OUR LADY IN EGYPT
THE air quivered above all surfaces; light and heat spoke with
intensity. But those who had been long years in Syria were used to a
greater intensity. They travelled now, not minding heat and glare. They
rode through a little village that Garin remembered, and at the farther
end passed a house with mulberry trees. Children played in their shade.
“Ha!” said Garin of the Golden Island. “Time’s wheel goes round, and
the fountain casts new spray!”
Rainier the squire knew this country-side. A certain castle was placed
conveniently for dinner-time, and to this they drew from the high road.
Where you did not war, there obtained, in the world of chivalry, a
boundless hospitality. The lord who held this castle made all welcome.
A great bell rang; here was dinner in the hall.
From the castle tower one saw afar, beyond the boundaries of Toulouse.
The baron could give information. Duke Richard had spared Jaufre de
Montmaure two thousand spears and ten thousand men-at-arms, archers,
and crossbowmen. Montmaure, himself, had a great force. Roche-de-Frêne
fought strongly, but the land suffered. Stories were told of the ways
of Montmaure. Garin made enquiry as to the Abbey of Saint Pamphilius,
not far to the northward. “Saint Pamphilius? Safe as though it held
by God the Father’s beard! Years ago it chose Montmaure for advocate.
Aye! Abbot Arnaut lives.” But the lord of the castle could not tell of
Raimbaut the Six-fingered, if he held with Montmaure, or, passing him,
clave to Roche-de-Frêne.
The castle would have had them bide the night, and the Crusader
discourse of the Holy Land. But Garin must on. His imagination was
seized; what lay before him drew him imperiously, like a loadstone.
He bade the lord and lady of the castle farewell, mounted his horse,
Noureddin, and with his men behind him took the road. The earth lay
drowned in light, the air seemed hardly a strip of gauze between it
and the sun. They must ride somewhat slowly through the afternoon. At
last the heat and dazzle of the day declined. Straight before them
lay the Abbey of Saint Pamphilius, and that were good harbourage for
the night, but not for any who meant to enter battle upon the side of
Roche-de-Frêne! The night would be dry, warm and bright. The men had
food with them, in leathern pouches. Forest lay to the right of the
road.
Garin spoke to his squires: “It is to my fancy to sleep in this wood
to-night. Once I did sleep here, but without esquires and men-at-arms
and war-horse.”
It chanced that the moon was almost full. Garin watched it mount
between the branches of the trees, and the past rose with it to suffuse
the present. He could recall the moods of that night, but they seemed
to him now frail and boyish.... Dawn broke; his men rose from where
they lay like brown acorns. Nearby, the stream that ran through the
wood widened into a pool. Knight, squires, and men-at-arms laid aside
clothing, plunged into the cool element, had joy of it. Afterwards,
they breakfasted sparely. When the sun lighted the hill-tops they were
again upon the road.
The road now trended eastward. They came to a chapel that was a ruin.
Beside it, scooped from the hillside and shaded by an oak, appeared a
hermit’s cell. At first they thought that it was empty, but at length a
grey figure, lean and trembling as a reed, peeped forth.
“Who broke down the chapel, father?” asked Garin.
The hermit stared at him. “Fair son and sir knight, are you from the
Toulouse side?”
“We have ridden two days from the westward. This is the boundary?”
The hermit looked with lack-lustre eyes, then wagged his head up
and down. “Aye, fair knight and son! The lords of Toulouse and
Roche-de-Frêne built the chapel, each bearing half the cost. But a band
belonging to the Lord of Montmaure came this way. Its captain said that
he pulled down only Roche-de-Frêne’s half—but all fell! The Holy
Father at Rome ought to hear of it!”
“Are Montmaure’s men still at hand?”
The hermit shook his head. “They harrowed the country and went. I saw
flames all one night and heard the cries of the damned!”
Garin and those behind him rode on. Immediately the way that once had
been good became bad. A bridge had spanned a swift stream, but the
bridge was destroyed. A mill had stood near, but the mill was burned.
There seemed no folk. They rode by trampled and blackened fields where
no harvest sickles would come this year. The poppies looked like blood.
Here, in a dip in the land, was what had been a village, and upon a low
hill a heap of stones that had been castle or armed manor-house. There
were yet fearful odours. They rode by a tree on which were hanged ten
men, and a place where women and children, all crouched together, had
been slain. Here were more blackened fields, splashed with poppies. The
sun, now riding high, sent into every corner a searching light.
Garin and his men, leaving the ruin, rode through a great forest. They
rode cautiously, keeping a lookout, neither singing nor laughing nor
talking loudly. But the forest slept on either hand, and there was
nothing heard but the hoofs of their horses, the song of birds, and the
whirr of insects.
