THE SAFFRON CROSS
MOON and stars began to pale. The camp-followers up the stream had
poultry with them, for from that direction a cock crew and was
answered. The herd-girl waked the jongleur. “I have black bread in my
scrip,” she said. “Look if you have not the same.”
He found a portion of a loaf; they sat by the brook Saint Laurent and
he cut the bread with his dagger and they ate and drank of the water.
Light strengthened, it became grey-pearl under the pines. “Chill!
chill!” said the herd-girl. “Often I think of how it would be to lie
out under the sky, winter, spring, summer and now! So many thousands
do.—Now, we will be going.”
They moved along the bank of the stream. “We go north,” said Garin’s
mind. “Will she go to the King at Paris?” But he waited without
question until she was ready to say. Jongleur and herd-girl, they
walked through the grey and dewy world. The trees now stood further
apart, they were coming to open ground. To their right the east showed
stripes of carnation. The cocks crew again; the mutter and murmur of
the night suddenly took height and depth, became inarticulate clamour
of the day and an encamped, huge host. The light strengthened. Between
the stems of trees they saw, at no great distance, huts and booths of
autumn branches. They stood still for a little in the flush of the
brightening dawn—divers regarding the sea into which they were to
plunge, the sea whose every wave was inimical. They looked, then, each
turning a little, their eyes met. It was but for a moment; immediately
they went forward.
Elias of Montaudon was all dusk and green of garb, and dusk of brow
and cheek. But his dagger hung in a gilt sheath and his lute by a red
ribbon, and his eyes were grey with glints of blue. Jael the herd,
too, was hued like a Martinmas leaf, and her hair hung over her bosom
and to her knee, in long, dusk braids. The jongleur had a vision of
dark hair loosened and spread in elf-lock and wave, half hiding a face
more girlish than this face, but as this face might have been, eight
years agone. Impossibilities—dreams, phantasies, magic somewhere,
impossibilities!
They were now almost clear of the broken ground and the remnant of
wood. They looked back and saw Roche-de-Frêne lifted against the solemn
sky; stood still and for a minute or more gazed, and as though the
walls were glass, viewed the tense life within.
“Did you ever see Richard of Aquitaine?” asked the herd-girl.
“No,” answered the jongleur, and felt a momentary wonder, then the dawn
of a conjecture.
The herd-girl turned again to their wandering and he followed her,
then walked beside her.... Leaving the last group of trees, they came
with suddenness upon a little pebbly shore of the stream and upon half
a dozen women, kneeling and beginning the washing of clothes. Several
ragged children sat by a fire of sticks and made an outcry when the two
came from the wood. The women looked up. “Hè! a jongleur!” cried one.
“Come trill me a love-lay while I wash my sergeant’s one shirt!”
Elias and Jael came near, sat by the fire of sticks, and felt the
warmth pleasant. The first drew his hand across the strings of his lute
and sang:—
“Sweet May, come! the lovers’ sweet season.
In May Love seems the height of reason!
Try your love when the year grows older,
The birds depart and the earth is colder.—”
He stopped. “Saint Michael! the mist is yet in my throat. Your fire,
gossips, is the sweet, crackling singer—”
One of the women sat back upon her heels, and, hands on hips, regarded
the two. “From what camp are you? You are not of our camp?”
“No. We have been over yonder—near to the young count.”
“If Cap-du-Loup saw you he would have your lute broken and you sent to
wait on fighting men! Cap-du-Loup loatheth jongleurs and monks! Your
_douce_ there he might take—but no, I think that he would not. She is
not fair, and she has the look of one with claws—”
“I have claws, sister,” said Jael. “But I know how to keep them
sheathed.” She yawned. “This good fire makes you sleepy. Pretty
children, let me rest my head upon that log for a bit! Play to us,
Elias, if you cannot sing.”
She put her head down, closed her eyes, lying in the firelight. The
jongleur played and he played strange quaint airs that made the
washerwomen laugh, nod their heads, and pat with their hands. After
this he played quieter strains, a dreamy and monotonous music, humming
to it a thought of the East. They listened, then turned to their
rubbing and beating of clothes, working as in a dream, to a soothed and
unquestioning mood.
