It is the common fate of reformers that they inspire the enmity both of
the ignorant and the self-seeking, and hence the larger portion of
humanity is arrayed against them. Ruffian and blinded saint meet and
kiss over the corpse of an innovator. Many a Prometheus is torn and rent
by the insensate malice of the age. The fate of fools is to live; that
of great spirits that they should be immolated by the savage present for
the blessing of a fairer future. Each martyr lights a beacon fire that
hurls light and splendour within the portals of the coming century.
Thus when Reynaud of Vanclure fell at midnight with five hundred men
upon the heretics of Marvail, he butchered them with a good conscience,
in the full belief of the efficacy of the deed. Samson’s men were caught
asleep, snugly housed in the town. Half armed and dazed, they were
hunted out and slaughtered in the streets. Samson himself was taken
alive while fighting with his back against a wall; bound and pinioned,
tied upon a horse, led from the town under the escort of a strong body
of men-at-arms.
When the news was brought to Jocelyn at the fords of the Lorient, he
gave the messenger a hundred silver pieces out of his own strong box,
licked his lips, and ordered a triumphal service to be sung. In the
woods under the great ilex trees and pines the soldiers mustered, while
the hoarse chanting of the monks rose on the silent air. Through the
ranks were carried the Sacred Banner and the Cross Processional, knights
and warriors kneeling, kissing their naked swords. Samson the
arch-heretic had fallen into their hands; God had greatly blessed the
cause of Holy Church.
The day after the night attack, on Marvail, Count Reynaud marched south
again to the Lorient, leaving two hundred men to garrison the town. He
was eager to bear so precious and notorious a burden beyond the river,
to deliver Samson to the mercies of the Church. The Heretic was brought
bound upon a horse, Reynaud’s men massed round him, tauntingly exultant,
flinging mud and mockery at his head.
The strong soul in Samson rose that day to meet the doom he knew must
follow. There was no hope for him save in a rescue, and though a few
scattered followers were dogging Count Reynaud’s march through the
woods, they dared not ambuscade so powerful a force. Samson was in the
hands of fanatics, nay, in the hands of usurers who extracted bribes
from the souls of men. He had dealt too mightily with these hypocrites
with his tongue to expect much mercy at their hands. He knew full well
that the priests were as vultures, ready to rend and to destroy.
They forded the Lorient well before noon, their horses trampling the
water, the men smiting spray at Samson with the shafts of their lances.
“Leper, be cleansed,” they cried, laughing and mocking him.
“Behold, here is Jordan; cleave a path for us, O saint.”
Samson took the taunts in silence, girding his spirit for this great
trial of the flesh. He gazed at the river, believed that he would be
dead before the water that they forded reached the sea. All hope lapsed
as the Lorient rolled behind and as he neared the southern bank. The
wooded slopes glittered with steel, for the soldiers of the Church had
thronged down to see the Heretic brought back in bonds from Marvail. A
fierce, mocking outcry rose from the thickets, a clamour as of wild
beasts tongueing to the slaughter. The road to the ford seethed with
men, a mass of squealing, frenzied beings, more like the brown savages
of primitive ages than cleansed and baptised Christians. Even Samson on
his death march pitied them with some measure of pure scorn. He rode
unmoved through the mocking mob, with pale, calm face and steadfast
eyes.
He knew this to be the end of all his struggles, of his strenuous
preaching, his Heaven-inspired zeal. He had sought to seize the people
from the grip of the priests, men who had traded and fattened on the
frailties of mankind. Had he not pointed them heavenwards to the great
All-Father, and to the Son who had redeemed the world with the passion
of self-sacrifice? He had preached against those who had usurped the
portals of heaven, who had blasphemed the Great Spirit by claiming their
own bodies to be the sole channels of grace. He had cried that man stood
face to face with his Maker, that the Holy of Holies was in the heart.
As Samson rode amid the railing mob that played around him on the road,
his thoughts sped to Calvary and the crosses there. Should he flinch
from what the Christ had suffered, and from what the martyrs had
rejoiced to bear? The strain of heroism deepened in his soul, and a
divine patience purged out wrath. It was the fate of prophets to seal
with their blood the truths they expounded to mankind.
Had he laboured for nothing? No, the seed had been sown, and, like a
good husbandman, he could go to his rest. There were strong men who
would take up the challenge, and seize the torch from his dying hand. He
remembered Tristan, that youthful Titan, who would preach with the sword
what he had preached with the tongue. The Duchess Blanche had breathed
the true spirit, and there were scores of heralds in the Seven Streams.
Samson was strengthened by such thoughts as these. He feared not death,
since death was not the end; they could slay the body, but not the soul.
