COUNT JAUFRE
THE day was soft and bright, neither hot nor cold, and at the
mid-morning. Half-way between the walls of Roche-de-Frêne and the host
of Montmaure, in a space clear of any cover that might be used for
ambushes, rose a blue pavilion, a green and silver pavilion, and one
between that carried these colours blended. Before the blue pavilion
hung a banner with a blue field and the arms of Roche-de-Frêne, before
the green and silver Montmaure’s banner; before the third pavilion
the two ensigns were fixed side by side. Those who had pitched the
pavilions and made lavish preparation were servants of Montmaure.
Montmaure was the host this day. Led blindfold into Roche-de-Frêne,
through the streets and in at the castle gate, had gone four great
barons, hostages for the green and silver’s faith.
A trumpet sounded from the town. A trumpet answered for Montmaure.
The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne rode through the gates upon her white
Arabian. Behind her came two ladies, Guida and Maeut, and after these
rode fifty knights. All wound down the hillside that was pitted and
scarred and strewn with many a battle token. To meet them, started from
the tented plain fifty knights of Montmaure, and at their head Count
Jaufre. Count Savaric, it was known, suffered yet at times with the
wound he had got in the spring from Stephen the Marshal. It seemed that
it was so in the week of this meeting. He was laid in his tent in the
hands of his leech. But by cry of herald he had made known that his
son’s voice and presence were his own. The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne
would meet in Count Jaufre no less a figure than the reigning count.
Thus Jaufre rode alone at the head of the fifty knights.
He rode a great steed caparisoned as for a royal tourney. He himself
wore mail beneath a surcoat of the richest samite, but he had
embroidered gloves, not battle gauntlets, and in place of helmet a cap
sewn with gems and carrying an eagle feather. The one train came down
the hill, the other crossed the level, overburned, and trodden earth.
The two met with fanfare of trumpets and caracoling of steeds and
chivalrous parade, close at hand the coloured pavilions, overhead the
sapphire sky, around the breath of autumn.
Jaufre sprang from his courser, hastened to the Arabian and would aid
the princess to dismount. He swept his cap from his head. Red-gold
locks and hawk nose, and on the right cheek a long scar, curiously
shaped.... The Princess Audiart sat very still upon her white Arabian.
Then she smiled, dismounted, and gave Jaufre de Montmaure her gloved
hand.
Jaufre was adept, when he so chose, in _courtoisie_. He had learned
the value and the practice of it in Italy, and learned, in his
fellowship with Richard Lion-Heart, to temper it with the cool snow
of exaltation and poetry—or to seem to temper it. Richard truly did
so. To-day this one acre of earth was a court, and he was prepared to
behave to the ruler of Roche-de-Frêne as to a fair woman who chanced
to be high-born. All the past fighting should be treated with disdain
as a lovers’ quarrel! Count Jaufre had chosen a rôle, and practised
it in his mind, with a smile upon his lips. He did not forget, nor
did he wish the princess to forget, how much stronger was the host of
Montmaure, and that the siege must end in humbling for Roche-de-Frêne
and victory for Montmaure. Male strength—male strength was his! He
was prepared to show his consciousness of that. He had had lovers’
quarrels before—he could not remember how many. He remembered with
complacence that—usually—the other side had come to its knees. If
the other side had given him much trouble, made him angry, he then
repaid it. That was what was going to happen here. But, to-day, joy and
courtesies and the _gai science_! Show this Audiart the Wise the lord
she thought she could refuse! So he met the princess, curled, pressed,
and panoplied with courtliness. He out-poetized the poets, beggared the
goddesses of attributes. He strewed painted flowers before the Princess
of Roche-de-Frêne, then, his count’s cap again upon his head, led her
over the battle-cleansed space to the three pavilions.
Her ladies followed her. The hundred knights, dismounting, fraternized.
The air was sweet; over high-built town and castle, sweep of martial
plain, cloud-like blue mountains, sprang a serenest roof of heaven.
The knights gave mutual enmity a day’s holiday, and, having done a
good deed, gained thereupon a line in stature. Many of them knew one
another, name and appearance and fame. They had encountered in tourney,
in hall and bower, and in battle. Fortune had at times ranged them
on the same side. A fair number wore the sign of the crusader. Under
either banner were famous knights. The time craved fame and worshipped
it. War, love, song, and—the counter-pole—asceticism were your
trodden roads to fame. Now and then one reached it by a path just
perceptible in the wilderness; but more fell in striving to make such
a path. There were famous knights among the hundred, and by this time
none more famed than Garin of Castel-Noir, Garin of the Golden Island.
Sir Aimar de Panemonde was as brave, but Garin was troubadour no less
than knight, and about what he did, in either way, dwelt a haunting
magic.
