TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
By Mary Johnston
THE FORTUNES OF GARIN. Illustrated.
THE WITCH. With frontispiece.
HAGAR.
THE LONG ROLL. The first of two books
dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color
by N. C. WYETH.
CEASE FIRING. The second of two books
dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color
by N. C. WYETH.
LEWIS RAND. With Illustrations in color
by F. C. YOHN.
AUDREY. With Illustrations in color by
F. C. YOHN.
PRISONERS OF HOPE. With Frontispiece.
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD. With 8 Illustrations
by HOWARD PYLE, E. B.THOMPSON, A. W.
BETTS, and EMLEN MCCONNELL.
THE GODDESS OF REASON. _A Drama._
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
THE FORTUNES OF GARIN
[Illustration: THE MEETING BY ST. MARTHA’S WELL]
THE FORTUNES OF
GARIN
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
[Illustration: LOGO]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY MARY JOHNSTON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1915_
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
CONTENTS
I. ROCHE-DE-FRÊNE 1
II. THE JONGLEUR AND THE HERD-GIRL 13
III. THE NIGHTINGALE 31
IV. THE ABBOT 47
V. RAIMBAUT THE SIX-FINGERED 61
VI. THE GARDEN 73
VII. THE UGLY PRINCESS 85
VIII. TOURNAMENT 99
IX. GARIN SEEKS HIS FORTUNE 115
X. GARIN TAKES THE CROSS 127
XI. THIBAUT CANTELEU 144
XII. MONTMAURE 159
XIII. THE VENETIAN 174
XIV. OUR LADY IN EGYPT 189
XV. SAINT MARTHA’S WELL 204
XVI. GARIN AND JAUFRE 219
XVII. OUR LADY OF ROCHE-DE-FRÊNE 231
XVIII. COUNT JAUFRE 246
XIX. THE SIEGE 261
XX. THE WHITE TOWER 272
XXI. THE ROCK-GATE 282
XXII. THE SAFFRON CROSS 295
XXIII. CAP-DU-LOUP 309
XXIV. THE ABBEY OF THE FOUNTAIN 319
XXV. RICHARD LION-HEART 335
XXVI. THE FAIR GOAL 346
XXVII. SPRING TIME 361
THE FORTUNES
OF GARIN
CHAPTER I
ROCHE-DE-FRÊNE
WITHOUT blazed autumn sunshine, strong as summer sunshine in northern
lands. Within the cathedral dusk ruled, rich and mysterious. The
sanctuary light burned, a star. The candles were yet smoking, the
incense yet clung, thick and pungent. Vanishing through the sacristy
door went the last flutter of acolyte or chorister. The throng that
worshipped dwindled to a few lingering shapes. The rest disappeared by
the huge portal, marvellously sculptured. It had been a great throng,
for Bishop Ugo had preached. Now the cathedral was almost empty, and
more rich, more mysterious because of that. The saints in their niches
could be seen the better, and the gold dust from the windows came in
unbroken shafts to the pavement. There they splintered and light lay
in fragments. One of these patches made a strange glory for the head
of Boniface of Beaucaire who was doing penance, stretched out on the
pavement like a cross. Lost in the shadows of nave, aisles, and chapels
were other penitents, on their knees, muttering prayers. Hugues from
up the river lay on his face, half in light, half in shadow, before
the shrine of Saint Martial. Hugues’s penance had been heavy, for he
was a captain of Free Lances and had beset and robbed a travelling
monk. But in Hugues’s cavern that night the monk turned preacher and
wrought so mightily that he brought Hugues—who was a simple, emotional
soul—to his knees, and the next day, when they parted, sent him here
for penance. He lay bare to the waist, and his back was bloody from the
scourging he had received before the church doors.
The church was a marvel. It had been building for long, long while,
and it was not yet finished. It was begun by a grateful population, at
the instigation of the then bishop, in the year 1035. All Christendom
had set the year 1000 for the Second Coming and the Judgement Day, and
as the time approached had waited in deep gloom and with a palsied
will for those august arrivals. When the year passed, with miseries
enough, but with no rolling back of the firmament like a scroll, it
was concluded that what had been meant was the thousandth from the
Crucifixion. 1033 was now set for the Final Event, and the neglect
of each day, the torpor and terror of the mind, continued. But 1033
passed, marked by nothing more dreadful than famine and common
wretchedness. Christendom woke from that particular trance, sighed
with relief, and began to grow—to grow with vigour and rapidity, with
luxuriance and flourishes.
