THE FAIR GOAL
MESSENGERS, heralds, bearing decisive and peremptory speech, went
from Richard, Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine, to the Counts
of Montmaure. Others were despatched to the leaders of the host of
Aquitaine before Roche-de-Frêne. Duke Richard was at peace with
Roche-de-Frêne; let that host therefore direct no blow against its
lord’s ally! Instead, let it forthwith detach itself from Montmaure,
withdraw at once from the princedom of Roche-de-Frêne, and, returned
within its own boundaries, go each man to his own home. _On your faith
and obedience._ So the heralds to the leaders of the aid from Aquitaine.
To the Counts of Montmaure the heralds, declaring themselves true
heart, mouth, and speech of Duke Richard, delivered peremptory summons
to desist from this war. An they did not, it would be held to them for
revolt from Richard their suzerain.... The heralds with their train
rode fast and rode far.
The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne awaited in Angoulême the earliest fruit
of this faring. She waited at first at the Abbey of the Fountain, but
presently in the town as Duke Richard’s guest. A great house was given
her, with all comfort and service. Ladies came to wait upon her; she
had seneschal, chamberlain and page. If she would go abroad she had
palfreys with their grooms; in her hall waited knights to attend her.
Angoulême and its castle and the court about Duke Richard buzzed of
her presence in this place, of what adventure had been hers to reach
it, and of the attitude now of Richard Lion-Heart. They did not know
detail of her adventure, but they knew that it had taken courage. They
knew that Richard had in him power to turn squarely. They did not know
all the whys and wherefores, depths and reasons of the right angle
that made in Angoulême a whirling cloud of speculation, but as a fact
they accepted it and proceeded with their own adaptation. The party
that, for reasons personal to itself, had backed Montmaure, wagering
in effect upon the permanency of his influence with Richard, took
its discomforture as enforced surgery and found it wisdom’s part to
profess healing. The party that had been hostile to Montmaure found
a clearing day and walked with satisfaction in the sun. Those—not
many—who had stood between the two, found usual cautious pleasure in
changing scenery and event. The most in Angoulême could give nine days
to wonder. The Princess Audiart stayed with them no greatly longer time.
Duke Richard came to her house in state. In state she returned the
visit, was met by him at the castle gate. He would give a joust in her
honour, and afterward a contest of troubadours. She sat beside him on
the dais, and watched all with a gentle face, a still and inscrutable
look. Beauvoisin was of those who tourneyed, and among the knights whom
he brought into the lists rode Garin of the Black Castle, who did most
well and was given great observance. The next day, when there was song,
Richard called for Garin of the Golden Island, naming him famed knight,
famed poet, famed bird of song, bird that sang from itself. Garin came
before the dais, took from a jongleur his lute.
“Sir Garin of the Golden Island,” said Richard, “sing _Within its heart
the nightingale_—”
He sang—a golden song sung greatly.
“Ah!” sighed Richard Lion-Heart, and bade him sing _When in my dreams
thou risest like a star_. “Ah God!” said Richard. “Some are kings one
way, and some another! Sing now and lastly to-day, _Fair Goal_.”
Garin sang. All Angoulême that might gather in the great hall, in the
galleries, in the court and passages without, listened with parted
lips. Richard listened, and in some sort he may have felt what the
singer felt of goals beyond goals, of glories beyond the loveliness
and glories of symbols, of immortal union behind, beneath, above the
sweetness of an earthly fact.
One was present who did feel what the singer felt, and that was the
princess who sat as still as if she were carven there.... Garin of the
Golden Island won the golden falcon that was the duke’s prize.
A week went by. A second began to drift into the past, winter day by
winter day. Messengers now rode into Angoulême and through the castle
gates, and were brought to Duke Richard. They came from the lords of
Aquitaine encamped before Roche-de-Frêne, and they bore tidings of
obedience. The host helped no longer in this war. When the messengers
departed it was in act of lifting from all its encampments; even now
it would be withdrawing from the lands of Roche-de-Frêne. Richard sent
this word in state to the princess in Angoulême.
A day later there spurred at dusk into Angoulême a cloaked and hooded
lord, behind him three or four, knights or squires. The following
morn the first won through to Richard’s presence. The two were alone
together a considerable time. Those who waited without the room heard
rise and fall of voices.... At last came the lion’s note in Richard’s
voice, but it changed and fell away. He was speaking now with an icy
reasonableness. That passed to a very still, pointed utterance with
silences between.... The other made passionate answer. Richard’s speech
took a sternness and energy which in him marked the lion sublimated.
Then a bell was struck; the attendants, when they opened the door, had
a glimpse of a red-gold head and a working face, hook-nosed, with a
scar upon its cheek.