Montmaure led the princess to the blue pavilion. It was hers, with her
ladies, to refresh herself therein. He himself crossed to the green and
silver, drank wine, and looked forth upon the mingling of knights. “Let
us see,” ran his thought, “the jade’s choice!” He saw valiant men,
known afar, or come in this siege to their kind’s admiration. “Ha!” he
said to Guiraut of the Vale who stood beside him. “She knows how to
cull her garden!”.
“She has more mind, lord, than a woman should have!”
He thought to please Count Jaufre, what he said differing not at all
from what he had heard his lord say. But Jaufre frowned. Reckoning
the princess his own, it was not for a vassal to speak slightingly!
A shifting of the knights took place. It brought into view one whom
Montmaure had not earlier seen. “Eye of God! will she bring that devil
with her?”
Guiraut followed the pointing finger. “That is the crusader and
troubadour, Garin de Castel-Noir.”
“Devil and double-devil!” burst forth Jaufre. “When I take
Roche-de-Frêne, woe to you, devil! I hope you be not slain before that
day!”
The blood was in his face, his eyes narrowed to a slit, his red-gold
locks seemed to quiver. Another movement of knights in the giant
cluster, and Garin was hid from his sight. He turned and drank again,
with an effort composed his countenance and, a signal being given, left
his pavilion. At the same moment the princess quitted the blue; they
came together to the great pavilion of the blended colours and the two
banners. Here, beneath a canopy, were chairs, with a rich carpet for
the feet. Jaufre had provided music, which played,—not loudly, nor so
as to trouble their parley.
The princess had a robe of brown samite, with a mantle of the same; but
over the robe, in place of silken bliaut, she wore fine chain-mail, and
in a knight’s belt of worked leather, a rich dagger. Her braided hair
was fastened close, with silver pins, beneath a light morion. She sat
down, looked at Jaufre opposite. “In this war, my lord, we have not met
so near before.”
“Never have we met, princess, so near before!” He bent toward her,
warm, red-gold, and mighty. This meeting was for condescension, grace,
spring touches in autumn! He found her face not so bad, better much
than long-ago rumour had painted. His memory carried pictures of her
in this siege—upon her war horse before the bridge was taken, or in
sallies from the gates, in a night-time surprise, by the flare of
torches, or upon the walls, above the storming parties. But he had seen
her somewhat distantly, never so close as this. That was the inward
reason why he had urged this meeting: he wished to see her close. He
felt the stirring of a thwart desire. He wished to embrace—since that
was what she refused—and to crush. He could admire the courage in
her—he had courage himself, though little did he know of magnanimity.
“We should have met,” he said, “before we went to war!”
Audiart regarded him with a stilly look. “Perhaps, my lord, we should
have warred where’er we met.—It has been eight years since you came
from Italy.”
“Eight years.—Eye of God! they have been full years!”
“Yes. Each has been an ocean. I remember, it was near this season.”
Jaufre’s brows bore a marking of surprise. “Tell me why you hold that
year in memory—”
The princess sat with a faint smile upon her face, her eyes upon
the world beyond the canopy. The latter stretched but overhead;
the hillside, the town, the tented plain were visible, and in the
foreground the company of knights where they were gathered beneath
olive and almond trees.
“That year, my lord count, I first saw your father, the ‘great count.’
The prince my father made a tourney in honour of a guest who, like
you, my lord, sought a bride. And by chance there came riding by
Roche-de-Frêne—that you must know, my lord, gave always frank welcome
to neighbours—Count Savaric of Montmaure. My father gave him good
welcome, and also my step-dame, Madame Alazais, and myself, and he
sat with us and watched the knights joust.... There is where you come
in, my lord! One asked why you were not with Count Savaric, for it
was known that you had lately come back to Montmaure from Italy.” She
turned her eyes upon him and smiled again. “I remember almost Count
Savaric’s words! ‘My son,’ he said, ‘would go a-hunting! Giving chase
to a doe, he outstripped his men. Then burst from a thicket a young
wolf which attacked him and tore his side. He cannot yet sit his
horse. I have left him at Montmaure where he studies chivalry, and
makes, I doubt not, chansons for princesses.’”
The blood flooded Montmaure’s brow and cheek. He stared, not at the
Princess of Roche-de-Frêne, but forth upon the train of knights. “Eye
of God!” he breathed. “That wolf—! Eye of God!”
“My lord count,” said the princess, “did you afterwards hunt down and
kill the wolf? I never heard—and I have always wished to hear.”
“No! He ran free! Heart of Mahound—!”
Light played over the princess’s face, but Jaufre, choking down the
thought of the wolf, did not note it. He opened his lips to speak
further of that eight-years-past autumn, thus brought up by chance, and
of the wolf; then thought better of it. As for Audiart, she thought,
“Vengeful so toward a poor squire who but once, and long ago, crossed
his evil will! Then what might Roche-de-Frêne hope for?”