In 1035, then, the cathedral had been begun, and to-morrow morning,
here in the last quarter of the twelfth century, the stone masons would
go clinking, clinking up yonder, atop of the first of the two towers.
No man really knew when it would be finished. But for a century nave,
aisles, choir, and chapels had been completed. Under the wonderful roof
three generations of the people of Roche-de-Frêne had bowed themselves
when the bell rang and the Host was elevated. The cathedral had the
hallowing of time. It was an Inheritance as was the Faith that bred
it. The atmosphere of this place was the atmosphere of emotion, and
strong as were the pillars, they were no stronger than was the Habit
which brought the feet this way and bowed the heads; and clinging and
permeating as was the incense, it was no more so than the sentiment
that stretched yonder Boniface of Beaucaire and here Hugues the Free
Lance. Boniface of Beaucaire would cheat again and Hugues the Free
Lance rob and slay, but here they were, no hypocrites, and cleaner in
this moment than they had been.
There were two pillars, one twisted, one straight, that had been
brought from Palestine by Gaucelm the Crusader, father of Gaucelm the
Fortunate, the present Prince, and set on either side the shrine of Our
Lady of Roche-de-Frêne. A shaft of light from the great window struck
across the two, broke, and made the pavement sunny.
Just here knelt a youth, in a squire’s dress of green and brown. He
had no penance to perform. He was kneeling because he was in a kneeling
mood. The light showed a well-made, supple figure, with powerful
shoulders. The head and throat were good, the face rather long, with
strong features, the colouring blonde inclining to brown, the eyes grey
with blue glints. They were directed now to the image of the Virgin,
above him in her niche, the other side of the gold light. She stood,
incredibly slender, and taller than human, rose-cheeked, dressed in
azure samite sewn with gems, with a crown, and in her two hands a
crimson heart pierced by an iron arrow. A lamp burned before her, and
there were flowers around.
The youth knelt with a fixed gaze, asking for inspiration.... The
Virgin of Roche-de-Frêne seemed to move, to dilate, to breathe, to
smile! The young man sank his head, stretched forth his arms. “O Our
Lady, smile on me! O Our Lady, give me to-day a sign!”
The cathedral grew a place of mystery, of high, transcendent passion.
The lamp appeared to brighten, the heart in the two hands to glow.
“Is it a sign that I am to serve Her in Holy Church?” thought Garin
de Castel-Noir, “or, may-hap, that I am to serve Her with lance and
shield? Is it a sign, or am I mistaken? If it were a sign, would I ask
if I were mistaken?” He sighed. “O High God, give me a sign!”
He had to decide no less a thing than his career. Until a little while
ago he had thought that matter settled. He was esquire to a poor lord,
a fierce and a stupid lord, and he had no hope but to remain esquire
for years perhaps to come. But, come soon or come late, one day his
lord would make him knight. That done, and his saint favouring, he
might somehow achieve honour. Three months ago his lot had seemed as
fixed as that of a fir tree growing below his lord Raimbaut’s black
keep. Then into the matter had stepped the Abbot of Saint Pamphilius,
that was kinsman of Garin and of his brother, Foulque the Cripple, who
bided at Castel-Noir.
With simplicity, the squire explained it to Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne:
“He is our near kinsman, and he knows how poor are Foulque and I, and
he knows, too, Lord Raimbaut, and the little we may expect. And now
he says that if I will give up hope of chivalry and take the tonsure,
he will be my good patron. And if I work well with head and pen and
prove myself able, he will charge himself that I advance and win great
promotion. If I serve him well, so will he serve me well. O Our Lady,”
ended Garin, “he is a great man as you know, and close friend to Bishop
Ugo. Moreover, he and Foulque have made application to my lord Raimbaut
and won him to consent. And Foulque urges me toward Holy Church. But O
Blessed Lady,” cried Garin, and stretched forth his arms, “do I wish to
go? I know not—I know not!”
