The first thing Tristan did after he had wiped his sword on a grass
tussock and set it in his sheath was to look to the wound Ogier had
dealt his horse. The animal was standing under a tree, tossing its head,
rubbing its muzzle against the trunk. Tristan had great tenderness for
any dumb thing in pain; moreover, he and the horse had come south from
Tor’s Tower together; they were good comrades in the way of adventure.
Tristan’s voice, familiar and trusted, calmed the beast, so that he
suffered Tristan to gauge the wound. There had been no great evil in the
blow, for Ogier’s sword, turned by the bone, had left a slight gash and
nothing more. Tristan comforted the beast, fondling the muzzle, stroking
the sleek neck. He knotted the bridle over a bough, caught Ogier’s white
stallion, and tethered him also.
Next he took dead Ogier by the heels, dragged him out of the pool of
sunlight where he lay into the shade of the solemn trees. For Ogier he
felt no pang of pity; the man was a mere mountain of flesh, fit food for
worms and ravens. Nevertheless, he covered the face with the broken
shield, unbuckled Ogier’s girdle, and picked up his sword. So much done,
he went down to the river, and washed the blood from his hands and face.
Mounting Ogier’s stallion, Tristan took his own horse by the bridle, and
followed the ride beside the stream. His heart was great in him that
day, for the slaying of Ogier had warmed his blood and the lust of
battle still stirred within him. His thoughts fled towards Columbe his
sister, and he prayed that her golden head might gleam out before him
from the greenwood shade. If she lived, what great joy for a brother’s
heart. To feel her warm arms round his neck, to see her child’s eyes
flash to his. Columbe, the maid with the smiling eyes, who had been his
heart’s ease in the days of old.
Of Rosamunde he thought but little for the moment, for he had not slain
Ogier for her sake. It was as though she had stepped aside out of his
heart when he remembered Columbe and his mother’s blessing. Yet like
some fair queen she should crown his honour and share with Columbe the
blessings of the sword.
Tristan came to a narrow valley, its grassland golden with asphodel
dipping down towards the stream. Around, above, towered the ancient
trees. In the midst of the stream stood a goodly island, bosomed in
foam, hid by the woods.
Tristan, halting under an oak, scanned the valley under his hand. Gazing
over the grassland, his eyes discovered a grey wall linking the
scattered rocks, girding the island under the shadows of its trees. He
saw the glint of a red roof under the green. Though there was no bridge
to span the water Tristan doubted not that this was the Bishop’s
hermitage, “Jocelyn’s dovecot,” as dead Ogier had said. He tethered his
two horses under the trees where they would not be seen by folk on the
island.
Leaving the shade, he went full length and crawled through the tall rank
grass like a leopard stalking its prey. Soon he heard the gush and
thunder of the stream, as it raced and foamed over rock and boulder.
Lifting his head slowly from the grass, he scanned the island under his
hand. So snugly was the house hid amid the rocks and trees that Tristan
had to delve for it even as a hawk searches the long grass for crouching
prey. The stone wall was so cunningly ranged above the rocks that it
seemed part and parcel of the isle itself.
Tristan scrambled down the bank and plunged into the torrent. It was
shallow yet treacherous. The water foamed about his knees; pebbles and
boulders rolled under his feet. Reaching the farther bank, he found the
rocky wall rising fifteen feet above his head. He swung himself up by
the roots of a stunted fir that clung to the bank by gnarled and
contorted talons, and swarmed up the trunk till he reached the boughs.
Below, the torrent foamed in the sun, burdening the air with a hoarse
swirl of sound. Tristan’s head came level with the summit of the wall.
Craning his neck and keeping well within the bosom of the tree, he
peered over into the space beyond.
Without lay the wild woods, the torrent, and the unknown; within all the
sumptuous colour of the south seemed engirdled by that circle of grey
stone. Smooth lawns, emerald bright, gleamed betwixt massed banks of
flowers. Fragrant herbs perfumed the air. Pomegranates grew there hung
thick with fruit, oleanders with red coronets burned beside the slim and
dusky cypresses. Apricots gleamed from lush eaves of green, and vines
with their purple clusters were growing about the house.
Even as Tristan watched he saw colour moving within a tunnel of
close-clipped box, the gleam of a blue kirtle, the glimmer of golden
hair. He hung in the tree and waited, for there was no sound in his ears
save the roaring of the stream. Anon, the figure came out from the box
thicket into the sun, where a bed of balsams coloured the grass. Tristan
well-nigh lost his hold of the tree, for it was Rosamunde herself who
walked in the garden.
Tristan coloured like a great boy at the very sight of her face. It was
months since he had looked on it, and his stout heart hurried. How fair
she was, how tall and slender! The very flowers seemed graceless at her
feet! Tristan felt the old strange awe of her rise up within his heart.
With the stars and the moon she was throned above the world, and as she
walked the lawns with her stately air he had more fear of her than of
twenty Ogiers.
Tristan watched her, wondered what thoughts were in her heart. There was
a slight drooping of the queenly head, a limpness of the hands as they
shone white against her blue kirtle. Would she be glad of the liberty he
brought to her, to lay with his sword and shield before her feet? Cared
she for Jocelyn, with his sleek, shaven face? God, no; such fawning apes
were fit but for Lilias and Agravale, that city of sin.