Jaufre, regaining command of himself, signalled for wine. A page
brought rich flagons upon a rich salver. Jaufre filled a cup, touched
it with his lips, offered it to the princess. He was growing cool
again, assured as before. There was flattery, in her recalling the
moment of his return from Italy, in her remembering, across the years,
each word that had been spoken of him!
She took the cup—he noted how long and finely shaped were the fingers
that closed upon it—and drank, then, smiling, set it down. “That is a
generous wine, my lord—a wine for good neighbours!”
“It is not a wine of Montmaure but of Roche-de-Frêne,” said Jaufre.
“Save indeed that, as I have taken the fields that grew the grapes
and the town that sold the wine, it may be said, princess, to be of
Montmaure!”
Audiart the Wise sat silent a moment, her eyes upon her foe. She was
there because the need of Roche-de-Frêne sucked at her heart. But she
knew—she knew—that it would not avail! Yet she spoke, low, deep and
thrillingly. “My lord, my lord, why should we fight? Truth my witness,
if ever I wished Montmaure harm, I’ll now unwish it! Do you so, my
lord, toward Roche-de-Frêne! This sunny, autumn day—if we were at
peace, how sweet it were! This land garlanded, and Montmaure—and men
and women faring upward—and anger, hate, and greed denied—and common
good grown dearer, nearer! Ah, my Lord Count Jaufre, lift this siege,
and win a knightlier, lordlier name than warring gives—”
Jaufre broke in. “Are marriage bells ringing in your pleading, my
princess? If they ring not, all that is said says naught!”
She looked at him with a steadfast face. “Marriage bells?... Give me
all that is in your mind, my lord.”
Jaufre drank again. “Marriage bells ringing over our heads where we
stand in the Church of Saint Eustace in Montmaure.”
“_In Montmaure...._ Did you and I wed, my lord, I must come to you in
Montmaure?”
“So! I will give you escort—a thousand spears.”
“And Roche-de-Frêne?—and Roche-de-Frêne—”
“As I may conceive,” said Jaufre, “dealing with my own.”
The princess sat very still. Only her eyes moved, and they looked from
Count Jaufre to the walled town and back again. Montmaure had pushed
back his seat. He sat propping his chin with his hand, his hot gaze
upon her. “Roche-de-Frêne,” she said at last,—”Roche-de-Frêne would
have no guaranty?”
“Eye of God!” answered Jaufre. “I will not utterly destroy what comes
to me in wedlock! What interest would that serve? It shall feel
scourges, but I shall not tumble each stone from its fellow! Take that
assurance, princess!”
She sat silent. “After all,” said her thought, “you have only what you
knew you would get!” Within she knew grim laughter, even a certain
relief. Would she sacrifice or would she not, no good would come from
Montmaure to Roche-de-Frêne! Then, fight on, and since thus it was,
fight with an undivided will! Resistance rose as from sleep, refreshed.
She smiled. “I am glad that I came, my Lord of Montmaure,” she said,
and spoke in a pure, limpid, uncoloured voice. “Else, hearing from
another your will, I might not have believed—”
“Eye of God! Madame, so it is!” said Jaufre, and in mind heard the
bells of the Church of Saint Eustace, and the shouting in Montmaure.
The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne stood up in her brown samite, and sheath
of chain-mail and morion that reflected the sunbeams. “Having now your
mind, my lord count, I will return to Roche-de-Frêne!”
She signed to her train that was watching. The squires brought before
the pavilion her white Arabian and the palfreys of Guida and Maeut. The
movement spread to the knights beneath the trees.... Jaufre, rising
also, inwardly turned over the matter of how soon she had willed to
depart, to bring short this splendidly-prepared-for visit. That she
would be gone from him and any further entertainment displeased, but
was salved by the thought that she was in flight to conceal her lowered
and broken pride. He was conscious that he had not maintained his
intention of suavity, _courtoisie_. When Richard was not there, he did
not well keep down the pure savage. That talk of hers of the “wolf”
had poured oil on the red embers of a score unpaid. That the wolf was
there in presence—that he, Jaufre, did not wish to tell as much to
the world and Audiart the Wise, letting them see what score had gone
unpaid—increased the heat. It burned within Jaufre with a smouldering
that threatened flame. On the other hand, the person of this princess
pleased him more than he had looked for. And it was delightsome to
him, the taste of having made her taste him, his power, purpose, and
mode of dealing! He felt that longer stay would accomplish no more; he
was not without a dash of the artist. He, too, signed for his great
bay—for his knights to prepare to follow him from these gay pavilions.
To-morrow morn this truce would shut—unless, ere that, she sent a
herald with her plain surrender!