This forest had been known to Garin the squire. He was going now
toward Raimbaut’s keep. Around were the wide-branching trees, the
birds flew before them, the startled hare ran, the deer plunged aside
into the deeper brakes, but they met with no human life. Travelling
so, they came to a broken country, wooded hills, grey falls of
cliff, streams that brawled over stony beds. Garin looked from side
to side, recognizing ancient landmarks. But when they rode out from
the dwindling wood upon fields that should have shone and shimmered,
yellowing to the harvest—these fields, too, were black with ruin. Here
was a meadow that Garin knew. But no cattle stood within it, seeking
the shade of the trees, and nowhere, field or meadow or narrow road,
were there people. All lay silent, without motion, under the giant
strength of the sun.
The road passed under the brow of a hill, turned, and he saw where had
been the grim old keep and tower and wall where he had served Raimbaut
the Six-fingered. In its shadow had clustered peasants’ huts. All was
destroyed; he saw not a living man, not a beast, not a dog. “How like,”
said Garin of the Golden Island, “are Paynimry and Christendom!”
He checked his men, and alone rode to the ruins. Dismounting, he let
Noureddin crop the parched grass while he himself entered through a
breach in the wall, the gateway being blocked by fallen masonry. All
was desolate under the sun. The well had been filled with stones.
Climbing a mass of débris, crushed wall and fallen beam and rafter, he
attained the interior of the keep. Here had been sword and fire; here
now were the charred bones, here the writing that said how had fought
Raimbaut the Six-fingered!
Garin came out of the keep and crossed the court, and, stepping through
the ragged and monstrous opening in the wall, called to his men. Three
hours they worked, making a grave and laying within it every charred
body they found, and making one grave for the forms of a giant and of a
woman who had fallen beside him.
“I knew this castle,” said Sir Garin. “This was its lord, and he could
fight bravely! Nor did he fail at times of kindness done. This was its
lady, and she was like him.”
At last they rode away from Raimbaut’s castle. First, came other
fields that this storm had struck, then a curving arm, thick and dark,
of forest. But, on the further edge of this flowed a stream where
the bridge was not broken, and nearby was the hut of one who burned
charcoal, and the man and woman and their children were within and
living. They fell upon their knees and put up their hands for mercy.
“We are not Montmaure!” said Garin. “Jean Charcoal-burner, have you
heard if they have done the like to Castel-Noir?”
The charcoal-burner, of elf locks and blackened skin, stared at the
knight, and now thought that he knew him, and now that he knew him
not. But he had comfort to give as to Castel-Noir. He had been there
within three days, and it stood. It was so small a tower and out of the
way—Montmaure’s band had ignored it, or were gone for the time to set
claws in other prey. “Sir Foulque?—aye, Sir Foulque lived.”
Garin came to Castel-Noir in the red flush of evening. The fir wood
lay quiet and dark, haunted by memory. The stream was as ever it was.
Looking up, he saw the lonely, small castle, the round tower—saw,
too, a scurrying to it, from the surrounding huts, of men, women and
children. They went like partridges, up the steep, grey road, across
the narrow moat, and in at the gate. The drawbridge mounted, creaking
and groaning.
“Ah,” said Garin with a sob in his throat, “Foulque thinks that we are
foes!”
He left his men among the firs, and rode on Noureddin up the path known
so well—so well! He rode without spear and shield, and unhelmed.
Watchers from loophole or battlement might see only a bronzed horseman,
wearing a blue surcoat, worked upon the breast with a bird with
outstretched wings. When he came to the edge of the moat, beneath the
wall, he checked Noureddin, sat motionless for a minute, then raised
his voice. “Castel-Noir!”
A man looked over the wall. “Who and whence, and, Mother of God! whose
voice are you calling with?”
“Sicart!” called Garin, “remember eight years, come Martinmas, and the
serf’s dress you found me! Put the bridge down and let me in!”
Foulque met him in the gateway.
“Brother Foulque—”
“Garin, Garin—”
Fir wood, crag, and black castle travelled from the sun, faced the
unlighted deeps. But an inner sun shone and warmed. The squires,
the troop, had welcome and welcome again. Nothing there was that
Sicart and Jean and Pol and Arnaut and all the others would not
do for them! Comforts and treasures were scant, but the whole was
theirs. The saints seemed benignant, so smoothly and fragrantly did
matters go! Pierre found savoury food for all. And there was forage
for the horses. And the courtyard on a summer night, with straw
spread down, was good sleeping. But before there was sleeping, came
tale-telling—a great ring gathered, with the round moon looking down,
and Castel-Noir men and boys and women and girls from the huts below,
listening—listening—gaping and exultant! Sir Garin of the Golden
Island—and how he had taken the cross—and what he had done in the
land over the sea, and the tale-tellers with him!