Jael sat up, warmed her hands at the fire, looked to the west. On
the other side of the brook of Saint Laurent a trampling sound arose
and grew. The mist yielded a grey vision of horsemen approaching in
number. They loomed, there ran before them noise—harsh voices, ribald
laughter. The washerwomen sprang to their feet, gathered hastily into
their arms the scattered garments, seized by the hands the children.
“Jacques le Noir and his men! Get out of their way! Jesu! What a world
where your own side tramples and abuses—”
They turned up the stream, quarrelling as they went. With them and the
children went the jongleur and the herd-girl, all faring along the
bank together, in the mist that was now being torn by golden arrows.
One of the women, with a load of wet, half-washed clothing, let fall
a part of the burden. The herd-girl, stooping, gathered it up. “I’ll
help you here, sister!” A child struck its foot against a stone, fell,
and began to cry. The jongleur lifted him to his shoulder. Behind them
they heard Jacques le Noir splash with his horsemen into the stream.
The washerwomen and the two from Roche-de-Frêne went on like one family
or like old acquaintances, and so came into the thickly peopled camp of
the followers of Cap-du-Loup and his fighting men.
The sun was now risen. The pied and various world in which they found
themselves had breakfasted or was breakfasting. Noise prevailed,
self-wrought into some kind of harmony. Here were women, soldiers’ and
others’ wives, and frank harlots, and here were children, seraphic,
impish, and all between. Here harboured men of sorts, men who cared
for horses, were smiths, menders of harness and armour, fitters of
lance-heads to lances, fletchers of arrows. Here were barber-surgeons,
cooks, and servitors of servitors. Sutlers and merchants of small wares
showed both men and women, as did also the amusement-mongers. There
abounded folk of nondescript and uncertain trades, or of no trades
at all, mere followers and feeders, a true rabble. And there were
gamesters and cunning thieves.
Elias of Montaudon and Jael the herd came into this throng in the
company of the women who had washed by the brook of Saint Laurent. The
air was yet hung with mist-wreaths; they entered with these about them,
and none took especial notice.
The washerwomen did not stray from the brook. Down they flung their
half-washed, wet, and dripping loads, and complained loudly to any who
would listen of Jacques le Noir and his demon band. Some listened,
some did not; the most had recitals of their own. Voices sprang like
grass-blades, were confounded.... With the others Jael threw upon the
ground her load, Elias set down the child he had carried. Then in the
confusion they went away, leaving without staying word or hand the
group that had brought them thus far. They followed the brook Saint
Laurent and they passed many folk, buried in their own concerns. To
an eye not observant beyond a certain point, the two would seem a
loitering couple of the camp, vacant and idly straying, being set at
the moment to no task. None greeted them as acquaintances—but there
seemed here no eye to note that fact. Units and groups shifted like
the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. Continually the tube was shaken
and there came up new arrangements. The two went on, and none saw in
them wandering bodies from outer and hostile space, pursuing a course
athwart the field of the kaleidoscope.... The mist was gone, the sun
poured light; looking back, they saw Roche-de-Frêne, indeed, but always
farther, farther from them.
They approached the edge of the camp-followers’ demesne. It frayed out
among trees and gullies and heaps of refuse. Presently came a strip of
bare earth, recently burned over, licked clean by the flame, and desert
of human works or being. Beyond, flung widely, grey reefs across their
way, were soldiers’ tents. Jael the herd’s lips moved. “Come down, for
a minute, into this hollow where none will see.”
Descending a miniature slope, they stood in a narrow space between
walls of parched earth. The camp behind them, the camp before
them, sank abruptly from view, though the sound of each remained.
Roche-de-Frêne sank from view; they were roofed by the blue sky. A
lizard ran from stone to stone; a wind, circling the place, lifted into
air dead leaves and particles of earth. The herd-girl, seating herself,
opened the scrip that she carried. The jongleur watched her take from
it something at which he started. It was a piece of saffron-coloured
cloth, cut in the shape of a cross. The upright measured near two feet,
it and the arms had a palm’s breadth. The next thing that she did was
to find a needle and thread; then she took her frieze mantle, and after
an instant of looking into the pure, deep heavens, began to fasten upon
the mantle the saffron cross.
