GARIN AND JAUFRE
WITH a great host Montmaure encamped before Roche-de-Frêne and overran
the champaign half way around. Of the remainder, one fourth was, so
to speak, debatable ground,—now the field of the blue banner and now
that of the green and silver. The final fourth was stubbornly held by
Stephen the Marshal and the host. This gave to the east and included
the curve of the river, the bridge and its towers, and the road by
which still travelled, from unharried lands, food for the beleaguered
town.
Montmaure’s tents covered the plain. Off into the deep summer woods
fringed the myriad of camp-followers, sutlers, women, thieves, outlawed
persons. But the fighting mass showed from the besieged town like a
magic and menacing carpet spread half around it, creeping and growing
to complete the ring. What was for the time a great army besieged
Roche-de-Frêne.
The barons, vassals or allies of Montmaure, had each his quarter where
he planted his standard, and whence he led in assault the men who
called him lord. The Free Companies pitched among vineyards or where
had been vineyards. The spears from Aquitaine and a huge number of
bowmen covered thickly old wheat-fields, pastures, and orchards. Near
as might safely be to the walls of Roche-de-Frêne,—so near that the
din of the town might be heard, that the alarum bell, when it rang,
rocked loud in their ears,—were raised, in the fore-front of tents as
numerous as autumn sheaves, the pavilions of Count Savaric and of his
son, Count Jaufre. It was August weather, hot and thunderous.
Jaufre de Montmaure came to the door of his pavilion and looked at the
hill, the town and castle of Roche-de-Frêne. Behind the three were
storm clouds, over them storm light. The banner of the Princess Audiart
flew high. Against the grey, heaped vapour it showed like an opening
into blue sky.
Each day and every day assaults were made. One was now in progress,
directed against the bridge-head, very visible from Jaufre’s tent.
Aimeric the Bastard led it, and Aimeric was a fierce warrior, followed
by men whose only trade was fighting. The atmosphere was still, hushed,
grey, and sultry, dulling the noise that was made. The mass of the
force was not concerned.
Jaufre stood, tall and red-gold, hawk-nosed, and with a scar across
his cheek. He was without armour and lightly clothed, to meet the
still heat. Upon the ground without the tent had been spread skins of
wild beasts. He spoke over his shoulder, then, moving to these skins,
threw himself down upon them. Unconquered town and castle, the present
attack upon the bridge, the slow coming of the storm, the blue,
undaunted banner could best be noted just from here. A squire brought a
flagon of wine from the tent and set it beside him.
Out of a pavilion fifty yards away came Count Savaric, and crossed
the space to his son. With an inner tardiness Jaufre rose from the
skins and stood. “I have sent word to Gaultier Cap-du-Loup to take his
Company to Aimeric’s help,” said Count Savaric. He took a seat that
they brought him.
Count Jaufre lay down again upon the skins. There held the grey
breathlessness and light of the slow-travelling storm.
Count Savaric watched the dust-cloud that hid the bridge-head,
obscuring the strong tower and the supporting works that Roche-de-Frêne
had built and, with the aid of its encamped host, yet held against all
assault.
But Jaufre regarded moodily the walled town and the castle. He spoke.
“This tent has stood here a month to-day, and we have buried many
knights.”
“Just,” answered Count Savaric. “Barons and knights and a host of the
common people. A great jewel is a costly thing!”
“I miss my comrade, Hugues le Gai. And Richard will not lightly take
the loss of Guy of Perpignan.”
“Duke Richard knows how jewels cost.”
Jaufre waved a sinewy hand toward Roche-de-Frêne. The half-light and
the storm in the air edged his mood. “Well, they will pay!” he said.
He lay silent for a minute, then spoke again, but more to himself than
to Count Savaric. “Until lately I took that woman yonder—” he jerked
a thumb toward the high, distant, blue banner,—”for the mere earth I
must take in hand to get the diamond of Roche-de-Frêne! So I had the
diamond, the bride that came with it was no great matter. She had no
beauty, they said. But, Eye of God! there were other women on earth!
They are plentiful. Take this one that went with the diamond, get sons
upon her, and let her be silent.... Now, I care less for the diamond, I
think, than to humble the Princess Audiart!”
Count Savaric, leaning forward, regarded the bridge-end. “Gaultier
Cap-du-Loup is there.... Ha, they send men to meet him! That may
develop—”
The castle loomed against the grey curtain of cloud. The minutiæ of
the place appeared to enlarge, intensify. Each detail grew individual,
stubborn, a fortress in itself. The whole mocked like the heaped
clouds. “Ha, my Lady Audiart!” said Jaufre, “who will not have me for
lord—who takes a sword in her hand and fights me—”
He sat up upon the skins, poured himself a cup of wine, and drank.
His father, looking still at the bridge-tower, rose with suddenness
to his feet. “The lord of Chalus and his men are going in! There must
be yonder half Stephen the Marshal’s force! The plain stirs. Ha! best
arm—”
Jaufre rose now also. There was a gleam in his eye. “Breath of God!” he
said. “I feel to-day like battle!”
