into sight hailed the group of gazers near the door of the Tower; and they saw two of those green bowmen that were so seldom seen, and were so famous in fable and gossip: a little thrill of wonder ran through the crowd. And presently these two halted one on each side of the road, and the Duke beside Gulvarez rode on between them and came to where the girls were scattering flowers. As soon as Gulvarez perceived Mirandola he bared his head and smiled at her. It was a huge grimace. Mirandola curtseyed to him; perhaps she smiled, but it was not easy always to trace exactly every expression that passed over her face. And then she gravely continued strewing the rose-petals. Then the Duke doffed his hat of dark blue velvet, and the great plume, of a brighter blue, curved through the summer air; and a glance of the Duke’s blue eyes met a flash from the darker ones of Mirandola.
So passed the Duke and Gulvarez by Mirandola, riding over the flowers and rose-petals, and not a word was said. She had seen the eyes of the Duke and the teeth of Gulvarez, and both men saw her beauty; and so that instant passed. There came a wavering cheer from the group of gazing neighbours, a shot of anger from Father Joseph at some clumsiness of the improvised guard, and the Lord of the Tower and his lady were welcoming the Duke as he dismounted on flowers. The neighbours, clustering a little closer, appraised the Duke’s great blue cloak; the jewels in his sword-hilt; his easy seat upon that splendid horse, a certain indolence redeemed by grace; the strong gait of his walk; his face; his youth. Aye, they praised his youth, as though any man could deserve credit for that; but there was such a way with him, so pleasant a grace, that they gave praise out of their thoughtless hearts to everything that formed it. Then the horses were led away by the men of Gulvarez, and host and hostess and guests and Mirandola all passed into the Tower.
The Lord of the Tower walked with the Duke, exchanging courtesies with him, his lady walked with Gulvarez after them, and Mirandola followed behind. And so they came through the hall and towards the banquet-chamber, the host watching opportunity all the way; and not until they arrived where the banquet was ready, and the maids that had strewn the wild flowers had brought a silver bowl to wash the hands of the Duke in scented water, did the Lord of the Tower note and take his opportunity. He went then to Gulvarez past Mirandola, speaking low to her as he passed: “You shall see him presently,” he said to her. “Yes, presently,” said the Lady of the Tower, just hearing, or, if not, divining what her lord had said to his daughter. Both thought she smiled obediently. And to Gulvarez he said: “I have a pretty tusk that I would show you before we banquet. A boar we took last season.”
Gulvarez well understood; for there had been a bargain not in clear words, and without seals or parchment, inscribed only upon those two men’s understanding, that if he brought the Duke to visit the Lord of the Tower the hand of Mirandola should go to Gulvarez. And the time was come to ratify it. Gladly then Gulvarez went away with his host.
The bringing of the Duke had been none of Gonsalvo’s bargain; he had come to a time of life when events and occasions seemed but to disturb the placidity of the years: it had been forced on him by some whim of Mirandola. They came to the room that the host most often used, in which there were indeed boars’ tusks to show; but this both men soon forgot.
“I have begun to think somewhat of late,” said the Lord of the Tower, “concerning my daughter’s future.”
“Indeed?” said Gulvarez.
“Somewhat,” replied his host.
No more instants passed than are needed for a heavy mind to move; and then Gulvarez said: “I take then this opportunity to express my ready willingness to marry your daughter should this have your approval. I trust that my castle may be an abode not unworthy of one of your honoured house.”
Gladly then the Lord of the Tower expressed his approval in phrases not unfitted to that occasion: many such phrases he uttered, fair, courteous, and flowery, and still invented more, though the arts of perfect speech were some years behind him now; but he feared the next words of Gulvarez and seemed to wish to delay them: perhaps he blindly hoped to stave them off altogether.
“You will doubtless,” said Gulvarez, “give her a dowry in keeping with the lustre of your name.”
“I shall indeed give her a dowry,” said Gonsalvo. “Indeed the coffer that I set aside for this very purpose is here.” And he laid his hand on the coffer of oak and silver.
Gulvarez lifted the box a few inches with one large hand, that could span the box and hold it, and put it down again. The Lord of the Tower waited for him to speak, but Gulvarez said nothing. It seemed to the owner of the box that it would have been better had Gulvarez depreciated it than that he should have thus weighed it in silence. And as Gulvarez did not speak, his host continued.
“It is not as if I had not the coffer,” he said. “It is here. I have set it aside. But it has not been convenient to plenish it lately, or indeed as yet to put anything in it at all.”
Still Gulvarez said nothing.
“The coffer is there,” said Gonsalvo. Gulvarez nodded.