She was speaking, in the same crystal, uncoloured voice. “Are you so
sure, my lord, that you win? Do you always win? What were we talking
of at first? A doe that escaped from under your hand, and a wolf that
laid you low in a forest glade and went his way in safety?—My Lord of
Montmaure, I defy you! and sooner than wed with you I with this dagger
will marry Death!” She touched it where it hung at her belt, moved to
her Arabian, and sprang to the saddle.
Her following, though but a few had heard what passed between her
and Montmaure, saw that there was white wrath, and that the meeting
was shortened beyond expectation. Montmaure’s knights marked him no
less—that suddenly his mood was black. All of either banner got to
horse.
The veins of Jaufre’s brow were swollen. The company of knights forming
about the Princess of Roche-de-Frêne, the “wolf” came suddenly into his
field of vision.... The “singing knight” placed in her chosen band by
Roche-de-Frêne’s princess—the “wolf” protected by her and favoured!
Till that instant he had not thought of them together—but now with
lightning swiftness his fury forged a red link between them. He did
not reason—certainly he gave her no place in the forest, eight years
agone—but he desired, he lusted to slay the one before the eyes of the
other! He thrust out a clenched hand, he spoke with a thickened voice.
Whatever in him had note of a saving quality was passed by the stride
of its opposite.
“Ha, my Princess Audiart, that men call the Wise! I will tell you that
your wisdom will not save you—nor Roche-de-Frêne—nor yonder knight,
my foe, that I hold in loathing and will yet break upon a wheel!” He
laughed, sitting his great bay horse, and with a gesture shook forth
vengeance. “To-morrow morn, look to yourselves!”
“My Lord of Montmaure, we shall!” The princess gave command, the
train from Roche-de-Frêne drew away from the pavilions, the knights
of Montmaure and Count Jaufre. “Farewell, my lord!” cried Audiart the
Wise, “and for hospitality and frank speech much thanks! I love not
war, but, if you will have it so, I will war!”
The trumpets sounded. They who watched from the walls saw the two
trains draw apart and their own come in order up the winding road that
climbed to the town. Their own reached the gates and entered.... In the
market-place, the bell having drawn the people together, the princess
spoke to them, her voice, clear, firm, and with hint of depth beyond
depth, reaching the outermost fringing sort. She spoke at no great
length but to the purpose, then asked their mind and waited to hear it.
Raimon, Lord of Les Arbres, a great baron, the greatest vassal of
Roche-de-Frêne there present, spoke from the train of fifty, speaking
for those lords and knights and for all chivalry in Roche-de-Frêne.
“My Lady Audiart, we are your men! Hold your courage and we shall hold
ours! There is not here lord nor belted knight nor esquire who wishes
for suzerain the Counts of Montmaure! We will keep Roche-de-Frêne until
we know victory or perish!”
The captain of the crossbowmen, a giant of a man, spoke with a booming
voice. “The sergeants, the bowmen, the workers of the machines and the
foot-soldiers sing Amen! The princess is a good princess and a noble
and a wise, and no man here fails of his pay! Montmaure is a niggard
and a hard lord. We are yours to the end, my Lady Audiart!”
Thibaut Canteleu spoke for the town. “Since the world will have it that
we must have lords, give us your like for lord, my Lady Audiart! We
know what a taken and sacked town is when Montmaure takes and sacks it!
But open our gates to him at his call, and what better would we get?
Long slavery and slow pain, and our children to begin again at the foot
of the stair! So we propose to hold this town, how hard it is to hold
soever!”
A clerk, standing upon the steps that led to a house door, sent his
voice across the crowded place. “I will speak though I be excommunicate
for it! We hear of the miracle of Father Eustace, and one tells us
that God and His Mother would have our princess marry Montmaure! I do
not believe that Father Eustace knows the will of God!”
From the throng came a deep, answering note, a multitudinous humming
doubt if Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne had been truly understood. The
people looked at the cathedral tower, and they looked at the castle and
around at their town, their houses, shops, market, and guild-halls, at
the blue sky above and at their princess. The note sustained itself,
broadened and deepened, became like the sound of the sea, and said
forthright that whatever had been meant by Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne,
it was not alliance with Montmaure!
The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne and her train of knights rode through
the town and mounted to the castle. Some change in the order of those
about her brought Garin for a moment beside the white Arabian. The
princess turned her head, spoke to him. “Count Jaufre holds you in some
especial hatred. Why is that?”
“I crossed him in his will one day, long ago. He would have done an
evil thing, and I, chancing by, came between him and his prey. He it
was who caused me to flee the land.—But not alone for that day is
there enmity between us!”
“Ah!” said the princess. “Long is his rosary of ill deeds! Into my mind
to-day comes one that was long ago, and on a day like this. It comes so
clear—!”