His squires armed him. While they worked the trumpets blew, rousing
every segment of the camp. Trumpets answered from beyond the bridge. In
the town the alarum bell began its deep ringing. The day turned sound
and motion. Count Savaric left his tent, mounted a charger that was
brought, and spurred to the head of a press of knights. The colours of
the plain shifted to the eye; dust hung above the head of the bridge
and all the earth thereabouts; out of it came a heavy sound with
shouting. The area affected increased; it was evident that there might
ensue a considerable, perhaps a general, battle. It was as though a
small stir in the air had unexpectedly spread to whirlwind dimensions.
And all the time the sky hung moveless, with an iron tint.
They armed Jaufre in chain-mail, put over this a green surcoat worked
with black, attached his spurs, laced his helmet, gave him knightly
belt and two-edged sword, held the stirrup while he mounted the war
horse, gave him shield and spear. He looked a red-gold giant, and he
was a bold fighter, and many a man followed him willingly. He shook his
spear at the castle, and at the banner waving above the huge donjon.
“Ha, Audiart the Wise! Watch now your lord do battle!”
Around the bridge-head, where Stephen the Marshal had his host,
the battle sprang into being with an unexpectedness. There had been
meant but a heavier than ordinary support to the endangered barriers,
a stronger outward push against Aimeric the Bastard and Gaultier
Cap-du-Loup. But the tension of the atmosphere, the menace and urge,
the storm-light affected alike Roche-de-Frêne and Montmaure. Each side
threw forward more men and more. From the bridge-head the shock and
clamour ate into the plain. The mêlée deepened and spread. Suddenly,
with a trampling and shouting, a lifting of dust to the skies, the
whole garment was rent. There arrived, though none had looked for it
on this day, general battle.... The leaders appeared, barons and famed
knights. Here was the marshal, valiant and cool, bestriding a great
steed, cheering on his people, wielding himself a strong sword. The
battle was over open earth, and among the tents and quarters of the
soldiery, and against and from the cover of the works that guarded the
bridge. Now it shrieked and thundered in the space between the opposing
camps, now among the tents of Roche-de-Frêne and now among those of
Montmaure. Banners dipped and fell and rose again, were advanced
or withdrawn. There were a huge number of banners, bright-hued,
parti-coloured. They showed amid the dust like giant flowers torn from
a giant garden and tossed in air. It became a fell struggle, where
riderless war horses galloped hither and yon, and the footmen fought
hard with pike and sword, and the crossbowmen sent their bolts, and
the archers sent whistling flights of arrows. And still the clouds hung
grey, and the town and castle drawn against them watched breathlessly.
Aimar de Panemonde had joined his brother-in-arms. A brave and
beautiful knight, he rode in the onset beside Garin of the Golden
Island. The two lowered lances and came against two knights of
Montmaure. The knights were good knights, but the men from Palestine
defeated and unhorsed them. One was hurt to death, the other his people
rescued. Garin and Aimar, sweeping forward, met, by a bit of wall,
mounted men of a Free Company.... The din had grown as frightful as
if the world was crashing down. Always Montmaure might remember that
Montmaure had in field twice as many as Roche-de-Frêne. Garin and Aimar
thrust through the press by the wall, rode with other knights where
the fight was fiercest. Garin wished to encounter Jaufre de Montmaure;
he searched for the green and silver banner. But there was a wild
toss of colours, shifting and indeterminate. Moreover the day, dark
before, darkened yet further; it was not possible to see clearly to any
distance.
And then, suddenly, a knight was before him, on a great bay horse
caparisoned with green picked out with black, the knight himself in
a green surcoat. The helmet masked the face, all save the eyes. Each
combatant shook a spear and drove against the other, but a wave of
battle surging by made the course not true. The green knight’s spear
struck the edge of Garin’s shield. But the latter’s lance, encountering
the other’s casque, burst the fastening, unhelmed him. Red-gold hair
showed, hawk nose, scar across the cheek.
“Ha!” cried Garin. “I know you! Do you, perchance, know me?”
But the battle drove them apart. Here in the press was no longer a
knight in green. Garin, looking around, saw only dim struggling forms,
knights and footmen. Aimar had been with him, but the waves had borne
Aimar, too, to a distance. He lost Rainier also, and his men. Here was
the grey, resounding plain beneath the livid sky, and the battle, that,
as a whole, went against Roche-de-Frêne. His horse sank under him, cut
down by Cap-du-Loup’s men. Garin drew his sword, fought afoot. He saw
a tossed banner, heard a long trumpet-call, hewed his way where the
press was thickest. A riderless horse coming by him, trampling the
dead and the hurt that lay thickly, he caught it by the bridle and
brought it in time to Stephen the Marshal full in the midst of that
seething war. “Gramercy!” cried Stephen, and swung himself into saddle.
Roche-de-Frêne rallied, swept toward Montmaure’s coloured tents.
Overhead the thunder was rolling.