“I had intended to fill it later,” Gonsalvo continued, “if it should not be ready by the day of the wedding; and one day to send it after Mirandola.”
Gulvarez was slowly and heavily shaking his head. It seemed to the Lord of the Tower that the stubbly growth of Gulvarez’s chestnut whiskers almost shone as he shook his head, as the skin of a horse when he is in good fettle.
“That would be too late?” said Gonsalvo.
“Somewhat,” replied Gulvarez.
Gonsalvo sighed. It must then be the three fair fields, the pastures that lay at evening under the shade of the forest. Perhaps two; but, no, Gulvarez would ask for all three; and how could he find a husband for Mirandola if he rejected Gulvarez’s demands? Time was when he could have done so, for he had known somewhat of the world once. But the world had changed.
“My son, Ramon Alonzo,” he said, “is studying to learn a livelihood, from which we have great hopes.”
Never a word from Gulvarez helped him out; merely a look of interest that compelled him to go on. “In case he should be delayed,” he continued, “in assisting me to set aside the dowry that I should wish to offer, my fields, my two fields, should be given, until the money was sent.”
“Two fields?” said Gulvarez.
“Nay, nay,” said his host. “All three.”
“Ah,” said Gulvarez.
“So we shall be agreed,” said Gonsalvo.
“How much money, señor, are you pleased to give on the day that it shall be convenient?”
“Three hundred crowns of the Golden Age,” replied the Lord of the Tower.
Gulvarez smiled and shook his head as though in meditation.
“Five hundred,” said the Lord of the Tower.
“My respect for your illustrious house,” said Gulvarez, “and my friendship for you, señor, that I deem myself honoured to have, holds me silent.”
“Five hundred?” said the host with awe in his voice, for it was a great sum.
Gulvarez waved something away with his hand in the emptiness of the air. “Let us speak no more, señor,” he said. “Our two hearts are agreed. It is a great honour, and I am dumb before it.”
The Lord of the Tower sighed. He had known, whenever he thought, that he should do no better than this; and yet he had thought seldom, but hoped instead. Now it was over, and the three fields gone. They never seemed fairer than now. “Come,” he said, “we must return to Mirandola.”
So back they went, and jauntily walked Gulvarez, though in no wise built or planned for walking jauntily; but a spirit, whether of greed or love or triumph, was exalted within him and was lifting his steps. Once more, as they returned to the banquet-chamber, his whiskers seemed to shine.
“Heigho,” thought the Lord of the Tower; “my three sweet fields!”
And there was Mirandola standing near her mother, her left hand to her dress, about the girdle, as though armed. And a look was on her face that Father Joseph could not interpret, for he had come into the room and was watching her. It was as though she were about to enter a contest, and stood proud before an armed and doughty antagonist.
Her mother and the Duke were already seated: the maids were pouring wine into chalices from a goblet that stood on a small table apart. The host and Gulvarez seated themselves, and then Father Joseph. Then the four chiefs of the bowmen came in, and took seats lower down the table. Father Joseph said grace. And still that look in the eyes of Mirandola.
Then Mirandola went over to the maids that stood at the table apart, and took from them one of the chalices and carried it to Gulvarez. Her father and mother smiled at her mistake, for she should have carried it to the Duke first; but their smiles broadened into smiles of merry understanding as each caught the other’s eye. Gulvarez would have strutted had he been standing; had he been a peacock he would have spread his tail-feathers and rattled them. As it was, smirks and smiles expressed all this and more. He was about to speak, but Mirandola left him to fetch another chalice. So far as Father Joseph was concerned it was unnecessary for Gulvarez to say anything, for the priest knew every thought that passed through his mind, but he had not yet fathomed the mood of Mirandola.
Then, returning, she offered a chalice to the Duke and went back and stood by her mother.
“Be seated, child, by Señor Gulvarez,” said her mother.
But Mirandola still stood there awhile.
Gulvarez, though flustered with pride because he had been given the wine by Mirandola first, yet dared not drink it before his august friend drank. Now they both drank together. Still Mirandola stood beside her mother, between her and the Duke. A moment she watched him with those eyes that never saw less than keenly; then she turned from a glance of the Duke’s blue eyes and answered her mother tardily, as though just returned from far dreams. “Yes, Mother,” she said, and went to the chair beside Señor Gulvarez.
And now wine was carried by the maids to Father Joseph and the four chiefs of the bowmen, whereafter they placed the goblet before their master. And meats were set before all, and talk arose, and men’s hearts were warmed and they spoke of hunts that had been and the taking of ancient boars. But silent and with a strange look sat the Duke of Shadow Valley.