The Virgin of Roche-de-Frêne, crowned and dazzling, stood in blue
samite with her heart and arrow, but said no word and gave no sign....
Raimbaut and his knighthood—the Abbot and Holy Church—and Foulque
with his song, “Choose the Abbot! Work hard and be supple and further
the ends of Holy Church, twining your own ends with that golden cord.
No telling to what height you may rise! Great wealth and power fall to
them who serve her to her profit and liking. You crave learning. On
which road, I put it to you, will you gather most of that?” So Foulque.
And Bishop Ugo had preached, this morn, of the glory and power of Holy
Church and of the crowns laid up for them who served her.
The squire sighed deeply. He must make decision. The Abbot would not
always keep that look of invitation. He had other young and needy
kinsmen. Worldly considerations enough flitted through Garin’s head,
but they found something there beside themselves. “In deep truth, which
is mine? To endure until I may ride as knight and find or make some
door in a high, thick wall? To take the tonsure—to study, work and
plan—to become, maybe, canon, and after long time, larger things?...
Which is mine? This—or that—or either? O Blessed Lady, I would choose
from within!”
The tall, jewelled Queen of Heaven looked serenely down upon him. She
had ceased to breathe. The sign seemed not to be coming. He had before
him a long ride, and he must go, with or without the token. He kept
his position yet another minute, then, with a deep sigh, relinquished
the quest. Rising, he stepped backward from the presence of the Virgin
of Roche-de-Frêne, out of the line of the Saracen pillars. As he went,
the climbing shaft of amber light caught his eye and forthwith Jacob’s
ladder came into his head, and he began to send slim angels up and down
it. He had a potent fancy.
Leaving the church, he passed Boniface of Beaucaire and Hugues the
Free Lance. His step made a ringing on the pavement beside their prone
heads. He felt for them no contempt. They were making, more or less,
an honourable amende. Everybody in their lives had done or would do
penance, and after life came purgatory. He passed them as he might pass
any other quite usual phenomenon, and so quitted the cathedral.
Outside was Roche-de-Frêne, grey, close-built, massed upon the long
hill-top, sending spurs of houses down the hillsides between olive and
cypress, almond and plane and pine—Roche-de-Frêne, so well-walled,
Roche-de-Frêne beat upon, laved, drowned by the southern sun.
Crown of its wide-browed craggy hill rose another hill; crown of this,
a grey dream in the fiery day, sprang the castle of its prince, of
that Gaucelm the Fortunate whose father had brought the pillars. The
cathedral had its lesser rise of earth and faced the castle, and beside
the cathedral was the bishop’s palace, and between the church and the
castle, up and down and over the hillsides, spread the town. The sky
was as blue as the robe of the Virgin of Roche-de-Frêne. The southern
horizon showed a gleam of the Mediterranean, and north and west had
purple mountains. In the narrow streets between the high houses, and in
every little opening and chance square the people of Roche-de-Frêne,
men, women and children, talked, laughed, and gestured. It was a feast
day, holiday, merry in the sun. Wine was being drunk, jongleurs were
telling tales and playing the mountebank.
Garin sought his inn and his horse. He was in Roche-de-Frêne upon
Raimbaut’s business, but that over, he had leave to ride to Castel-Noir
and spend three days with his brother. The merry-making in the town
tempted, but the way was long and he must go. A chain of five girls
crossed his path, brown, laughing, making dancing steps, their robes
kilted high, red and yellow flowers in their hair. “What a beautiful
young man!” said their eyes. “Stay—stay!” Garin wanted to stay—but
he was not without judgement and he went. At the inn he had a spare
dinner, the only kind for which he could pay. A bit of meat, a piece of
bread, a bunch of grapes, a cup of wine—then his horse at the door.
Half a dozen men-at-arms from the castle passed this way. They stopped.
“That’s a good steed!”
Garin mounted. “None better,” he said briefly.
The grizzled chief of the six laid an approving touch upon the silken
flank. “Where did you get him?”
Garin took the reins. “At home.”
“Good page, where is that?”
“I am not page, I am esquire,” said Garin.
“Good esquire, where is that?”
“‘That’ is Castel-Noir.”