Samson was brought before Jocelyn’s tent, torn from his horse, dragged
before the chair where the Bishop sat. Helmets, wave on wave, swayed on
the hillside; a thousand faces dwindled into the gloom of the woods. One
heavy hand had buffeted the Heretic’s mouth, yet he stood before Jocelyn
with pale, firm face, blood on his lips, his eyes unwavering.
There was a peculiar lustre in Jocelyn’s eyes. His face was suffused;
his hands quivered as they gripped the carved rails of the chair.
“So, blasphemer, you have fallen to us at last.”
A divine patience showed on Samson’s face, also the melancholy of a man
who grieved but did not fear. Now and again his dark eyes kindled; he
stood unmoved by the menacing faces that hemmed him round.
“Bishop,” he said, “boast not thyself blessed because thou hast
conquered dullards with a lie.”
“Infidel, what hast thou to plead?”
“That I have spoken the truth and served God. That I have not pandered
to a greedy Church, nor cheated men by forged doctrines and by false
decrees.”
A soldier sprang forward and spat in Samson’s face.
“Kneel, dog, to the Bishop.”
The Heretic turned to him with a smile.
“Friend, your taunts are brave enough since I am bound. I kneel to no
man, only to God in Heaven.”
A mocking wave of laughter spread from rank to rank, for the jest sped
home. The rough faces craning towards the Bishop’s tent were suffused
and contorted with a savage zest.
“Make him kneel, by God!” cried a black-bearded Hercules with a flash of
the sword.
The words echoed the will of the mob. Four men seized on Samson, bore
him to his knees, threw him prostrate, so that his face was bathed in
the trampled mire before the tent. Still his patience and his dignity
withstood them. He knelt in silence, knowing that mere words were vain.
Jocelyn rose in his pontificals, stretched out a scornful hand towards
the Heretic.
“Tell me, sirs, what shall be done with this poor anti-Christ?”
The men seemed to catch a wild and savage echo from the past.
“Crucify him! crucify him!” was the cry.
Jocelyn stood motionless a moment with folded hands, his eyes turned
heavenwards as though in prayer. The crowd watched him, their glances
wavering betwixt Samson and the Bishop’s face. It was a full minute
before the churchman spoke again. Then the words fell like a sad
condemnation wrung by duty from a merciful heart.
“God, Mother Virgin, and ye holy saints,” he said, “have pity, we
beseech thee, on this sinner’s soul. In death and after death let him
know well the God whom his proud lips have so blasphemed. Sons of the
Church, I surrender this heretic into your hands.”
A great shout rolled up, billowing from the soldiery crowding from under
the trees. The ranks swayed, broke, stood still a moment. Samson, with
flashing eyes, and face with the calm of death thereon, had risen from
his knees. He stood at his full height, as Paul before Festus, noble and
undismayed. For one brief instant his voice rang through the woods.
“Ye men,” he cried, “if I have sinned, God see to it, and save my soul.
I die in the strength of a holy life, fearing neither death nor the
powers of hell. As for ye priests, never have I lusted after women nor
grovelled after gold. God see to it, sirs, when the judgment comes,
Samson the Heretic will meet Pope and Bishop undismayed.”
Jocelyn’s cross went up; there was hot anger on his face, and a dozen
monks pushed forward through the crowd, calling on the soldiery to work
their will. Samson was seized, thrown down, trampled upon, drawn
savagely by the heels. Shouting and cursing, the pack drew him into the
wood, while the monks, gathered in a company, raised a deep chant of
thanksgiving over the slaying of such a sinner. Thus they crucified
Samson on the hills above the Lorient, nailing him to a tree, naked and
covered with wounds.
Yet the Heretic’s patience was as triumphant as their wrath, nor did his
courage fail him in that hour, and his cry was the cry of a great
spirit:
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Meanwhile, the tidings had passed to the heretics lurking in the woods,
and one of their number had watched the martyrdom from the bosom of a
great ilex tree. Fierce in their sorrow, they gathered and swam the
river as the night came down, vowing vengeance for Samson’s death. Ten
men took horse that same night, and rode north together into the
province of the Seven Streams. They headed for Merdin, where Tristan and
the Duchess were said to be.
It was in a valley wild with trees, dark as some valley of death, that
the first of these ten riders found Tristan marching towards the south.
Black crags towered above; a dark smoke of rain was rushing before the
wind under a granite sky. The horseman, worn and mud-stained, drenched
to the skin, met Tristan riding at the head of his men, grim with the
weather and the working of his own heart.
“They have crucified Samson,” was the man’s cry, before he fell fainting
with hunger and weariness from off his horse.
“Samson crucified!”
The cry rang through the rain-drenched ranks. As for Tristan, he said
nothing, but frowned at the winter sky.