Montmaure left Angoulême; he rode in savagery and bitterness, his spur
reddening the side of his horse, the men with him labouring after.
He rode, whether by day or by eve, in a hot night of his own. Red
sparks flashed through it, and each showed something he did not wish
to see. Now it was Richard whom he doubted if ever he could regain,
and now it was Richard’s aid withdrawing—withdrawn—from the plain
by Roche-de-Frêne. Cap-du-Loup—Cap-du-Loup would follow Aquitaine,
might even now gustily have whirled away! Jaufre’s spirit whispered
of other allies who might follow. The glare showed him the force of
Montmaure that was left, spread thinly before Roche-de-Frêne. It showed
Roche-de-Frêne, as last he had seen it, over his shoulder, when he rode
with fury and passion to work in Angoulême a counter-miracle,—as he
would see it now again,—Roche-de-Frêne grim and dauntless, huge giant
seated on a giant rock. Jaufre, whelmed in his night-time, shook with
its immensity of tempest. The storm brought forth lights of its own.
They showed him Montmaure—Montmaure also in motion—cowering forth,
unwinning, from this war. They showed him Audiart the princess. When he
came to Angoulême he had learned there who had wrought the miracle....
An inner light that was not red or born of storm trembled suddenly, far
above the great fens and marshes and hot, wild currents. _That quality
in her that had wrought the miracle_—It was but a point, a gleam, but
Jaufre had seen white light. The storm closed in upon him, but he had
looked into a higher order, knew now that it was there. His huge, lower
being writhed, felt the space above it.
Hours passed, days passed. He came through country which he had
charred, back to Montmaure’s tents. The dragon lay shrunken; it could
no longer wholly enfold Roche-de-Frêne. Jaufre found his father’s red
pavilion, entered.
Count Savaric started up. “Ha! you rode fast! Speak out! Is it good or
bad?”
“Bad,” said Jaufre, and faintly, faintly knew that it was good.
The days went by in Angoulême and there came again the heralds who had
been sent to Montmaure. They brought Count Savaric’s and Count Jaufre’s
submission to the will of their suzerain—since no other could be done
and sunshine be kept to grow in! They brought news of the lifting of
the siege of Roche-de-Frêne. On the morrow came one who had been in
Roche-de-Frêne. He had to tell of joy that overflowed.
The Princess Audiart left the court of Richard Lion-Heart for her own
land and capital town. She went with a great escort which Richard
would give her. The danger now from the dragon that had ravaged
her country lay only in the scattered drops of venom that might be
encountered,—wild bands, Free Companies, wandering about, ripe for
mischief, not yet sunk back into their first lairs. She and Duke
Richard made pact of amity between his house and hers, and she went
from Angoulême on a grey day, beneath a cloud-roof that promised snow.
At the Abbey of the Fountain she dismounted, entered to say farewell to
the Abbess Madeleine and to kneel for Church’s blessing. She had ladies
now in her train. These entered with her, and two knights, the Count of
Beauvoisin and Sir Garin of the Black Castle. Forth and upon the road,
Beauvoisin rode at her right. He had the duke’s signet, lord’s power to
bear her safely through every territory that owed allegiance to Richard.
The snow fell, but the air was not cold. They rode through the
afternoon wrapped in a veil of large white flakes. In the twilight they
reached a fair-sized town where great and rich preparation had been
made for them. The next day also the snow fell, and they fared forward
through a white country. Then the snow ceased, the clouds faded and a
great heaven of blue vaulted the world. The sun shone and melted the
snow, there came a breath as of the early spring.
In the middle of the day they pitched the princess’s pavilion in the
lee of a hill or in some purple wood. They built a fire for her and
her ladies and, a distance away, a campfire. Dinner was cooked and
served; rest was taken, then camp was broken and they rode on again.
Time and route were spaced so that at eve they entered town or village
or castle gate. Beauvoisin had sent horsemen ahead—when the princess
and her company entered, they found room and cheer with varying pomp
of welcome. The night passed, in the morning stately adieux were made;
they travelled on.
Riding east and south, they came now into and crossed fiefs that held
from Montmaure who held from Aquitaine. Beauvoisin kept hawk-watch
and all knights rode with a warrior mien. Care was taken where the
camp should be made. Among those sent ahead to town or castle were
poursuivants who made formal proclamation of Duke Richard’s mind.—But
though they saw many who had been among the invaders of Roche-de-Frêne,
and though the country wore a scowling and forbidding aspect,—where
it did not wear an aspect relieved and complaisant,—they made transit
without open or secret hindrance. They came nearer, nearer to borders
of Roche-de-Frêne. In clear and gentle weather the princess entered
that fief which had been held by Raimbaut the Six-fingered.