“A little black tower in a big black wood? I know the place,” said the
grizzled one. “Your lord is Raimbaut of the Six Fingers.”
“Just.”
“Whose lord is the Count of Montmaure, whose lord is our Prince
Gaucelm, whose lord is the King at Paris, whose lord is the Pope in
Rome, whose lord is God on His Throne.—Do you wish to sell your horse?”
“I do not.”
“I have taken a fancy to him,” said the man-at-arms. “But there! the
land is at peace. Go your ways—go your ways! Are you for the jousting
in the castle lists?”
“No. I would see it, but I have not time.”
“You would see a pretty sight,” quoth the man-at-arms. “There is
Prince Gaucelm’s second princess, to wit Madame Alazais that is the
most beautiful woman in the world, and sitting beside her the prince’s
daughter, our princess Audiart, that is not so beautiful.”
“They say,” spoke Garin, “that she is not beautiful at all.”
“That same ‘They say’ is a shifty knave.—Better go, and I will go with
you,” said the man-at-arms, “for truly I have not been lately to the
lists.”
But Garin adhered to it that he could not. He made Paladin to curvet,
bound and caracole, then with a backward laugh and wave of his hand
went his way—but caused his way to lead him past the castle of
Roche-de-Frêne.
So riding by, he looked up wistfully to barbican and walls and towers.
The place was vast, a great example of what a castle might be. Enough
folk for a town housed within it. At one point tree tops, peering over
the walls, spoke of an included garden. Above the donjon just stirred
in the autumn air the great blue banner of Gaucelm the Fortunate.
The mighty gates were open, the drawbridge down, the water in the
moat smiled as if it had neither memory nor premonition of dead men
in its arms. People were crossing, gay of dress. The sunny noon, the
holiday time, softened all the hugeness, kept one from seeing what a
frown Roche-de-Frêne might wear. Garin heard trumpets. The esquire of
Raimbaut the Six-fingered, the brother of Foulque the Cripple, the
youth from the small black tower in the black wood, gazed and listened
with parted lips. Raimbaut held from Montmaure, but for Raimbaut’s fief
and other fiefs adjacent, Montmaure who held mainly from the House of
Aquitaine, owed Roche-de-Frêne fealty. Being feudal lord of his lord,
Gaucelm the Fortunate was lord of Foulque the Cripple and Garin the
Squire. The latter wondered if ever he would enter there where the
trumpets were blowing.
The great pile passed, the town itself passed, he found himself
upon a downward sweeping road and so, by zig-zags, left the hill of
Roche-de-Frêne and coming to the plain rode west by north between shorn
fields and vineyards. The way was fair but lonely, for the country
folk were gone to the town for this day of the patron saint and were
not yet returning. Before him lay woods—for much of the country was
wooded then—and craggy hills, and in the distance purple mountains.
He had some leagues to ride. Now and again he might see, to this hand
or to that, a castle upon a height, below it a huddled brown hamlet.
Late in the afternoon there would lie to his right the Convent of Our
Lady in Egypt. But his road was not one of the great travelled ways. It
traversed a sparsely populated region, and it was going, presently, to
be lonely enough.
Garin rode with sunken head, trying to settle matters before he should
see Foulque. If Raimbaut had been a liberal, noble, joyous lord! But he
was none such. It was little that page or esquire could learn in his
gloomy castle, and little chance might have knight of his. A gloomy
castle, and a lord of little worth, and a lady old and shrewish....
Every man must have a lord—or so was Garin’s world arranged. But if
only every man could choose one to his liking—
The road bent. Rounding a craggy corner, Paladin and he well-nigh trod
upon a sleeping man, propped at the road edge against a grey boulder.
Paladin curvetted aside, Garin swore by his favourite saint, the man
awoke and stretched his arms. He was young,—five or six years older,
perhaps, than Garin. His dress, when it came to hue and cut, showed
extravagant and gay, but the stuffs of which it was composed were far
from costly. Here showed a rent, rather neatly darned, and here a soil
rubbed away as thoroughly as might be. He was dark and thin, with
long, narrow eyes that gave him an Eastern look. Beside him, slung
from his neck by a ribbon, lay a lute, and he smiled with professional
brilliancy.