Garin held his breath. Holy Church had many penances for erring souls,
and the most were acquiesced in with the least possible inner pain,
and some were dreaded, and a few were direfully dreaded, shudderingly
looked upon. The most were burdensome but matter-of-fact; some gave
the weak flesh sharp pain, but did not necessarily humble one in the
eyes of the world and the neighbours. A certain number had for label,
_Humiliation_, and they were dreaded. A few were more sinister than
these, frightening the imagination. One or two brought a dark terror,
dark and cold. These did not partake of the nature of prostrations,
or of prayers in multiplied repetition, or of flagellations, or
pilgrimages, or amercement of goods. Flagellation was of temporary
account; pilgrimages a way to see the world as well as to wipe out
sin; loss in money and land a serious thing, God knew! but though
bitter, without ignominy. None of these came under the same sky with
excommunication, which was not penance, but doom and living death! But
to wear a cross like this came under the same sky.
It carried no physical pain with it, nor imprisonment within material
walls. Of itself, it did not dip into the purse, or shear away house
and land. Of itself, it did not say, “Leave your home, penitent, and
wander to many a shrine, know many calvaries!” Incidentally it might
have come after—most often it did come after—these lesser things. It
was rarely bound, like the mark of Cain, upon the young in offending.
It came somewhat rarely upon any but the poor. So long as there was
any wealth there might be compounding for something less than the
millstone.... It was not likely to be imposed for any less time than
a long, long while. Perhaps it was worn for years, perhaps they died
wearing it. It weighed hardly anything materially, but it weighed life
down. The people regarded it with superstitious horror. It said, “Lo,
shadow and substance of sin that may hardly be pardoned! Lo, here the
Obdurate, the Ancient and Resigned to the Prince of the Power of the
Air—preserved that ye may see—set aside in the midst of you that ye
may know! Not to be touched, not to be dealt with in pleasant, human
ways—any more than a leper!”
Garin looked. His face had paled beneath the stain applied by the
true Elias. “Ah!” he said, “what people of the future comes, my Lady
Audiart, from such as you!”
The other stood up, her sewing finished. She drew the cloak over her
shoulders, and her right arm and side showed the saffron cross. Her
dark eyes met Garin’s. “Now you are my brother. We are twin, and Saint
Peter himself would not have you utterly forsake me! Let us go.”
They came out from the crack in the earth and proceeded to cross the
burned strip. All in all, they had now penetrated some distance in the
dragon’s field. When they looked over their shoulder, Roche-de-Frêne
yet showed with grandeur in the morning light, against the south-east
quarter of a fleckless sky. But it showed as somewhat distant.... Garin
understood now that they were to cross the dragon’s field, to leave
it behind them, to escape as quickly as might be from its poisonous
breath, from the reach of its talons. He saw also that, danger-grown
as was their path of travel, it was the least so that should have been
taken from the beleaguered place. The dragon lay here, too, but not,
perhaps, the brain nor eyes of him.
The day shone bright and cool. Directly ahead a large campfire yet
smoked and smouldered, and right and left of it and beyond grew the
somewhat tattered tents of Cap-du-Loup’s force. In the assault, on the
way to the assault, Cap-du-Loup drove his men like a storm. At other
times he let them live as they would.
There were Free Companions, a score or so, around the fire. These
caught sight of the two upon the burned and blackened strip between
them and the followers’ camp. There was passage to and fro, as the gods
of license knew! Many figures of the world strayed almost at will,
found lanes enough through the loose warp of the time’s armies. A woman
and a jongleur might find a groove, so easy, so worn—There were,
however, toll-gates.
Men who had been lying on the ground sat up. “Come across! Come
across!” called one. Another rose to his feet and went to touch first,
so claim first. A third sprang up, ran after, but a young giant,
starting fourth, outstripped him, gained on the first. The men had been
idle after a night’s sleep. Breakfast of goat’s flesh and bread was
digested, the slight enough camp tasks disposed of, after which came
idleness and yawning. Cap-du-Loup meant to join Aimeric the Bastard in
a night attack upon Roche-de-Frêne’s western gate, and until then the
storm slept. The Free Companions were ready for movement, enterprise,
deviltry. They rose from the ashy fire, and finding pleasure in
stretching of the limbs, raced after their fellows. The distance was
a pygmy one; immediately they were at their goal—the giant just the
first.