This was a ravaged region indeed, and there was no town here for
sleeping in and no great castle that stood. When the sun was low in the
western sky they set the princess’s pavilion, and one for her ladies,
at the edge of a wood. A murmuring stream went by; there were two great
pine trees and the fire that was lighted made bronze pillars of their
trunks. Something in them brought into Audiart’s mind the Palestine
pillars before the shrine of Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne.
The sun was a golden ball, close to the horizon. Wrapped in her
mantle, she sat on a stone by the fire and watched it. Her ladies,
perceiving that she wished to be alone, kept within the pavilions.
Beauvoisin and his knights sat or reclined about their fire farther
down the stream. Farther yet a third great fire blazed for the squires
and men-at-arms. Upon a jutting mound a knight and a squire sat their
horses, motionless as statues, watching that naught of ill came near
the pavilions.
One upon the bank of the stream drew farther from the knights’ fire and
nearer to that of the princess, then stood where she might see him. She
turned her head as if she felt him there.
“Come to the fire, Sir Garin,” she said.
Garin came. “My Lady Audiart, may I speak? I have a favour to beg.”
She nodded her head. “What do you wish, Sir Garin?”
Garin stood before her, and the light played over and about him. “We
are on land that Raimbaut the Six-fingered held, whose squire I was.
Not many leagues from this wood is Castel-Noir, where I was born and
where my brother, if it be that he yet lives, abides. I would see him
again, and I would rest with him for a time and help him bring our fief
back to well-being and well-doing.—What I ask, my Lady Audiart, is
that in the morning I may turn aside to Castel-Noir and rest there.”
The princess sat very still upon the stone. The golden sun had slipped
to half an orb; wood and hill stretched dark, the voice of the stream
changed key. Audiart seemed to ponder that request. Her hand shaded
her face. At last, “We have word that ere we reach the Convent of Our
Lady in Egypt there will meet us a great company of our own lords
and knights. So, with them and with our friends here, we are to make
glittering entry into Roche-de-Frêne.... I do not prize the glitter,
but so is the custom, and so will it be done. Now if I have wrought
much for Roche-de-Frêne, I know not, but I am glad. But if I have done
aught, you have done it, too, for I think that I could not have reached
Duke Richard without you. That is known now by others, and will be more
fully known.... Will you not ride still to Roche-de-Frêne and take your
share of what sober triumph is preparing?”
“Do you bid me do so, my Lady Audiart?”
“I do not bid you. I will for you to do according to your own will.”
“Then I will not go now to Roche-de-Frêne, but I will go to
Castel-Noir.”
The princess sat with her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand.
She sat very still, her eyes upon the winter glow behind the winter
woods. “As you will, Garin of the Golden Island,” she said at last.
Her voice had in it light and shadow. She sat still and Garin stood as
still, by the fire. All around them was its light and the light in the
sky that made a bright dusk.
He spoke. “_The Convent of Our Lady in Egypt._ Martinmas, eight
years ago, I was in Roche-de-Frêne. I heard Bishop Ugo preach and I
knelt in the church before Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne. Then I went
to the inn for my horse. There, passers-by asked me if I was for the
feast-day jousts and revels in the castle lists. I said No, I could not
stay. Then they said that there sat to judge the contest the Princess
Alazais, and beside her, the Princess Audiart. I had no reason to think
them mistaken. Were they right, or were they wrong? Were you there in
Roche-de-Frêne?”
“Martinmas, eight years ago?—No, I was not in Roche-de-Frêne, though I
came back to the castle very soon. I was at Our Lady in Egypt.”
“Ah God!” said Garin with strong emotion. “How beautiful are Thy
circles that Thou drawest!”
She looked at him with parted lips. “Now, I will ask a question! I
wearied, that autumn, of nuns’ ways and waiting ladies’ ways and my own
ways. One day I said, ‘I will go be a shepherdess and taste the true
earth!’” A smile hovered. “Faith! the experiment was short!—Now, my
question.—Being a shepherdess, I was like to taste shepherdess’s fare
in this so knightly world. Then came by a true knight, though his dress
and estate were those of a squire.—My question:—I asked him, that
day, ‘Where is your home?’ He answered, that squire, and I thought that
he told the truth,—‘I dwell by the sea, a long way from here.’—Sir
Garin de Castel-Noir, that was squire to Raimbaut the Six-fingered,
neither dwelling nor serving by the sea but among hills, and not far
away but near at hand, tell me now and tell me truly—”
“Jael the herd, I am punished! I thought to myself, ‘I am in danger
from that false knight who will certainly seek me.’”