Fairyland had somehow come to Castel-Noir—a warm Paradise of pride in
the native-born, relish for brave deeds, forward felt glow from perhaps
vastly better days! Through all ran a filtering of Eastern wonder.
There was, too, simple veneration for the slayers of paynims, for
beings who had travelled in the especial country of God! The pride in
Garin was strong. They had thought him dead, though some had insisted
that, maybe, one day he would come back, a knight. These now basked in
their own wisdom. But even they had not dreamed the whole fairy tale
out! Sir Garin of the Golden Island—and how he got that name—and
how he fought and how he sang and how lords and kings were fain of
his company—and his brother-in-arms, Sir Aimar—and the three emirs’
ransoms! The people of Castel-Noir forgot Montmaure and danger, and
were blissful that night beneath the round and golden moon.
Garin and Foulque bided within the hall, talked there, Garin pacing
up and down while Foulque the Cripple gloated on him from his chair.
They had torchlight, but the moonlight, too, streamed in. Garin charted
for his brother the unknown sea of the years he had been away. Foulque
followed him to Panemonde, to the port, to Syria—and then all the
events and fortune there!
“Ha, ha!” laughed Foulque. “Ha ha! ha ha! Who knows anything in this
world? Oh, dire misfortune that it seemed to have fought with Jaufre
de Montmaure! And here he has given you knighthood and fame and
ransom-wealth! Ha, ha, ha! Let me laugh! Yesterday I was weeping.”
“If you push things in that direction,” said Garin, “before it was
Jaufre it was that herd-girl with the torn dress and streaming hair!
There is a path from all things to all things else.”
He stopped before a window embrasure and looked out upon the
moon-flooded court and the ring of his men and the Castel-Noir men.
When he turned back to Foulque they took up the years as they had gone
for the black castle. They had gone without great events until had
befallen this war. That being the case, the two were presently at the
huge happenings in the princedom of Roche-de-Frêne. Foulque knew of the
fate of Raimbaut the Six-fingered. Jean the Charcoal-burner had brought
the news. Since that, Castel-Noir had stood somewhat shiveringly upon
its rock, the probabilities being that its own hour was near.
And yet Foulque, and Garin with him, agreed that since the band that
had entered this fief and beat down Raimbaut and his castle was now
gone without finding Castel-Noir, it might not think to return upon its
tracks, leaving richer prey for sparrow or hare. Foulque considered
that the ravagers had been Free Companions, mercenaries bought by
Montmaure from far away, not knowing nook and corner of the country
they devastated. Montmaure, angered, had made his threat when Raimbaut,
renouncing the immediate allegiance, held for Roche-de-Frêne. He had
kept it, sending fire and death. But Castel-Noir might stay hidden in
its fir wood. Foulque, a born sceptic, here showed one contrary streak.
He was credulous now of all evil from Jaufre de Montmaure being turned
aside from aught that pertained to Garin. “Certes, not after procuring
you knighthood and gold!”
Garin learned of the war at large. In the spring Prince Gaucelm had
gathered a great host. Under Stephen the Marshal it had met and beaten
as great a number, Count Savaric at the head. Savaric had been wounded,
thrust back, him and his host, into his own land. Then had come with a
greater host Jaufre de Montmaure, like an evil wind. His father, too,
recovering, rushed again from Montmaure. Prince Gaucelm and all his
knights and a host of men withstood them. Everywhere there was ringing
of shields and flying of arrows. Where Montmaure came, came blight.
A walled town had been taken and sacked; another, they said, was
endangered. Rumour ran that Roche-de-Frêne itself must stand a siege.
Montmaure was gathering a huge number of spears and countless footmen,
and had an Italian who was making for him great engines. But naught
this side waking to find to-night a dream could now weaken Foulque’s
optimism! “Roche-de-Frêne’s no ripe plum to be picked and eaten! Pick
thunderbolts from an oak that will outlive Montmaure!”
Foulque was reconciled, when the talk came that way, to Garin’s early
departure from Castel-Noir. Neither dreamed but that he, knight and
able to help, must of course go. It was his _devoir_. But he might
bide a few days. It would presently be seen if the place were indeed
moderately safe, left a small, overlooked backwater. Foulque’s thin
face worked with laughter. “Ha, Jaufre!—and what was it that he said
touching flaying alive and razing your house? Jaufre makes me sport!”
His thought drove aside from the pleasant spice of Jaufre’s men
preserving just Castel-Noir. “And now he would wed the princess!”
