The night before the southern troops marched for the north, Agravale
gave herself up to riot and revelry. Though it was winter, the days were
warm, the townsfolk held a carnival in the gardens of St. Pelinore. The
houses were decked with rich cloths and banners, the churches with
boughs of cypress and yew and garlands of purple amaranth. Companies of
monks passed through the streets with crosses and reliquaries, chanting
under the stars.
Such was the prologue in Agravale to the storm-cry of war over the Seven
Streams. There was a veneer of sanctity over the venture, a professed
piety more sonorous than real. Though the priests paraded the crowded
streets, held crosses and relics to the lips of the people, the taverns
teemed, as did the houses of infamy. The southern folk were prepared to
make war in velvet, and prayed more for plunder than the good of the
Church.
The dawn of that winter day came crisp and clear, with a sky like
crystal, hills and woods sharply carved against the cloudless blue. The
clangour of trumpets woke the town, with its vanes and casements
mimicking the dawn. Jocelyn had ordered his Bishop’s chair to be set on
a mound in the meadows without the western gate. Soon after sunrise he
rose and celebrated Mass in the cathedral church of St. Pelinore. Thence
from the crowded aisles, with their mail-clad worshippers, he passed in
state to his throne in the meadows, a great following of priests
chanting at his heels. All Agravale had hurried to the walls and meadows
to watch the host march out for the north.
Certain of the southern companies were already under arms in the
meadows, their lances rising towards the blue, their shields aflicker in
the sun. The black masses were dusted over with colour, while many a
banner waved in the wind. Behind the Bishop’s chair was planted the
Sacred Standard of the Golden Keys, destined to flash benedictions over
the soldiers of the Church. A crowd of monks surrounded the knoll where
Jocelyn sat, with the precentor of St. Pelinore’s to lead the chanting.
The walls and housetops, the glistening fields were crowded by the
townsfolk in holiday dress.
From the western gate the pomp and panoply of the south poured forth
with a sounding of trumpets, a sparkling of pennons. First came Count
Reynaud with the knights and spears of Vanclure, some five hundred men
in red and green surcoats. Benedict of the Mountains followed hard on
their heels, with three hundred spears and a company of archers. The
monks about the Bishop’s chair raised a wild chant that came as a
counterblast to the clangour of the trumpets. The mailed masses gathered
about the Sacred Banner with the Golden Keys. The whole host shouted,
tossed up shield and lance, while horns and clarions pierced the din. On
the walls the women waved scarves and kerchiefs, their shrill cries
mingling with the clamour of war.
Jocelyn, wearing his mitre and bearing his cross, stood before the chair
to give the sons of the Church his blessing. He made a noble figure
enough in his splendid robes, jewels and rich cloth agleam in the sun.
There was a complacent pride on his handsome face; his eyes flashed as
he gazed round on these henchmen in steel.
“Sons of the Church,” he cried, with cross upraised, “the Holy Father
has blessed you—behold here his banner. We march to uphold the decrees
of the Church, to hurl down heresy, to destroy the wicked. See to it,
sirs, that your swords shine bright. The saints in paradise shall watch
over your souls.”
The men cheered him lustily enough.
“God for His Church!” they cried.
“St. Pelinore for Agravale.”
With a pealing of trumpets, the whole host was soon in motion on the
great white road, pennon and casque pouring into the solemn shade of the
woods. Horn answered horn, bugle cried to bugle; the trampling of the
horses thrilled the bright air. Shields and surcoats shone and shimmered
under the dark pines and ilexes. Thus the Sacred Banner went out from
Agravale to march on Holy Guard and the Seven Streams.
As for Jocelyn, his mood changed with the moods of men. He passed back
to his palace to doff his pontificals for more worldly gear. Since he
was to play the shepherd to this warlike horde, he would act in keeping
with the enterprise before him. The cross and mitre were well enough in
Agravale; Jocelyn had determined to discard them for attributes more
temporal. He donned a trellised coat and a steel casque, girded on a
long sword, took an embossed shield. He would lead his own household
knights against the heretics, strike a blow for the Banner with the
Golden Keys.
