“Dirty weather, by the Rood,” said Galors,
looking out at the rain. “Dirty weather
and a smell of worse. Hearken to the wind in the
turrets. Gentlemen, we are for Goltres. Spare
no horseflesh. Forward!” and he was gone
through the dripping streets at the falling in of a
wild day. It was the day Falve had brought in
his bride-expectant to Litany Row.
Half-an-hour later Maulfry rode out of the east gate
alone, and never held or looked back till she was
safe in Tortsentier.
GUESS-WORK AT GOLTRES
A scud of wind and rain hampered Prosper on his ride
over Goltres Heath. The steady increase of both
in volume and force kept him at work all day; but
towards dusk the wind dropped a little, the clouds
split and drifted in black shreds over a clear sky
full of the yellow evening light. Just at the
twilight he came to a shallow mere edged with reeds,
with wild fowl swimming upon it, and others flying
swiftly over on their way to the nest. At the
far end of the lake, but yet in the water, was a dim
castle settling down into the murk. A gaunt shell
it was, rather than a habitable place; its windows
were sightless black; only in the towers you could
see through them the pale sky behind. The wind
ruffled the mere, little cold waves lapped in the
reeds; there was no other house in sight whichever
way you turned. In all the dun waste of raw and
cold it was Goltres or nothing for a night’s
lodging.
“Galors has been before me again,” thought
Prosper. “The place is a skeleton, the
husk of a house. Well, there must be a corner
left which will keep the rain out. We shall have
more before day, if I am anything of a prophet.”
There was a huge bank of cloud to windward; the wind
came uneasily, in puffs, with a smell of rain.
Prosper’s horse shivered and shook himself from
head to heels.
“As I live,” cried Prosper suddenly, “there
is a light in the house.” In a high window
there was certainly a flickering light. “Where
there’s a light there’s a man or a woman.
Where there’s one there is room for two.
I am for Goltres if I can win a passage.”
Riding up the shore of the lake he found an old punt.
“Saracen,” said he to his horse, “I
shall take to the water. Thou shalt go thy will
this night, and may heaven send thee the luck of thy
master.” So saying he unbridled him, took
off his saddle and let him go, himself got into the
punt and pushed out over the mere.
The great hulk of Goltres rose threatening above him,
fretted by little waves, staring down from a hundred
empty eyes. He made out a water-gate and drove
his punt towards it. It was open. He pushed
in, found a rotting stair, above it a door which was
broken away and hanging by one hinge.
“The welcome, withal free, is cold,” quoth
Prosper, “but we cannot stand on ceremony.
It might be well to make sure of my punt.”
He manoeuvred it under the stair with some trouble,
lashed it fore and aft, and entered Goltres by the
slippery ascent, addressing himself as he went to
God and Saint Mary the Virgin.
