The Lower Lake was one of the most beautiful parts of the castle grounds. It, too, had been dear to the heart of the old King, the lover of gardens, who had himself seen to its laying out with the help of a landscape architect very famous in his day. It had been purposely left quite wild in order that the waterfowl and the deer from the game park should make of it a place of quiet and safe retreat. In the centre of a wide meadow, edged with bulrushes, patched with water-lilies, its clear waters reflected the moods of the sky—and sometimes the images of peacefully dabbling diver-ducks or the handsome antlers of a drinking stag. And often, when stormy weather drove the bird life inland from the sea, its ruffled surface was alive with wild geese, gathered there as the old King planned they should, to enjoy the protection and hospitality of a royal estate.
But today, arriving at its sedgy banks, Giles and the Countess Barbara found not a ripple to disturb its calm blue mirror, asleep beneath a cloudless, windless heaven. This quiet did not last for long, however, for the spaniels, Maggie and Mollie, soon scented out an otter from the osiers at the north end. And in a moment the two dogs were thrashing about in the water in boisterous and vain pursuit.
From the shore, with the aid of hooked hazel poles, plenty of lilies could be gathered without wading. And it took Giles barely fifteen minutes to collect more than an armful for Barbara to take back to the Queen. The two then fell to throwing sticks into the water for the spaniels to fetch. This grew into a sort of game, Giles betting on Mollie and Barbara on Maggie, to see which was the faster swimmer.
It was a keen and hard-fought, splashy battle. But in the end Maggie proved herself the champion beyond all doubt or question. And presently Barbara said it was time to return to the castle.
But Giles did not want the game to end. On the way here the Countess had seemed a trifle sad and serious. The play with the dogs had cheered her up. A healthy flush had now come into her cheeks and a livelier sparkle to her glorious blue eyes. She was standing by the bank gathering the lilies one by one into her arms. Their wet red stems glistened in her slender, well-shaped fingers. Behind her rose the wonderful sweep of the castle hill, dotted with clumps of oaks, topped by the grey towers of the King’s palace. And again, as when he had first seen her, Giles thought that surely the world never held a creature of more grace or fairer beauty.
Even when she spoke again of going he was trying to think of some excuse to keep her. With her, out here in the sun, amid all the gracious peace of the Lower Lake, he would ask nothing better than to stay for—well, he didn’t know or care how long. Might he not so, perhaps, hold that gayer sparkle in her eyes? They had known one another many years now, yet they seemed never to have talked of anything but dogs and horses, country things—seldom of people or life.
His own mood at the time puzzled Giles a lot. He asked himself: was this beautiful, strange girl happy? He felt happy. And he had a great wish to make her happy, the happiest girl in the world. A very proper and almost fatherly feeling, he told himself. Even if they were of the same age, what of it? Men had to protect women. But why was he especially wishing to keep her here now? To talk to her? Yes, that was it. He wanted to talk to her, in a fatherly way, about life and serious things—all the things they had never spoken about before. It was true she had a father of her own, the Commander of the Scottish Archers. But who knew how good a father he was, anyhow?
For the third time she began to tell him she must be leaving, when both the dogs barked together. The King’s Finder took his fatherly eyes off the beautiful countess and looked across the lake. It was the figure of a man, over there, whose sudden approach had made the spaniels bark. Moreover, it was none other than his own esquire, Luke, waving and beckoning to him. Glad of a chance to delay her a little longer (and perhaps to invent further ways of keeping her out on her errand), Giles begged her to wait a moment while he went round the shore to speak with his esquire. And, without giving her time to answer, he hurried away.
Luke had rather a queer look in his face, Giles thought, when he came up to him. Ordinarily these two young men were, of course, in the eyes of the Court, master and servant, knight and esquire. And most of the time they had to act their different parts for the sake of appearances in the ceremonious life of the palace. But in real truth the pair were well-tried friends of almost lifelong standing. They shared one another’s secrets and thoughts; and whenever they were alone together, and the world of princely pomp was not watching, they were equals and nothing more.
And that was why, when he came near to Luke this morning, Giles knew instantly there was something wrong. The esquire had a strange, ill-at-ease appearance about him, almost as though he had bad news for the King’s Finder and didn’t know quite how to set about breaking it.
‘I—I am sorry,’ he began in a stammering kind of way—‘very sorry to call you away like this when you were busy—er—with other matters. But I heard something a moment ago and I—I—er—hastened down to tell you of it. I thought perhaps it would be better that you heard it from me than from anyone else. You see—’ Then he stopped and pulled at the head of a bulrush growing near by.
‘Well!’ said Giles. ‘Go on! What is it?’
‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ Luke continued after a moment, ‘in making it my business to come and tell you. But—anyway—that’s what I thought. The King’s betrothal is to be announced this evening. He—he is going to marry Countess Barbara—in a month from today.’
A sharp, strange, almost unbearable feeling of hurt came into the heart of the young knight as he heard these words. There was no mistaking their meaning. Luke’s news was clear and plainly spoken at the end, for all his hesitation to begin. There was no answer necessary, no need to repeat. The King was to marry Barbara.
Giles looked back across the lake. The slim, lovely girl was still standing at the farther shore, the lilies in her arms, waiting for him to return. But he was quite sure at once that he was not going to return. He would need time now before he could speak to her again—of just those ordinary things they always talked of, dogs and horses and the rest. Of a sudden the white figure at the water’s edge grew dim before his eyes as though a mist had risen from the lake between them.
And the King’s Finder knew at last that he was himself in love.
For one mad second the idea came into his mind to run to her, to tell her everything and then escape with her into the mountains—anywhere, to get her away from the King. But what of her, Barbara, the new Queen to be? Why suppose she would want to come with him? She must know of this already. She must be willing. With her knowledge and consent the marriage had been arranged. And then, what of the King? The generous kindly prince who had been so true a comrade, to whom he owed everything! What of the ‘friendship that does not betray’?
The mad moment passed. And Luke’s keenly watching eyes saw the young knight’s muscles tighten with a pitiful, determined courage as he gave up the rebellion in his heart. The esquire came quickly to Giles’s side and, without speaking, gripped him firmly by the arm.
After a moment he heard his master speaking, but in a voice so low it could be barely heard:
‘Do you go round and join her, Luke. Make my excuses to her. I will return to the castle by this shore. Help her with the lilies to the Queen. If the King asks for me, I’ll be at the stables. I’ve a notion to see Midnight the black mare.’