Rosamunde, turning suddenly from the sunlit lawn before him, passed down
a terrace-way built above an offshoot of the stream, where oleanders
grew in great stone jars. Water plashed beneath on ferns and moss-green
stones. Tristan, while her back was turned, swung along a bough and
straddled the wall. It was smooth on the inner face, giving no foothold,
no vantage to the fingers. Tristan jumped for it, landed in a bed of
pinks, rolled over, and scrambled up with earthy hands. The soft loam
and the plants had deadened his fall. He crossed a stretch of grass,
rounded a clump of bays, found Rosamunde leaning on the balustrade of a
little bridge.
“Tristan!”
The name was mouthed in a half-credulous whisper, as she turned on him,
sudden colour surging to her cheeks. She grew pale again, yet her eyes
were full of a strange brightness, her face turned slightly heavenwards,
with the red lips parted above the strong white chin.
“Tristan!”
The man was redder than Rosamunde. Her beauty silenced him, and he could
gaze, nothing more.
“Tristan, I thought you dead.”
“Dead, God be thanked, no,” he said, going on his knees as one who
remembered tales of courtesy. “Ah, Madame Rosamunde, I have kept my
faith. I have searched and found you. Behold, I bring liberty.”
She stood back as the man did her homage stiffly, yet with a rugged
dignity that showed his temper. There was vast earnestness upon
Rosamunde’s face. The baser passions of the world had hemmed her in
these many months, and dread of their animal strength had made her eye
all men askance. Even Tristan was not trusted yet. A woman jealous of
her womanhood, she conned his face as though to read his humour.
“Tristan, I thought you dead.”
It was as though she parleyed with him that she might judge him the
more.
“See, am I dust, madame?” he answered her.
“How came you here?”
Tristan felt some cloud between him and her eyes. Her grave and watchful
temper puzzled him, nor had he foreshadowed such cold gratitude as this.
“Madame Rosamunde,” he said, “Samson the Heretic saved me from death;
you shall hear the tale anon, if you should wish for it. My life was
yours, and Columbe my sister’s. I had vowed faith to you both, and so
came to Agravale. The Bishop’s captain hired my sword. Yet though I
served him with a traitorous heart, I won no word of you till
yesterday.”
She went nearer to him again, still gazing on his face, and her eyes
were on Tristan’s, nor did he waver. So cold did she seem that he felt
great shame growing within his heart, for it flashed on him in a moment
that she despised this faith of his.
“Tristan,” she said, very solemnly, as though plotting to challenge his
honour.
He rose up and faced her with folded arms.
“Tristan,” and there was more passion in her voice, “I have borne much,
suffered many things from the evil men have conceived against my soul.
Ah, God! I have lived in hell these many weeks. I am a woman, and I am
alone. By your manhood, swear to me you will not trick my trust.”
He frowned a little and his mouth hardened.
“Have I not proved my faith?” he said.
“Not yet, not yet.”
“I have dared much. Tell me, have I failed you ever?”
“No, Tristan, no.”
“If you mistrust me, I can return.”
There was so deep a bitterness in his strong voice that she read his
honour, and went near to him with her face upturned.
“Tristan, I am half ashamed,” she said.
“Ah, madame, I shall never shame you.”
“No, no.”
“Try me,” he said.
The man was breathing deeply, and she stooped of a sudden and kissed him
on the lips. A red wave rushed over Tristan’s face. He stood stiff as a
rock, with her hands upon his shoulders, looked in her eyes, and moved
not a muscle.
“Madame, I take your gratitude and ask no more.”
“No more?”
“As there is honour in me, I will serve you, and ask no return.”
“Tristan,” she said, with an uprushing of faith, “I can trust at last.”
“God guard us both, madame,” he said very simply. “For your sake, I have
been tempted, yet my heart is clean.”
She stood back from him, and covered her eyes for a moment with her arm.
At the very gesture a silver circlet upon her wrist caught Tristan’s
eye, a coiled snake of tarnished silver, curiously wrought, with
emeralds for eyes. Tristan thrust out a hand towards Rosamunde with a
strange cry.
“That bracelet!”
She stared in his face, and twisted the thing from off her wrist.
Tristan snatched at the circlet of silver, handled it almost with the
greed of a miser gloating over some splendid gem.
“Whence had you this?”
His words came sharp and savage as the blows of an armourer’s hammer
upon steel.
“Speak,” he said, with a strong gesture of the hand.
“The bracelet I found in a room they gave me here,” she said, “hid in a
chest with other stuffs. What is it to you, Tristan, that you pull so
wry a face?”
“Madame,” he said, with great passion in his eyes, “I saw this last upon
my sister’s arm.”
“Tristan——”
“My God, then, Ogier spoke the truth.”
Rosamunde’s expression changed, like one who hears the stealthy step of
an enemy on the grass. Her eyes dilated, her face paled. She thrust out
a hand and pointed Tristan to a thicket.
“Pandart comes. Quick, hide.”
“Who is Pandart?”
“My jailer.”
“Then God deliver him,” said Tristan, with his mouth like iron.