Garin, his back to a heap of stones, fought as he had fought in the
land over the sea. A bay horse came his way again. Jaufre de Montmaure,
unhelmed, towered above him, sword in hand. Garin’s casque was without
visor; his features showed, and in the pallid light his blue surcoat
with the bird upon the breast. “Will you leave your horse?” quoth
Garin. “It were better chivalry so.”
“I meet you the second time to-day. Moreover we encountered a fortnight
ago, in the fight by the river. Beside that,” said Jaufre, “there is
something that comes back to me—but I cannot seize it! Before I slay
you, tell me your name.”
“Garin of the Golden Island.”
Jaufre made a pause. “You are the troubadour?”
“Just.”
“So that Richard knows not that I cut you down!” said Jaufre, and
struck with his sword.
But not for nothing had Garin trained in the East. The blade that
should have bitten deep met an upward glancing blade. The stroke was
turned aside. Jaufre made a second and fiercer essay—the sword left
his hand, came leaping and clattering upon the heap of stones. “Eye of
God!” swore Jaufre and hurled himself from his war horse.
“Take your sword!” said Garin. “And yet once, where I was concerned,
you lied, making oath that I struck you from behind and unawares—”
“Who are you with your paynim play? Who are you that I seem to know?”
“I was not knight, but squire—when I tied your hands with your horse’s
reins!”
A deeper red came to Montmaure’s face, the veins stood out upon his
brow, his frame trembled. “Now I remember—! Flame of Hell! You are
that insolent whom I sought—”
“I flew from your grasp, and I wintered well in Palestine.—And still
you injure women!”
Jaufre lunged with the recovered sword. “I will kill you now—”
“That is as may be,” said Garin, and began again the paynim play.
But he was not destined to have to-day Jaufre’s death upon him, nor to
spill his own life. With shouting and din, through the blackening air,
Count Savaric swept this way, a thousand with him. The mêlée became
wild, confused and dream-like. Jaufre sprang backward from the sword,
like a serpent’s darting tongue, of Garin of the Golden Island. The
Lord of Chalus pushed a black steed between and with a mace struck
Garin down. He sank beside the heap of stones, and for a time lost
knowledge of the clanging fight. It went this way and it went that. But
the host of Roche-de-Frêne had great odds against it, and faster and
faster it lost....
Garin came back to consciousness. Storm-light and failing day, sound
as of world ruin, odour of blood, oppression of many bodies in narrow
space, faintness of heat—Garin looked upward and saw through a cleft
in the battle Roche-de-Frêne upon its hill-top, and the castle grey
against the grey heaven, a looming grey dream. He sank again into the
sea and night, but when he lifted again, lifted clear. He opened his
eyes and found Aimar beside him, and Rainier.
Aimar bent to him. “What, Garin, Garin! All saints be praised! I
thought you dead—”
“I live,” said Garin. “But the day is going against us.”
He spoke dreamily, and rose to his feet. Before and above him he still
saw the grey castle. It lightened, and in a wide picture showed the
broken host and the faces of fleeing men. One came by with outspread
arms. “Lord Stephen is down—sore hurt or dead! Lord Stephen is down—”
Thunder crashed. Beneath its long reverberations sounded a wailing
of trumpets. This died, and there arose a savage shouting, noise of
Montmaure’s triumph. It lightened and thundered again. Other and many
trumpets sounded, not at hand but somewhat distantly, not mournfully,
but with voices high and resolved and jubilant. Garin thought that they
came from the castle, then that they were blowing in the streets of the
town, then that they sounded without the walls, from the downward slope
of the great road. Rose came into the grey of the world, salt into its
flatness.
“Blessed Mother of God!” cried Aimar. “See yonder, rescue streaming
from the gates—”
Forth from Roche-de-Frêne poured the castle garrison, poured the
burghers. They came, each man armed as he would run, at the alarum
bell, to the walls. Knight and sergeant rode; the many hasted afoot.
All the old warriors and the young warriors, whose post of duty had
been within the place, sprang forth, and followed them the host of
the townsmen, at their head Thibaut Canteleu. But at the head of
all, chivalry, foot-soldiers and townsmen, rode the Princess of
Roche-de-Frêne. Down came the torrent, in the light of the storm, down
the hill of Roche-de-Frêne, over the bridge, then widened itself and
came impetuous, with a kind of singing will, freshness, and power upon
the plain, to the battle that the one side had thought won and the
other lost.
All lethargy passed from Garin’s senses. He beheld the rallying of the
host, beheld Stephen the Marshal, sore wounded but not to death, lifted
and borne to the great tower, beheld the princess, wearing mail like
a man, a helmet upon her head, in her hand a sword. She rode a grey
destrier, and where her banner came, came courage, hope, and victory.
The battle turned. Montmaure was thrust back upon his tents. When the
tempest broke, with a great rain and whistling wind, with lightning
that blinded and pealing thunder, when the twilight came down and the
battle rested, it was Montmaure that had lost the day.