“Ah, I see!” said the princess; and she laughed at him in scorn.
“It is an ill thing,” said Garin, “to mistrust and to lie! I make no
plea, my Lady Audiart, save that I do not always so.”
“Certes, no! I believe you there.... Let it go by.... That shepherdess
could not, after all, be to you for trustworthiness like your Fair
Goal—”
She ceased abruptly upon the name. The colour glowed in the west, the
colour played and leaped in the faggot fire, the colour quivered in
their own faces. Light that was not outer light brightened in their
eyes. Their frames trembled, their tissues seemed to themselves and to
each other to grow fine and luminous. There had been a shock, and all
the world was different.
Garin spoke. “On a Tuesday you were Jael the herd. On a Thursday, in
the middle of the day, you came with your ladies to a lawn by the
stream that flows by Our Lady in Egypt—the lawn of the plane, the
poplar and the cedar, the stone chair beneath the cedar, and the
tall thick laurels rounding all.” He was knight and poet and singer
now—Garin of the Golden Island—knight and poet and singer and
another besides. “A nightingale had sung me into covert there. I
followed it down the stream, from grove to grove, and it sung me into
covert there. The laurels were about me. I rested so close to the
cedar—so close to the stone chair! One played a harp—you moved with
your ladies to the water’s edge—you came up the lawn again to the
three trees. You were robed in blue, my princess; your veil was long
and threaded with silver and gold, and it hid your face. I never saw
your face that day—nor for long years afterward! You sat in the stone
chair—”
“Stop!” said the Princess Audiart. She sat perfectly still in the
rich dusk. Air and countenance had a strange hush, a moment of
expressionless waiting. Then uprushed the dawn. He saw the memory
awaken, the wings of knowledge outstretch. “Ah, my God!” she whispered.
“As I sat there, the strangest breath came over me—sense of a presence
near as myself—” The rose in her face became carnation, she sprang to
her feet, turned aside. The fire came between her and Garin; she paced
up and down in the shadowy space between the tree-trunks that were like
the Saracen pillars.
Moments passed, then she returned and stood beside the stone.
Garin bent his knee. “My Lady Audiart, you, and only you, in woman
form, became to me her whom for years I have sung, naming her the _Fair
Goal_.... I left that covert soon, going away without sound. I only
saw you veiled, but all is as I have said.... But now, before I go to
Castel-Noir, there is more that I would tell to you.”
“Speak at your will,” said the princess.
“Do you remember one evening in the castle garden—first upon the
watch-tower, and then in the garden, and you were weary of war and all
its thoughts, and bade me take Pierol’s lute and sing? I sang, and you
said, ‘Sing of the Fair Goal.’ I sang—and there and then came that
sense of doubleness and yet one.... It came—it made for me confusion
and marvel, pain, delight. It plunged me into a mist, where for a time
I wandered. After that it strengthened—strengthened—strengthened!...
At first, I fought it in my mind, for I thought it disloyalty. I
fought, but before this day I had ceased to fight, or to think it
disloyalty. Before we came to Angoulême—and afterwards.... I knew
not how it might be—God knoweth I knew not how it might be—but my
lady whom I worshipped afar, and my princess and my liege were one! I
knew that, though still I thought I saw impossibilities—They did not
matter, there was something higher that dissolved impossibilities.... I
saw again the Fair Goal, and my heart sang louder, and all my heart was
hers as it had been, only more deeply so—more deeply so! And still it
is so—still it is the same—only with the power, I think, of growing
forever!” He rose, came close to her, kneeled again and put the edge of
her mantle to his lips. “And now, Princess of Roche-de-Frêne, I take
my leave and go to Castel-Noir. I am knight of yours. If ever I may
serve you, do you but call my name! Adieu—adieu—adieu!”
She regarded him with a great depth and beauty of look. “Adieu, now,
Sir Garin of the Black Castle—Sir Garin of the Golden Island! Do
you know how much there is to do in Roche-de-Frêne—and how, for a
long time, perhaps, one must think only of the people and the land
that stood this war, and of all that must be builded again?... Adieu
now—adieu now! Do not go from lands of Roche-de-Frêne without my
leave.”
The dark was come, the bright stars burned above the trees. There was
a movement from the knights’ fire—Beauvoisin coming to the princess’s
pavilions to enquire if all was well before the camp lay down to sleep.
Garin felt her clasped hands against his brow, felt her cheek close,
close to his. “Go now,” she breathed. “Go now, my truest friend! What
comes after winter?—Why, spring comes after winter!”