Garin, in his pacing, crossed a shaft of moonlight. “What manner of
lady is the Princess Audiart?”
“Not fair, but wise, they say. I know not,” said Foulque, “if women can
be wise.”
“Ah, yes, they may!”
“I agree,” said Foulque, “that there is wisdom somewhere in not helping
into the world sons of Jaufre, grandsons of Savaric!—It is said that
the townspeople love the princess.”
Garin crossed again the shaft of light. “No harm has come to Our Lady
in Egypt?”
“No harm that I have heard of. Count Savaric is known for a good son
of the Church! He will not harm the bishop’s lands either. I hear
report—I have heard that the Abbot of Saint Pamphilius saith—that
if Montmaure conquers, Bishop Ugo will not be less but greater in
Roche-de-Frêne.—But what,” said Foulque, “do I know in truth to tell
you? A cripple, chained to this rock in a fir wood! Little of aught
do I know—save that there is wickedness on earth!” He tried to be
sardonic, but could not. “Eh!” said Foulque. “Three emirs? And at what
did they hold their lives?”
At last Castel-Noir slept, the fair moon looking down. The next day,
still there held fairyland. When another day came, Garin took Paladin
that had waited for him all these years, and, followed by Rainier,
rode to Our Lady in Egypt. He wished to see the Abbess and ask of her
a question. Eight years ago, come Martinmas, what lady had rested, a
guest, with Our Lady in Egypt?
The summer woods were passing sweet—fresh and sweet under whatever
strength of sun to those who had come from Syrian towns and Syrian
suns. Garin rode with an open heart, smelled sweet odour, heard every
song and movement, praised the green wood and the blue sky. At last
they saw the olives and the vineyards of Our Lady in Egypt—at last
the massy building. And now Paladin stopped before a portal that Garin
remembered.... All these years, Jaufre de Montmaure had been in the
back of his head, but hardly, it may be said, the herd-girl who first
had struggled with Jaufre. Memory might have brought her oftener to
view, but memory, when it came to women, had been preoccupied with the
Fair Goal—with the lady who wore the blue, fine stuff, the gem-wrought
girdle, the eastern veil! But now, sudden and vivid as life, came back
the herd-girl who had ridden behind him upon this horse, who, at the
convent door under the round arch, had looked back at him through dark
and streaming hair. The portress opened to her and she entered—rushed
back the very tone and sense of blankness and of wonder with which he
had regarded the closed door! “Saint Agatha! how that tastes upon my
tongue!” said Garin.
He sat staring at the convent portal. Around was midday heat and
stillness. Drowned in that past day, he gave no heed to a sound of
approaching horsemen. But now Rainier came to his side. “Sir, there are
armed men coming! Best knock and gain entrance—”
But Garin turned to see who came. A small party rode into sight beneath
the convent trees—not more than a dozen horsemen. One bore, depending
from a lance, a pensil of blue—the blue of Roche-de-Frêne. It hung
unstirring in the windless noon. In the air of the riders there was
something, one knew not what, of dejection or of portent. They came
neither fast nor slow, the hoofs of the horses making a sullen sound.
Garin looked. At times there blew to him, through appearances, a
wind from behind appearances. It gave no definite word, but he heard
the rustling of the sibyl’s leaves. He drew Paladin a little to one
side and awaited the riders. From the convent chapel rose a sound of
chanting—the nuns at their office.
The cluster of horsemen arrived in the space before the convent door.
The one who rode in front, a knight with grizzled hair and a stern,
lean face, directed an enquiry to the mounted men here before him.
Garin answered. “I am of Castel-Noir—ridden here to-day because there
is that which I would ask of the Abbess Angela.”
The grizzled knight shook his head. He spoke to one of those behind
him. “Strike upon the door, Raynold!” then, turning in his saddle,
addressed himself to the stranger knight in the blue surcoat. “Fair
sir, my lady Abbess, methinks, will not wish to deal to-day with any
matters that may be set aside.”
“I see that you bring heavy tidings,” said Garin. “I fight for
Roche-de-Frêne. What are they?”
“Well may you say that they are heavy! Our lord, Prince Gaucelm, is
slain.”
“The prince is slain!”
“There has been a great battle, ten leagues from here.... My master!”
cried the grizzled knight with sombre passion. “The best prince this
land has known—Gaucelm the Good!”
Garin knew that the head of Our Lady in Egypt was a sister of the dead
prince. No longer was it a day in which, after years and at last, he
might ask his question. As it had waited, so must it wait still. He and
Rainier rode back to Castel-Noir. The next day, with his troop behind
him, he left Foulque, the black tower, and the fir wood, and the next
he joined the host of Stephen the Marshal where it lay confronting
Montmaure.