He put his hands upon the woman. “Come, my _mie_—come, my jewel!” The
one who had started first began to clamour that he was first; there
arose a noise as from any brute pack. The giant, dragged at by his
fellows, half turned, turning with him her he grasped. The saffron
cross came into view.
The Free Companion’s hands dropped. He, and every man as he saw it,
gave back. The recoil left black earth between them and Jael and
Elias. Quarrelling and laughter alike sank. Here was neither wooing
nor taking, but a hand stole down, picked up a stone and threw it. It
struck her, then she spoke. “Leave to the cross them who wear it, brave
soldiers!”
The giant came from a hamlet that tilled Abbey fields, and he was wise
beyond his fellows in what the Church said. Moreover he was by nature
unresistant to Authority. It was not he who had thrown the stone, and
now he struck down the arm of one who gathered a second missile. “Abbot
Arnaut told us we mustn’t ever do that! If you do, God the Father’ll
lengthen your score—burn you a year longer in Purgatory!”
“It’s the serpent of sin.—Naught’s doing but stoning!”
“You can’t strike man or woman when they’ve touched sanctuary! Yellow
cross’s a kind of sanctuary—”
The giant found some upon his side. “That’s true! Father Andrew
preached a sermon about it, Saint John Baptist’s day!—You don’t break
into a house marked for plague. Holy Church says, ‘This cross’s my
seal. I punish, and don’t you be trying to better it!’”
“That’s true! Holy Church says, ‘Have no communion, for good or for
ill! Here is something fearful and not like it was mortal!’”
The black earth widened about Jael and Elias. “What is the man doing
with her?” cried the first runner.
Another yet more reckless lifted voice. “Is a jongleur to be a heathen
and we can’t? Is he to give the dare to a Free Companion?”
Despite the giant and those backing him, the pack came nearer,
narrowing the black mark. Garin spoke. He was accustomed to lead and
command men, fusing their will with his. Use gave him power here
also, though they that he faced knew not what it was. And he had
other powers over men and himself. He spoke. “Good soldiers! I am her
brother, twin with her, and I had a vision that I was not utterly
to forsake her. The priest said that I was to mind it.” He brought
his lute forward, and as he spoke he drew from the strings notes of
wistfulness and beauty. “So we started many months ago, on a pilgrimage
from Pont-de-Lys in Limousin (for we are of Limousin) to Our Lady of
Roche-de-Frêne. And after that we fared on a long way to the north,
to the famous shrine of Saint Thomas in Burgundy.” He was playing
very sweetly, notes of unearthly tenderness and melancholy. “There
the vision came again and told me to return the way we had come to
Limousin, and then, without rest, to go on pilgrimage to Saint James,
the brother of the Lord, at Compostella.”
He changed and deepened the strain until it had solemnity, became music
played in churches. “She speaks not often to me, nor I to her. She
touches me not, and I touch not her. But the vision said, ‘Go with her
to Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne, and then to the shrine of Saint Thomas’;
and then it said, ‘Turn and go with her to Compostella.’ The priest
said, ‘Obey that which spoke to you, and It will see that you are not
hindered.’” His lips shut. He had spoken in a voice that he knew how to
use so as to bring the heart into acquiescence, and his fingers still
spoke on, upon the strings of the lute.
The half-ring parted. It felt horror of the saffron cross, but,
strange to itself, it also now felt pity and an impulse to help. Its
ill passion fell cold and dead. Sufficiently swift and deep and for
sufficiently long time came the change. Whether there was responsible
some saint, or suggestion, or these beings’ proper motion, here was
what answered for miracle. The giant was the spokesman.
“The way is clear so far as we are named! Go on, poor soul, and brother
jongleur, and maybe there’s a star somewhere to shine for you!—Nay,
I’ll go before and see that no man of Cap-du-Loup breaks sanctuary—no,
nor harms you, jongleur!”