Three days’ hard marching brought Benedict, who held the van, within
three leagues of the River Lorient, where it parted the Southern Marches
from the province of the Seven Streams. It was here that certain
grey-faced, mud-bespattered riders fell in with the vanguard as they
came riding south. They were the remnant of a garrison that had been
driven out of Marvail by Samson the Heretic, a town beyond the fords of
the River Lorient. The men told how Tristan le Sauvage stormed hither
and thither through the Seven Streams, falling on outposts, putting
garrisons to the sword. They told also how Samson and his heretics had
been reinforced from the north, though they were ignorant that Blanche
the Duchess had herself taken the field.
With such news to set him cogitating, Jocelyn halted his banners south
of the Lorient, and took counsel with his captains as to what their
schemes should be. To strike at Holy Guard, they had to cross the river
and march along the northern bank through the enemy’s country. Now
Samson the Heretic was at Marvail with three hundred men, ignorant,
perhaps, that the southern barons had drawn so near. Samson was the one
man in all Christendom whom the Holy Father desired to see in chains,
and the chance was too flattering for Jocelyn to eschew it.
The Bishop’s tent was pitched in the woods south of the river, with the
crusaders camped around under cover of the trees. Jocelyn had called
Count Reynaud, Benedict, and several other barons to him in council. He
had determined to set the necessity of Samson’s capture before his
confederates that night. They were gathered under the shade of a huge
ilex tree, with the great banner adroop over the embroidered canopy of
the tent. Through the opening they could see the woods billowing below
them to the river valley, the dark domes of the trees clear cut under
the sky.
Jocelyn was very suave, yet mightily in earnest. He gestured with his
hands, used the subtlest modulations of his voice, lifted his eyes to
the darkening heavens as though ever ready to behold visions, stars
portending the triumph of the truth.
“Remember, sirs,” he said, “that our faith constrains us to save the
ignorant from the powers of those who trade upon their folly. If we
could bind the arch-fiend, how many souls we should preserve from hell!
Even so is it in this war of ours. This Samson, foul-mouthed blasphemer,
perverter of the Scriptures, has bewitched with his tongue the province
of the Seven Streams. To slay the heresy, we must slay the arch-heretic.
Heaven seems eager to deliver him even now into our hands. You, sirs, as
men of the sword, are able to deal with the elements of war.”
Benedict of the Mountains was quick to understand the churchman’s
argument. He and Jocelyn were cronies of a common cult, and the soldier
would have been more outspoken in the vulgar sense had not the occasion
constrained him to dignity. Count Reynaud of Vanclure was a good
Catholic and an honest knight, one who hated coarseness and would not
suffer a lie. And since he was a powerful noble and necessary to the
cause, Jocelyn pandered to his respect with a display of exaggerated
zeal. His great power over the Count was by the power of fanaticism;
even such a Christian as Reynaud could wax brutal in the battle for a
faith.
“So, my lord, you would have us strike at this Samson, speedily?”
Jocelyn spread his hands, made a pretence of leaving all technical
machinations to their military intelligence.
“An ambuscade, a false message, a night attack,” he said; “these, sirs,
are ruses I may abandon to your strategy. All I desire is that you shall
deliver this blasphemer into my hands, and I vouch that the Holy Father
will bless your children.”
“The man is a lying whelp,” said Benedict, with a pious leer. “What say
you, Sir Reynaud and gentlemen, to a night attack?”
The Lord of Vanclure bent his brows.
“Samson is at Marvail,” he argued, “with three hundred men. It will be
well for us to send out riders over the river, that we may know whether
the heretics hold the fords, also as to whether Samson has moved his
banner or no.”
“True enough,” quoth Benedict. “Scent out the bear before you set the
dogs on. My light riders know the ways.”
“Then, sirs,” said Jocelyn, “we are agreed on this point—if Samson is
at Marvail, and the fords are not held, we will swoop at night and seize
the town.”
“Plain as your Mass Book, Bishop,” said he of the Mountains.
Jocelyn made the sign of the cross in the air.
“God bless ye, good sons of the Church,” he said. “The saints are with
us. And assuredly ye shall prosper.”